Page 58 of Meet Me in the Valley (Oakwood Valley #2)

Even though I should eat something solid—considering the only thing I’ve had today is some cereal before work—I settle for a lame taco salad.

My stomach’s tied in too many knots to handle much else. Oddly enough, the Coke is helping. The bubbles offer a brief distraction from the churning in my gut.

“I’m sorry, baby,” she says softly. “It seems I don’t know how to talk to you anymore. You were just so angry?—”

“Am,” I cut in, keeping my voice steady. “I am still angry.”

My mother blinks at me, unmoving. I watch her swallow, licking her lips like they’ve gone dry. She looks so defeated. I can see where she tried to cover her dark circles, her makeup there creasing.

There are more wrinkles than I remember, though I can’t tell if that’s new or if I’m just seeing her clearly for the first time in years.

The glow and warmth she used to carry that used to light up a room like the sun is gone.

I wonder if she’s still smoking. It’s aged her, even though she’s not old by any means.

As I take in my mother’s features, a sudden onslaught of questions slam into my mind like a battering ram.

Is she taking care of herself? Does she get enough sleep at night? Does she regret everything?

I sit with these new feelings. Without analyzing too much, I can accept that it’s a flicker of empathy I’m developing. It’s not a lot, but it’s there just enough to make me aware.

She lets out a slow breath and reaches for her water, downing nearly half the glass in one go.

“That’s fair. I wasn’t expecting anything less. I deserve that.”

Yeah, you do.

“Well,” I sigh, “ I’m not here to yell at you or anything. Figured I got all of that out the last time we saw each other.”

The smile she gives is sheepish, almost as if she cowers in her seat.

The goal of today isn’t to lash out like a petulant child.

I had my fill of that already. I knew going into this conversation that acting out would get me nowhere.

No matter how badly I want her to hurt, where does that get me in the end? I know something for certain.

It doesn’t bring me any closer to calming the storm that’s been brewing inside of me this entire time. It doesn’t bring me closer to peace—to Tia.

“Something you said has been haunting me for weeks.” Her hands tremble as she speaks. “And I know you might not believe me—or think anything I say holds any truth—but I need to explain something to you, Logan.”

Our food arrives, and it takes everything in me not to shove the plate aside and leave it untouched.

Across the table, my mother doesn’t reach for her fork either. I’ve got a strong feeling we’re both thinking the same thing.

She knows I’d rather be anywhere but here. And yet, I pulled out the chair. I sat down. I made the conscious choice to show up.

Because I knew this was a necessary step toward acceptance. Doesn’t mean it’s easy.

It’s fucking hard.

“Okay. I’m listening.”

She picks up her fork, then puts it back down. Her fingers skitter across the table, touching random things. She folds and unfolds her napkin countless times until, finally, her eyes meet mine.

Apprehension carves itself across her face, deepening the tired lines around her eyes and mouth.

“I want you to know—” she swallows, “that I didn’t choose another child over you.”

My body freezes. A heavy gallop begins in my chest, hammering away. It pulses in my temples, behind my eyes, in the curve of my jaw as I lock it tight.

“I don’t regret being in Nora’s life. I love her and Cali, but not as much as I love you , Logan.”

Ever since the day she walked out, I never understood it. Question after question haunted my mind for months.

Was it the affair? Did my dad do something wrong? Did I?

But then in Vegas, seeing her show up in that house like a beautiful ghost—the story became clear. The questions had answers.

She left me for another kid.

For Nora.

That’s what I told myself, because it made the most sense. It was easier to carry anger than confusion.

But that was before Tia left me broken in that hotel room. Before I went back to talk to Nora. That conversation cracked something open in me. And for the first time, I saw it for what it really was.

My mom didn’t just choose Nora. She saved her. Nora and Cali became my mother’s penance. Her guilt made flesh. She poured everything she had into Nora’s fragile world—into the role of mothering a lonely, pregnant teenager—because she couldn’t face what she’d abandoned in me.

And hearing that confession come from my mother’s mouth after everything, I finally understand.

Words fail me. Only the low hum of people in the restaurant—the kitchen door swinging open and closed as servers bustle in and out. A baby crying. A person laughing.

I sit silently, but the words my mother shares speak volumes.

Then her voice breaks completely, soft and frayed. “If there’s anything I regret? It’s walking out on you . None of this was ever your fault. It was all on me. All of it.”

And suddenly, I wish we weren’t in this restaurant. I wish we were anywhere else, because the sting behind my eyes is turning into something unmanageable.

Tears threaten, welling so fast I can feel the heat of them gathering. I clench my jaw, staring hard at my plate, willing myself not to fall apart in public.

Not here. Not now.

Our server approaches, likely ready to ask if we need anything else, but I cut in before he can speak. “Can we get the check, please?”

He picks up on the tension right away. With a quick nod and no questions, he quietly slips away to close out our tab.

My mother holds my gaze, leaving behind a trail of tears and a table full of untouched food. But this was never about sharing a meal. It was never really about forgiveness, either.

It was about reclaiming something I thought I lost a long time ago.

My control. My sense of worth. The version of me that wasn’t built around the fear of being left again.

The fear that chased me into a life of emotional vacancy. One-night stands. False starts. Leading women halfway to something I couldn’t handle before they had the chance to leave me first.

But now, with a clear mind and a steady heart, I look across the table at the source of all that pain.

And for once, I don’t feel small in front of her. I see her love for me. Even if I can’t fully accept it—not yet. But I see it.

And maybe for today, that’s enough.

“Thank you for telling me, Mom,” I say quietly.

Her breath catches, lips trembling as she tries to hold back a cry threatening to rise. When she finally gives me a real, but shaky smile, I return it without hesitation.

The check comes, and I toss a wad of cash on the table, telling the server to keep the change. I box up my meal and rise from my seat, already feeling a thousand pounds lighter than when I walked in.

My mother stands too, her head barely reaching my chin. When I pull her into a hug, she melts into me, crying softly against my chest.

Uncaring about the curious stares from strangers, I give her permission to cling onto me for as long as she needs as we stand in a crowded restaurant and put the past behind us.

Behind me.

When she finally pulls back, I press a soft kiss to her cheek. As I turn to leave, something sticks in my chest. One last thread I need to cut clean.

“Mom?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t give Dad any ideas that you’d come back, okay?” I pause just long enough to let it land. “Let him go. For good.”

She blinks at me, and maybe it hurts. But maybe she understands.

I nod once, then walk out into the quiet Texas air—not fixed, not finished, but finally free.

My bike waits on the curb with a wide open road ahead of me.

As I slip on my helmet and fire up the engine, I glance up. Tia’s sky is back, waiting for me to chase it.

And I can’t help but grin, wondering how many miles I’d have to ride before California feels close enough for me to breathe again.