Page 46 of Logan
For the briefest second, Carter’s smile falters, but it’s back before I can savor it. Armor. That’s what it is.
“I came to eat,” he says. “Not to confess.”
“You always were good at skipping steps,” I mutter.
“Boys,” my mother’s voice cracks through the room like a whip. “Sit down. All of you. We are family. And tonight, we eat together.”
Shaina shoots me a warning look over the rim of her wine glass. Mac squeezes my hand under the table, her fingers warm and grounding, like she’s reminding me who I’m here for.
I sit, reluctantly, the muscles in my jaw still tight. Carter takes the chair across from me like he belongs there, like the last few years never happened.
Dinner is tense. Mom keeps asking Mac questions about her job at the club, and Mac answers politely, smiling in a way that hides the fact she’s reading every undercurrent in the room. Dad mostly stares at his plate, chewing slow. Shaina tries to keep conversation moving, tossing out bits of harmless town gossip like lifelines.
And Carter? He keeps watching me. Not eating much, just leaning back in his chair with that faint smirk, like he knows exactly how close I am to snapping. Like he’s waiting for it.
But every time I glance down the table at Mac steady, calm, sitting in this minefield with grace, I remember why I’m holding it together. This isn’t about Carter. Or proving anything to him. This is about us.
So I swallow it. For now.
But I know one thing for damn sure.
He may have walked back into this house. But he isn’t walking back into my life that easy.
As soon as the dishes hit the sink, Carter lights a cigarette in the backyard like he owns the damn night. The faint snap of the lighter cuts through the quiet, followed by the slow curl of smoke that carries the smell of trouble. He stands there like a man who has never been told no in his life.
Shaina storms past me, muttering, “You better go out there before Dad does,” her wine glass clinking in her grip as she disappears down the hall. Mom keeps her eyes on the sink, scrubbing the same plate for the third time, her knuckles white around the sponge.
I don’t want to follow him. Every part of me wants to leave him in the dark and let him collapse under the weight of his own mess like he always did. But I couldn’t, not with Mac here, not with her watching me stand still while something toxic hangs between us.
I glanced toward the hallway. She is there, leaning casually against the doorway but watching me with sharp, assessing eyes. She doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t have to. She is reading the air like she can feel every unspoken thing in it.
I step outside, the boards under my boots creaking in protest. The air is cooler than it has been all day, the damp smell of grass mixing with the sharp tang of Carter’s cigarette. The porch light flickers overhead, throwing him in a patchwork of gold and shadow.
“You got a reason for showing up now?” I ask, my voice low, steady, even though my pulse is already climbing. “Or just missed the pot roast?”
He smirks but keeps his gaze somewhere out in the dark. “You really think I’d come back here without a reason?”
I cross my arms. “Considering your track record of stirring shit up and disappearing while everyone else is left to clean it up? Yeah. I do.”
He takes another drag. “Stuff got too hot. I needed to disappear for a while.”
“Disappear?” The word feels bitter in my mouth. “You didn’t disappear, Carter. You abandoned us. You left Shaina crying, Mom worrying, and Dad barely talking. You left me holding the bag, sitting in a chair that was meant for you, without warning.”
“Thought I was doing you a favor,” he mutters.
I step in closer, the wood groaning beneath my weight. “You are the mess, Carter. And you don’t get to walk back in, crack a joke, and pretend you didn’t blow a hole in this family.”
His gaze finally meets mine, his smirk gone. “You think being the golden son means you understand everything? You have no idea what I got mixed up in.”
“Then tell me,” I shoot back. “For once in your life, say something real.”
He holds my gaze a moment longer before flicking the cigarette into the wet grass.
“I almost died, Logan,” he says flatly. “Couple times. I did things I can’t undo. Things I don’t want Mom to know. But I’m here now. You don’t have to like it. But I’m here.”
He brushes past me before I could answer, the back door groaning shut behind him.
I stay out there for a moment, fists clenched, breathing hard. The night humming with cicadas, but all I can hear is the echo of his voice and the reminder that nothing about him being back felt like healing.
