Logan's POV
I'm frozen in place.
My mum remains unfazed, leaning against the counter while her words hang in the air.
'Take a walk with me.'
That's when I know I'm screwed. If she were going to yell, she'd have done it by now.
We step out into the backyard garden. The sunlight is too harsh for my hangover-sensitive eyes. The hum of cleanup crews, birdsong, the clatter of dishes from the house—it's all too alive for how I feel.
We walk the gravel path in silence until we reach the pond. I rarely come here despite the fact that Dad, Rowan and I dug it ourselves on multiple scorching summer days.
She crouches beside it, dipping her fingers into the water. Bright orange fish glide up to meet her.
Then, softly, she says, "Tell me what's going on, Logan."
I don't mean to. I don't plan to.
But the moment she says it, my voice cracks.
"I keep fucking up, Mama."
"You do," she says, without hesitation.
