Page 57 of Meet Me in the Valley (Oakwood Valley #2)

Chapter Thirty-Six

LOGAN

Logan

A heads up would’ve been nice.

Dad

If I had given you one, would you be meeting her for dinner?

Logan

What? How do you know that? Jesus, are you and mom texting now?

Dad

She is your mother.

Logan

And she’s your EX-wife.

Logan

Don’t let her get in your head, chief.

Dad

Be nice, son. I didn’t raise you to be an asshole. Say hi to your mother for me.

Pocketing my phone with a scoff, I pull open the door to the little Tex-Mex joint where I’m meeting my mom.

It’s a hole-in-the-wall spot with a simple menu: fajitas, tacos, and margaritas strong enough to knock out a grown man.

I’m half-tempted to order two just to survive this dinner, but Dad told me not to be an asshole.

And Charlotte, my ever-patient therapist, would probably frown at using tequila as a coping mechanism.

So, no. I’m not ready for this conversation. But I am ready enough to show up for it.

A hostess greets me at the front, her smile bright and polite—until recognition hits. Her expression shifts, eyes narrowing slightly as she crosses her arms over her chest like she’s bracing for impact.

“Logan,” she says flatly. “Nice to see you again.”

Shit. I forgot she worked here.

“Hey, Erin.” I give her an awkward-as-hell wave, like all my charm short-circuited the second I walked in.

Erin was one of the very few girls who got more than a night or two with me. We were exclusive for almost a month until I ran when she wanted more. I left in the middle of the night like the grade-A asshole I am.

She glances past me, probably checking to see if I’ve shown up with another girl. When her eyes snap back to mine, they’re definitely less friendly.

“No date tonight?”

“Uh, no, I’m just meeting my mom. So, uh, how’ve you been?

Erin rolls her eyes, and for a split second, the gesture reminds me of Tia—my beautiful, sharp-mouthed, cunning minx who I’m missing something fucking fierce. I barely catch myself before a smile breaks through.

Damn. Too late.

Erin’s eyes narrow. “Oh, is that funny to you?”

I throw my hands up in quick surrender, already scrambling to clean up the mess.

“No! Not at all. I just wanted to say sor?—”

“Leaving me in the middle of the night while I’m naked in bed is funny to you?” she cuts in, arms still crossed, voice razor-edged.

“No. There’s nothing funny about it.”

“You ignored all of my texts.”

“I know.”

“And all my calls, you dick.”

“I know,” I resign, running a hand through my hair.

“I really liked you, Logan,” Erin admits, her voice small.

Fuck.

Everything about this moment makes me want to turn around, walk out of the restaurant, and take my chances walking into oncoming traffic.

Seeing the consequences of my actions materialize in the form of a five-foot feisty redhead is a humbling experience, to say the least.

If this were the old me—the me before therapy, before I started peeling back the layers, before Tia , I’d laugh this off.

Flash a grin, crank up the charisma until Erin was the one apologizing to me .

I’d invite her out after her shift, buy her a drink or two, then it’d be back to hers or mine for the night. Easy.

But I’m not proud of that anymore.

Not the charm. Not the chase. Not the emptiness that came after.

And especially not the version of me who believed that was all I was good for.

It’s only now, as I stand in this awkward, silent standoff with a girl I tossed aside, that I realize just how familiar this pattern is.

Because across the room, sitting alone in the far corner of the restaurant, is the person who taught me how to disappear.

My mother. The origin story of every wall I have ever built.

I let out a slow breath. Not because I know what to do next. But because for once, I’m not running from the mirror exposing my deepest fears.

“I’m really sorry, Erin. What I did was so fucked up. You didn’t deserve that. I should’ve been straight with you from the beginning. I led you on. I see that now. I know my apology might not mean anything to you, but?—”

Erin laughs dryly, her voice low and laced with sarcasm. “Let me guess—this is the part where you say you’re working on yourself?”

She grabs two menus and walks away, not waiting for a reply. And I don’t give one, because she’s not wrong.

I’ve got work to do, and I know for damn sure I won’t always get it right. Words I’ve told Tia before, but this time I’m holding myself to them.

As I follow a visibly annoyed Erin toward the table where my mom sits waiting, my chest feels just a little lighter.

Because for the first time in a long time, I can look at myself and not completely hate what I see.

I slide into the seat across from my mother just as Erin slams the menus down in front of us with a clipped, “Enjoy your meal.”

“Thank you, Erin,” I tell her, offering a small grin.

She scoffs under her breath and spins on her heel, already heading back toward the hostess stand.

Across the table, my mom raises an eyebrow. “Old friend?”

A short, surprised laugh escapes me. More like a snort. It catches us both off guard, and for a second, her smile brightens like she’s relieved to have earned it.

She used to make me laugh all the time, always slipping into character voices during bedtime stories— when she was home, at least.

“Something like that.”

But the flicker of warmth fades almost as quickly as it came, replaced by the weight of old memories pressing at the edges of my mind.

A younger version of me, lying awake in the dark, wondering when—or if—she’d come home.

That ache settles behind my eyes. I blink it back. My mom notices my sudden shift in demeanor, pushing forward a drink in front of me.

“Um, I ordered you a Coke. I know it was your favorite when you were younger …”

Her voice trails off as I watch a bead of condensation slide down the side of the cup, pooling onto the flimsy paper napkin beneath it.

My blood runs cold at the sight of the syrupy drink. Flashes of a bartender pouring me round after round assault me. The fizz tickles my nose, accompanied by a phantom scent of aged whiskey that catapults me straight back to the night that changed everything.

The alcohol flooding my system. The touch of a woman I didn’t want. The reckless choice I ultimately made that left me bleeding.

But I don’t let those soiled memories hurt me anymore. I lean into them, owning my actions and pushing through the pain.

It’s almost laughable how two things that can trigger my pain sit directly in front of me: my mother—and a fucking soft drink.

I take a long and steady breath, working through these emotions just like Charlotte taught me. I let the feelings come, and I let them pass within an exhale. My eyes lift from the drink to meet my mother’s.

These things don’t define me. I can overcome the pain. I can face it head on, and I won’t fall apart. I can do this.

I recognize what this really is as my mother’s gaze melts into mine with hope in her eyes. It’s a peace offering. A gesture to prove she still knows me, or wants to pretend that she does.

But we don’t know each other. Not anymore.

And I can admit without guilt that that’s perfectly okay.

All I see when I look at her is the last conversation we had in Vegas.

The yelling. The unraveling. The sting of every word.

The anger still simmers just beneath my skin like a low burning fire.

But the proverbial match I’ve always gripped when it came to my mother doesn’t feel so tempting anymore.

For once, I don’t want to toss it onto the fire just to watch everything burn.

For that thought alone, I take another small step forward into something that might resemble a new beginning.

I accept the offering.

“Thank you.”

Taking a sip is my way of giving myself permission to feel however I need to with this woman. This stranger. This figure in my life who I never knew took up so much residence in my brain—hidden within the grooves, lying dormant until now.

Hope spreads across her face, but all I feel is indifference. I suppose that’s better than resentment.

Charlotte would be proud.

“Thank you for meeting me. I know we left things … tense … the last time we saw each other.”

Tense doesn’t even scratch the surface.

I take a long gulp of Coke, letting the carbonation burn up my nose. The sweetness is almost sickening, but I swallow it down without flinching.

“Yeah,” is all I say.

“So, your father tells me you’re a big-shot architect now,” my mother says lightly. “I knew all those years of you doodling on anything and everything would be worth it.”

I keep my gaze fixed on my drink, slowly stirring the straw around, trying to fish out a piece of ice with a hole in it—something pointless to focus on so I don’t have to look at her.

Yes, I became a successful architect. With no support from you.

My jaw tenses. I catch the thought before it can fester, working through the mental checklist Charlotte gave me— reframe, release, breathe.

Chill. It’s not her fault. Not all of it.

When I don’t respond, she clears her throat awkwardly and tries to pivot.

“H-how is Tia doing? You two seem lovely togeth?—”

“Don’t say her name,” I snap, eyes shooting to hers, sharper than I mean them to be.

But the protectiveness is instant. Instinctive. She doesn’t get to speak about Tia. Not after what she did. She struck a nerve—and it hit deep.

I remember the look on Tia’s face in Vegas. How crushed she was when my mother confessed to taking Nora away. The betrayal. The disbelief.

Just hearing her say Tia’s name brings all of that fury back to the surface, and it’s taking everything in me not to let it boil over.

The complimentary chips and salsa sit untouched between us, growing stale with each beat of awkward silence. When the server arrives to take our order, we both respond like we’re on autopilot, rehearsing normalcy, going through the motions.