Page 66 of Logan
And in the stillness before morning, I let myself believe that I’m going to be okay.
Not because I’ve forgotten what happened.
But because I survived it.
And I’m still here.
Still loving.
Still living.
***
The coffee shop is quiet for once, caught in that rare mid-morning lull where the rush has died down but the lunch crowd hasn’t arrived yet. There’s only the low hum of espresso machines in the background, the soft hiss of steam wands, and the occasional clink of ceramic mugs being set gently on saucers. The air smells faintly of roasted beans and warm milk, threaded through with a hint of cinnamon from the pastry case. The sunlight streaming in through the wide front window pools across the wooden floor in golden rectangles, dust motes drifting lazily in the light.
I stir my drink for the third time without taking a sip, watching the cream spiral into the dark liquid until it becomes a cloudy swirl. My spoon makes a soft, rhythmic tap against the side of the mug, the sound steady enough to almost mimic a heartbeat. It’s easier to focus on that motion than on theconversation I know is coming. My eyes stay locked on the cup, as if the answer to everything could be hiding in those tiny eddies of coffee. Part of me hopes if I just keep staring, I can stall, maybe push back the inevitable moment when the words leave my mouth and change the air between us.
Across from me, Shaina raises an eyebrow over the rim of her latte. “You’re either gonna drink that or hypnotize yourself.”
I huff out a laugh that’s small, but real, and it feels strange in my throat, like it hasn’t been used in a while. “Trying to work up to it.” My voice sounds thinner than I intend, but it still earns the tiniest smirk from her, and I cling to it like proof that I can still find levity, even in the middle of this.
She leans back in the booth, leather jacket still zipped halfway like she might decide to get up and walk out at a moment’s notice. Her dark curls are pulled into a loose bun, a few strands escaping to frame her sharp cheekbones. Classic Shaina tough as nails, loyal to the bone, and always watching like she can read every thought before I form it. Her presence is grounding, like sitting across from a wall I know won’t crumble even if I lean all my weight against it.
“Logan told me pieces,” she says, her tone careful, measured in that way she uses when she knows the wrong push could make me shut down. “Not the details. Just that… something bad happened. That you’re healing. And that you might need me when you’re ready.”
My throat tightens around a knot I didn’t know was there.
This is the part I’ve been avoiding. Not the trauma itself, I lived it. I’ve already replayed it enough times in my head to know every sound, every shadow. But telling it out loud tosomeone who knew me before? That feels like pressing a bruise I’ve been hiding under my sleeve. The bruise that never really faded, just shifted colors, from angry red to deep purple to something faint but always there when pressed.
I look up at her. “It was Anthony. My old boss.”
Her expression changes in an instant, all softness gone from her eyes. Her jaw sets hard, but she doesn’t speak. She lets me keep the floor.
“He set up a fake interview. Lured me in. Locked the door.” My fingers tighten around the warm mug, the ceramic edge biting into my palms. “He tried to finish what he started months ago.” The words scrape out of me, ragged, like they’ve been rusting in my chest this whole time.
Shaina’s jaw ticks once, her lips parting, but she stops herself. “Did he…?”
“No.” I shake my head quickly, almost too quickly, as if saying it firmly enough will keep the nightmare from clinging. “Logan found me. Just in time. But… it was close.”
The silence that follows feels thick, heavy enough to press into my shoulders. But it isn’t awkward. Shaina doesn’t look away, doesn’t fill the gap with words that would make it easier for her instead of me. She just holds steady, her eyes anchored to mine like she’s keeping me from drifting off in the middle of a storm.
“I keep thinking I should be fine now,” I say quietly, my voice almost lost in the hum of the shop. “Like, I walked out. I fought back. He didn’t win. So why do I still wake up shaking? Why does going to the grocery store feel like walking into a war zone some days?” My voice cracks on the last word, and I grip the mug harder, as though I can tether myself to something solid.
Shaina nods slowly, her gaze never wavering. She sets her cup down with deliberate care, both hands wrapping around it. “You ever been in a car crash?”
I blink at her. “Once. Years ago.”
“Yeah. You walked away from it, right? But your body still shook for a week. You flinched every time a car stopped too fast. You didn’t blame yourself for that.”
I swallow, the truth in her words working its way under my skin. “No…”
“This wasn’t a fender bender, Mac. This was a collision. With fear. With power. With trauma. You survived it. That’s the headline. But your body and mind are still catching up. That doesn’t make you weak. It makes you alive.”
Her voice is calm, even, but it carries weight. I feel it in my chest, in the space between my ribs where I’ve been storing all the fear I haven’t wanted to look at. It presses against my lungs, both suffocating and freeing, like a truth I needed but didn’t know how to ask for.
“I want to feel normal again,” I whisper. “Not this version of myself that’s always scanning exits or jumping at shadows.” My chest tightens admitting it, but also loosens just a fraction, as if naming the ache makes it more bearable.
Shaina reaches across the table, her hand warm as it wraps around mine. Her grip is firm but not demanding, a quiet reminder that she’s not letting go unless I ask her to. “Then stop chasing old normal. You’re never going to be who you were before him. And you don’t need to be.”
