41 Jefferson City
By the time Logan and I leave campus Thursday afternoon, the entire car already smells like gas station coffee and barbecue chips.
Which is honestly how every single Coleman family road trip has smelled for the last ten years.
Logan's driving with one hand on the wheel and the other drumming against the steering wheel to a song I hate purely out of principle. The highway stretches endlessly in front of us, gray November sky hanging low overhead while cold rain spits lightly against the windshield every few minutes.
I'm curled sideways in the passenger seat with my sneakers kicked against the dashboard, stealing fries out of Logan's bag every time he looks away.
"Touch my food again and I'm leaving you at the next exit."
"You've said that since 2014."
"And one day I'll mean it."
"You cried when I moved into my dorm."
"That was unrelated."
I snort quietly.
The music changes again.
Immediately, I reach for the radio. "No."
Logan slaps my hand away without even looking.
"This playlist is elite."
"This playlist sounds like an emotionally distant father trying to reconnect with his kids."
"It's classic rock."
"It's emotional terrorism."
He gasps like I've wounded him personally. "You used to like this song."
"I was twelve and deeply stupid."
"You still are."
"True."
He grins a little at that, and the car settles back into something easy after.
Familiar.
That's the thing about Logan.
Even after weeks of tension and awkward conversations and both of us carefully avoiding certain topics, being around him still feels like muscle memory. Like home in the most automatic sense of the word.
We stop halfway for gas, and Logan comes back carrying approximately fourteen snacks.
"You bought an entire convenience store."
"Road trip rules," he says simply.
"You're gonna complain about being broke tomorrow."
"Future Logan's problem."
I laugh under my breath, taking the coffee he hands me.
The drive gets quieter after that.
Rain taps steadily against the windows while farmland and small towns blur past outside. Logan lowers the music eventually, one hand loose on the wheel while sunset slowly starts staining the sky orange and gray.
Then, carefully casual, he says, "You and Bennett okay?"
There it is.
I stare out the window for a second too long. "We're... better."
Logan nods once, eyes still on the road.
He doesn't push. But I notice the way his jaw tightens slightly anyway.
And guilt twists unpleasantly in my stomach immediately.
Because I know he's trying. I know he's trying to trust me to handle this myself.
Even if he still clearly wants to strangle Jackson with his bare hands.
"We talked Tuesday," I say quietly.
Another nod. "That help?"
"A little."
The answer feels too small for what Tuesday actually did to me. Because hearing Jackson say it to my face somehow changed everything all over again.
Yeah. I meant it.
I'm terrified of needing someone.
Can I at least try?
The memory still lives somewhere directly beneath my ribs.
Logan glances at me briefly before looking back at the road.
"You seem lighter," he says eventually.
I blink. "Do I?"
"Yeah."
Something about that almost makes me emotional for no reason.
So instead of answering, I steal another fry.
Logan sighs dramatically. "You are a criminal."
"You love me."
"Unfortunately."
-
By the time we finally pull into Jefferson City, it's dark outside and freezing enough that my breath fogs immediately when I step out of the car.
And somehow, the second I see the porch light glowing against the cold, something inside me loosens.
Home.
Not the dorm.
Not campus.
Home.
Mom opens the front door before we even make it up the walkway.
"Oh thank God," she says immediately. "Your brother drives like a maniac."
"I'm literally standing right here."
"And yet."
She pulls me into a hug before I can answer, warm and familiar and smelling like cinnamon and whatever she's cooking.
For a second, I close my eyes against her shoulder.
I didn't realize how much I missed this.
Inside, the house feels exactly the same.
Football already playing too loudly on the TV.
Half-finished pie cooling on the counter.
Logan arguing with Mom within approximately thirty seconds of entering the house.
"Why are there seventeen decorative pumpkins?"
"Because it's Thanksgiving."
"It looks like autumn exploded."
"You can still leave."
I laugh quietly, dropping my bag beside the stairs while warmth slowly creeps back into my hands.
Everything feels nostalgic in a way that almost hurts, like stepping backward into an older version of myself.
Dinner turns into hours somehow.
Cooking.
Stories.
Mom bringing up embarrassing childhood moments exclusively to psychologically damage us.
At one point Logan almost chokes laughing while Mom tells the story about me throwing up onstage during a third-grade choir concert.
"You promised we'd never discuss that again."
"I lied."
"Monster."
And for a while, it's easy to just exist inside this version of myself again.
Daughter.
Sister.
Home for the holidays.
Not the girl sharing a dorm room with the boy currently ruining her entire emotional stability.
But later that night, after everyone finally goes to bed and the house goes quiet around me, reality creeps back in anyway.
I'm lying in my childhood bedroom staring up at glow-in-the-dark stars I never peeled off the ceiling when my phone buzzes beside me.
My stomach flips instantly before I even look.
Jackson.
I stare at the message for a stupid amount of time.
The typing bubble appears almost immediately.
I smile before I can stop myself.
The conversation unfolds easily after that. Easier than it's been in weeks.
Not perfect.
Not fully healed.
But softer, like both of us finally stopped gripping the situation hard enough to break it.
Jackson asks about my mom.
About Logan.
About whether Jefferson City still has that terrifying diner with the jukebox that only plays country music.
I ask about his drive home.
His family.
Whether Jenny's still threatening his existence daily.
He reacts to that with a laughing emoji, and something warm spreads slowly through my chest afterward.
Because it feels normal again for a second.
Almost dangerously normal.
The conversation drifts past midnight without either of us mentioning stopping.
And somewhere between Jackson telling me his dad nearly burned dinner rolls already and me laughing quietly into my pillow so nobody hears, I realize we're rebuilding something whether I meant to let it happen or not.
Carefully.
Quietly.
Piece by piece.
Eventually, my eyes start burning with exhaustion.
That one sits on my screen for a second longer than the others.
My chest tightens softly.