I always assumed he heard things through old family friends.
I had never asked how.
Maybe because asking would have meant admitting I still cared.
“Why didn’t he tell me?”
Rachel looked at me for a long moment.
“I think you need to ask him that.”
I felt anger rising, but it wasn’t clean anger.
It was tangled with embarrassment.
Because there was another question underneath it.
Why hadn’t I asked?
Not once in seven years had I driven to my father’s house, sat across from him, and said: Tell me exactly what you know about my brother.
Instead, I had accepted vague answers because vague answers were easier.
Eli suddenly pushed one muffin piece toward me.
“You can have that one.”
I looked at him.
“Thanks.”
“It’s the biggest.”
“Then I’m honored.”
He smiled.
It was Logan’s smile.
Not exactly.
But close enough to bring back a memory so clear that for a moment I could smell lake water and sunscreen.
Logan and I had been eight.
Dad had taken us fishing at Mason Lake, although neither of us had possessed the patience required for fishing. Logan had dropped his sandwich into the water and spent twenty minutes insisting a trout had stolen it deliberately.
That evening Mom had asked what we caught.
“One criminal fish,” Logan said.
I hadn’t thought about that day in years.
Now, sitting across from Logan’s son, the memory returned intact.
Rachel watched me.
“He talks about you.”
I looked up.
“Logan?”
She nodded.
“What does he say?”
“Usually stories.”
I almost laughed from disbelief.
“What kind of stories?”
“The lake. Your first car. The treehouse you built that apparently leaned so badly your mother wouldn’t let either of you sleep in it.”
“It was structurally questionable.”
“Eli’s heard about the time you two tried to make pancakes for your mother’s birthday.”
“We ruined a pan.”
“Three pans, according to Logan.”
“He exaggerates.”
Rachel smiled.
“There. That.”
“What?”
“That sounded exactly like him.”
Something in my chest shifted.
Not healed.
Not even close.
But loosened.
I looked toward Eli.
“If Logan talks about me, why hasn’t he called?”
Rachel didn’t answer immediately.
“Probably for the same reason you haven’t called him.”
That answer irritated me because it was probably true.
“He left.”
“Yes.”
“He changed his number.”
“Yes.”
“He never sent me an address.”
Rachel folded the edge of her napkin.
“And he believes you told your father you never wanted to hear from him again.”
I stared at her.
“I never said that.”
“I was hoping you hadn’t.”
“When did he tell you that?”
“Years ago.”
“Who told him?”
“Your father.”
The anger returned.
Then Rachel quickly added, “But Colin, I don’t think it’s as simple as it sounds.”
I pushed the chair back slightly.
“My father told my brother I never wanted to speak to him.”
“I don’t know exactly what your father said. I only know what Logan remembers hearing.”
“That’s not much better.”
“No. But memory gets complicated when people are hurt.”
I knew that professionally.
I had taken witness statements after minor collisions where four people standing on the same corner remembered four different traffic lights.
But this wasn’t an intersection.
This was my family.
My radio crackled.
Dispatch.
Reality returning.
I checked the time and realized I had already remained there longer than I should have.
Rachel saw it too.
“You need to go.”
“Yes.”
She reached into her purse and pulled out a small card.
There was a phone number written on the back.
“That’s mine.”
I took it.
“Does Logan know you planned to find me?”
“I didn’t.”
I frowned.
“We came downtown because your father had an appointment nearby. Eli and I went for breakfast while he was there.”
Eli smiled proudly.
“I saw the tattoo.”
Rachel looked at him.
“You certainly did.”
“So this really was an accident?”
“Completely.”
I looked down at the photograph again.
“Can I keep this?”
Eli immediately shook his head.
Rachel laughed softly.
“That’s his favorite.”
“Fair enough.”
I handed it back.
“But you can take a picture of it,” Eli offered.
So I did.
My hand trembled slightly as I held my phone above the photograph.
Before I stood, Rachel said, “Colin?”
I looked at her.
“Whatever happened between you two, I don’t think Logan stopped caring.”
I wanted to believe her.
That was the problem.
Hope could be more frightening than certainty.
For seven years, I had built a version of the past that allowed me to live with it.
Logan left.
Logan chose distance.
Logan didn’t call.
Therefore Logan didn’t care.
It was painful, but it was simple.
Rachel had taken less than half an hour to make it complicated.
I spent the rest of my shift moving through familiar streets that no longer looked quite the same.
Every ordinary thing seemed connected to memory.
A man loading lumber into a truck reminded me of the summer Logan and I worked construction after high school.
