Actually, I knew it even before the phone call. The apologetic text Logan sent me last night had triggered my concern, but when I’d pushed him, he insisted that everything was okay, claiming he had to stay with his dad longer than he’d anticipated. He’d also made sure to reiterate that he was truly sorry for not making it to dinner or being able to drive me home.

I went to bed unable to fight the gnawing suspicion that something bad had happened, and now, combined with the vague heads up from my father, I’m certain of it. Which is why I opt to cab it to Logan’s house instead of walking or taking the bus. I want to see him as soon as possible, before the crushing worry I’m feeling starts flashing worst-case scenarios in my head.

As I settle in the backseat of the taxi, I pull out my phone and text Logan.

Me: I’m on my way to your place.

Nearly a minute goes by before he responds with: Don’t know if that’s a good idea, babe. I’m in a lousy mood.

Me: Fine. Then I’ll cheer u up.

Him: Not sure if u can.

Me: Still gonna try.

I tuck my cell away and bite my lip, wishing I knew what was going on with him. Obviously it has something to do with his visit home last night, but what the hell had happened?

A burst of anger goes off inside me. I’m running out of sympathy for Logan’s father. I really am, and it’s making me question how good of a therapist I’m going to be. Granted, I don’t plan on specializing in addiction issues, but what does it say about me that I can’t feel any compassion for Logan’s alcoholic father?

Fuck, and now is not the time to be second-guessing my career path. I’m only equipped to deal with one crisis at a time.

The cab driver has to stop at the curb in front of Logan’s house because the driveway is full. Logan’s pickup and Garrett’s Jeep are side-by-side, with Dean’s sporty something-or-other and Hannah’s borrowed Toyota behind them.

When I ring the bell, it isn’t Logan who lets me in, but Tucker. A groove of dismay digs into his forehead as he closes the door behind me.

“Are you guys in a fight or something?” he asks in a low voice.

“No.” I suddenly feel cold. “Did he say we were?”

“No, but he’s been rude and bitchy all morning. Dean thought maybe the two of you were fighting.”

“We’re not,” I say firmly. Then an unnerving thought occurs to me. “Has he been drinking?”

“Of course not. It’s one-thirty in the afternoon.” Tucker sounds confused. “He’s upstairs. Last I checked, he was working on his marketing midterm.”

His answer relieves me, but I’m not sure why. Logan has told me on numerous occasions that he doesn’t drink when he’s upset. I know he’s afraid he might have inherited his father’s addictive tendencies, and suddenly I feel like a jerk for asking Tucker that question in the first place.

“I’ll go up and talk to him. Maybe he’ll tell me what’s bugging him.”

I leave Tucker in the front hall and head up to Logan’s room, where I experience another rush of relief.

He looks okay. Short dark hair looks the same. Blue eyes are alert. Sexy muscles rippling beneath his sweats and T-shirt. There are no outward signs of injury, but when our gazes lock, there’s a world of pain in his expression.

“Hey,” I say softly, walking over to give him a kiss. “What’s going on?”

His lips brush mine, but the kiss lacks his usual warmth. “Your dad called you, huh?” he says wryly.

“Yep.”

A shadow crosses his eyes. “What’d he say?”

“Hardly anything. He told me you stopped by last night, that he got the sense you were upset, and that I should check on you.” I search his face. “What happened in Munsen?”

“Nothing.”

“Logan.”

“It was nothing, babe.” He lets out a tired breath. “Or at least, nothing out of the ordinary.”

I take his hand. God, it’s like ice. Whatever went down last night, he’s still exhibiting the effects of it.

“Sit down.” I have to forcibly tug his powerful body beside me on the bed, but even after he submits, he stares straight ahead instead of meeting my eyes. “Will you please tell me what happened?”

“Jesus. What does it matter?”

“Because it matters, John.” I start to feel aggravated. “Clearly you’re upset about it, and I think it’ll help if you talk about it.”

His bitter laughter echoes between us. “Talking about it won’t achieve a damn thing. But fine. You want to know what happened last night? I saw my future, that’s what happened.”

I flinch at the sharpness of his tone. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I saw my fucking future. I traveled forward in time, I got a visit from the Ghost of Christmas Future—how else do you want me to phrase it, Grace?”

My spine stiffens. “You don’t have to be sarcastic. I get it.”

“No, you don’t. You don’t get it. I have no life after I graduate. No future. But I’m doing it for my brother, because Jeff has dealt with it for almost four years now. And now it’s my turn, and I don’t fucking like it, but I’m going to suck it up and move back home, because he’s my goddamn father and he needs my help.”

His hoarse outburst cracks my heart in two.

“I know what it’ll do to me,” he continues, sounding more and more despondent. “I know it’ll make me miserable and I’ll probably grow to hate my dad, and I’ll eventually lose you—”