I get in the car. Logan closes the door, walks around, and slides into the driver's seat. He puts the car in gear and pulls into traffic heading toward the expressway. My third trip to Long Island today.
We drive in silence for a few minutes. The city falls away, and the highway opens up ahead of us. His hand finds my knee.
“Whatever happens tonight,” he says, “I'm on your side. Not my mother's side. Not my father's side. Yours.”
“I know.”
“If she says anything, I'm shutting it down.”
“Okay.”
“I mean it, Jasmine. This isn't ten years ago. I'm not that kid anymore.”
I put my hand on top of his. “I believe you.”
We drive east. The sun is setting behind us. The sky ahead is pale gray and darkening at the edges. Long Island stretches out flat and familiar on either side of the highway.
Logan turns onto Maple Street. The trees are bare, and the houses are lit up for the evening. The Shaw house is at the end of the block.
There are two cars in the driveway. Logan parks at the curb and turns off the engine. Neither of us moves.
“Ready?” he asks.
I look at the house. The same front door I walked through a hundred times when I was sixteen, seventeen, and eighteen years old. The same windows. The same porch where Logan kissed me after our first date before driving me home.
The same house where Cat Shaw told me I wasn't enough.
I straighten my blazer and check my lipstick in the visor mirror. I close the mirror and look at Logan.
“Ready.”
25
Jasmine
Logan takes my hand as we walk up the porch steps. His grip is firm, and I hold on tight. The porch light is on, and the windows glow yellow from inside. I can hear muffled voices and the clatter of dishes through the front door. He squeezes my hand once and rings the bell.
The front door opens, and Cat Shaw is standing in her hallway in a cream blouse and pearls with a dish towel over her shoulder. Her eyes go to our hands first, then to my face. Her smile locks in place.
“Jasmine.” She says my name like she's reading it off a card. “What a lovely surprise.”
“Hi, Cat. Thank you for having me.”
“Of course. Come in, come in.” She steps aside and gestures us through the door. Her eyes cut to Logan for a fraction of a second — a question, an accusation, something — and then she's moving toward the kitchen, calling out that everyone is in the dining room.
The house smells like roasted lamb and rosemary. The hallway is the same as I remember — family photos on the wallin matching frames, a coat rack by the door, hardwood floors that creak in the same spots they creaked fifteen years ago.
I used to walk this hallway barefoot comfortably. It was my home away from home. Now, it feels like I’m walking to my own execution.
George is in the living room. He stands when we enter, and his face does something I've never seen on George Shaw before. An expression of utter shock. Logan’s father is the most composed person I know.
“Jasmine,” he says and extends his hand. He schools his expression back to normal. “It's good to see you.”
“Good to see you, too, George.”
He nods once and sits back down. That's the extent of George Shaw's welcome.
Nolan saves us. He comes bounding out of the kitchen with a beer in each hand and a grin that fills the room.
