Page 45 of Logan
True love, it happens like that
- ‘Happens like that’ Granger Smith
I could count on one hand how many times my mother had made pot roast in the last year. So when I smell it from the driveway, rich and heavy in the air, I know tonight isn’t just dinner, it’s something else. Pot roast is her peace offering, her olive branch, her way of signaling that whatever’s about to go down should be cushioned with comfort food.
Mac steps off my bike, boots hitting the gravel with a crunch, and looks up at the house like it’s haunted and holy all at once. The porch light throws a warm glow across her face, softening the tension in her features, but I can still see the nerves in the way her shoulders stiffen. She’s been here before, plenty of times growing up, especially with Shaina being her best friend, but tonight isn’t like those other nights. Tonight, she’s not just “Mac from next door” or “Shaina’s friend.” Tonight, she’s mine.My old lady. The woman I’ve claimed in front of the club, the family, and the world that matters to me.
“You ready for this?” I ask, resting my hand at the small of her back. I feel the warmth of her through the thin cotton of her shirt, the subtle shift of her breath when she glances toward the door.
Her lips curve into a small smile, but her eyes flick to the entrance again. “That depends. Are you gonna tell me why your mom called me by my full name when she invited me?”
I grin, a slow pull at the corner of my mouth. “That’s her version of rolling out the red carpet. Means she’s serious.”
She snorts, a little huff of air through her nose, but doesn’t pull away when I bend down and kiss her temple.
Inside, it smells like Sunday dinners used to smell before everything cracked wide open, before years of silence, before the arguments that left holes in the drywall and in our family. There’s the rich scent of gravy, the earthy note of potatoes, and underneath it all, the faint smell of the lemon polish my mom still uses on the dining table.
My dad is already at the table, flipping through some bike magazine he never actually reads, the pages turning with deliberate slowness. My mom is in the kitchen, hovering over the gravy like it’s a live grenade that might go off if she looks away.
And Shaina, Shaina’s leaning against the counter with a half-empty wine glass, her cheeks flushed, her grin wide like she’s in on a joke nobody else knows yet.
“You brought her,” she sings out, popping a grape into her mouth. “I thought you were gonna wait until Christmas.”
“Why?” I say, tugging Mac into the room by her hand, not bothering to hide the way I keep her close. “I don’t want to spend a minute without her that I don’t need to.”
Mac blushes, the color blooming across her cheeks, and damn if that doesn’t do something to me every time. My mom practically tackles her with a hug, calling her “sweetheart” and firing off questions about work, her parents, and whether she’s been eating enough, all in the same breath. My dad gives her a stiff nod and what passes for a smile from him. That’s as warm as he gets.
For a moment, everything feels right. Normal. Good.
And then the front door creaks open.
I don’t need to turn around. I feel it in the pit of my stomach before I even hear his voice the air shifts, charged and restless, like a storm cloud rolling in. My jaw clenches on instinct.
Carter.
“Hope I’m not late,” he says, voice casual in a way that’s too careful, too smug. “I smelled the pot roast from the next town over and thought, hell, maybe I’ll stop by.”
He strolls in like he’s been gone a weekend instead of years. Same crooked grin, same swagger, but leaner now. Harder around the edges. The kind of sharp that cuts people on purpose. His eyes flick over everything in the room like he’s taking inventory.
My mother freezes, ladle hovering over the pot. My father stands up slowly, the chair scraping across the floor. Shaina’s wine glass stills halfway to her lips.
And Mac, God bless her, stays perfectly still beside me. Her eyes narrow just enough for me to know she’s clocking him, assessing, weighing her read on him in seconds.
I step forward before my dad can say a word. “You’re late by eight years,” I say, my voice flat, controlled. “You planning to explain where the hell you’ve been?”
Carter smiles like he’s missed me too, which is bullshit. “Nice to see you too, little brother.”
Then his attention shifts, slow and deliberate, to Mac. He gives her a once-over, and the grin sharpens. “And look at this. You finally made your move, huh? Could’ve sworn she was outta your league back then. Can’t believe she gave you another shot.” His breath smells faintly of alcohol, just enough for me to notice.
Mac stiffens, but her voice is steady when she fires back. “He definitely screwed up back then. Now? He’s the best I’ve ever had.”
Carter lets out a low whistle. “Feisty. I like her.”
I step closer, every protective instinct I have spiking. My voice drops into something edged. “Don’t.”
Dad clears his throat, the sound deep and gravelly. “This is not the time.”
“When is it, then?” I snap, heat rising under my skin. “You let him walk in like nothing happened. Like he didn’t disappear with a duffel bag full of someone else’s cash and no damn explanation.”
