Page 93 of Under the Orchard’s Spell

“I apologize in advance for the fight you’re about to witness,” he says, “but sometimes my eldest brother needs a swift kick in the ass and I’m really the only one who can do that for him. Plus, I think it’s kind of important that you understand what I’m about to say.”

Logan narrows his eyes. There’s a warning etched in his expression that I, for one, would not defy. “Drop it, Mason.”

“I’m just getting started,” Mason bites back. “Unless you tell me clearly and unequivocally that you’re not backing out.”

Logan is silent.

Mason swears under his breath. Then, louder, he says, “I’ve seen this exact shit before, man. That doubt. That ‘maybe I shouldn’t.’ You’ve gotten carried away by some shiny new problems to fix, and now you don’t…Have you even been drawing?”

Logan blinks. “Why is that relevant?”

“You promised you would. After the fire.”

“There hasn’t been time.”

Inwardly, I cringe. Even though I know this isn’t entirely my fault—for the last few weeks Logan has also been focused on a lot of his own stuff—this pronouncement is disquieting. Just how much has he been setting aside to take on my problems?

Mason, far past disquieted, tosses up a hand. “Exactly. And the itinerary? The Atacama Desert? Seeing the Pacific Ocean for the first time? Mexico City? Or is this all stuff you don’t have time for, either?”

Logan glowers, a line burrowing between his eyebrows. “It’s not your job to look after me.”

“If not me, then who? You’ve lived your whole life for us. Me, Andrew, Dad. And I’ve had to live with the fact that you gave up your future for mine.”

“That was my choice.”

“Doesn’t change the fact that this is your opportunity,” Mason insists. “You’re always fixing everyone else’s lives for them. When are you going to fix your own?”

“Damn it, Mason!” Logan pounds a fist against the table. “I’m not going to just up and leave. I don’t bail when I’m needed.”

I freeze, a sinking sensation pouring through my limbs as I realize he’s talking about me.

“Logan…” I start.

But Mason must have some other, completely different interpretation of what Logan just said because he leans back on his bench, eyebrows drawn together in something that is no longer anger, but unmistakably concern.

“You’re nothing like her,” he says quietly.

I blink. What?

“What?” Logan asks.

“If you leave,” Mason says, eyes lancing his brother, “it won’t make you like her.”

The hairs on my arms rise, like I’ve been hit by a cool breeze through sprinklers. Logan is still but for the rise and fall of his chest.

“I know that,” he says evenly.

“But clearly you don’t,” Mason says, and the fight has drained from his voice. “You are not her. You could never be her. You were the one who stayed with us, raised us. You were the one who chose us.”

Logan’s fists are so tight that I see his knuckles turn white. “And if I leave now? If I start driving down the coast and you need something? You break an arm or get in a car accident or who knows what else? What will that make me?”

“I’m an adult now, brother. I can take care of myself.”

I don’t want to overstep, and I need to sort through how I feel about everything Mason is saying, especially my role in it. At the same time, I can see the pain and conflict in the tight throb of Logan’s jaw. As a compromise, I nudge his knee with mine, a silent reminder I’m still here. He closes his eyes for a moment and leans into my touch, brief but deliberate, a thank-you he doesn’t need to say aloud.

“I think you should meet her,” Mason says abruptly.

We both look at him.