March 9, 2020—Seattle, Washington—One Year and Eight Months Later #3
Now the screen blurred in front of him. He tried to think of food and thought only of Adrian.
Adrian who liked fish, and meat if it wasn’t mixed with dairy.
Adrian who tried to keep kosher. Adrian, who ate slowly, who laughed when he liked something, who always wanted to share bites.
Logan had known every detail, down to how Adrian salted his fries, fries that Logan usually ordered for him because he tried to eat healthy.
But his wife—nothing. Just the sound of her talking about meals he couldn’t taste.
He clicked on the Italian category. Picked the place with the most reviews. Ordered at random: something vegan, something with cream, something spicy. He didn’t care.
An hour later, the food arrived. They sat next to each other in the living room. He chewed. It could have been anything.
“How was your day?” Logan asked, breaking the quiet.
“Fine…” she said, pausing as if considering whether to say more. There was something between them, an invisible wall, neither of them had the words to tear down.
Logan smiled faintly, setting his food aside, reaching for the glass of wine she’d suggested. He let the silence stretch, listening to the clink of her fork against her bowl. Then she spoke again, her voice soft but edged with something deeper.
“What about us, Logan?” she whispered.
His heart skipped. “What do you mean?”
She met his gaze, her eyes sincere. “What about kids? I want to have children, Logan.”
Logan knew this moment would come eventually, but he wasn’t ready for it now. He didn’t want to be a father, not now, not when his heart was in pieces.
“I do too,” he said, voice distant with the lie it carried, “but we’re not ready for that.”
Her frustration flared. “We’ve been married for over a year now! My friends are having kids, my best friend is expecting, and my mom won’t stop asking. What are we waiting for?”
Logan got up, his fingers tightening into fists. “We’re not ready, Sandy. It’s too soon.” He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think, he was drowning all over again.
“But we have everything,” she argued, standing as well. “We have a house, jobs, money, what’s stopping us?”
Logan’s chest tightened. “Who’s going to raise them, Sandy? We’re both gone all day. I don’t even get home until midnight. How will I ever see them?”
“Well, we’ll get a nanny,” she said matter-of-factly. “And you’ll work less, come home early a few nights a week. I’m sure you can talk to your father and he will help you find a way, I know he is also waiting for a grandkid—”
“No!” he uttered, the words low but firm. “Don’t bring my father into this! This is my job and I don’t want him trying to help me so—”
“But—” she tried to cut in, their tones starting to rise in the empty house, echoing across the walls.
Logan’s stomach sank. He couldn’t imagine it, couldn’t picture himself, drained and broken, trying to be a father. “I’m not ready for this.” He said in finality.
Sandy’s expression faltered, and the tension between them grew. He could feel her anger bubbling beneath the surface.
“You’ve got to see a doctor,” she said suddenly, her voice sharp, adopting a new tactic. “You can’t even keep an erection anymore.”
Logan’s breath caught, his hands shaking. “What did you say?” This wasn’t the first time this topic arose for debate, but it was the first occasion that Sandy was so direct about it.
“You heard me,” she snapped. “You’ve got issues, Logan. You need to see someone about it. We’ve been over it before, and I tried to be understanding, but you just won’t do anything about it! So yes, I’m saying it plainly now. You need help!”
The words landed like a lash, but he recoiled from them, unwilling to face their truth.
He feared the rage swelling inside him, the crushing weight of expectations pressing down on his chest, an unyielding force he could never escape.
He was trapped in this unspoken performance, a game he hadn’t signed up for, suffocating in his own skin, drowning in the hollow ache of it all.
His soul ached for release—for the quiet gaze of eyes like amber whiskey, for strong arms to wrap around him, a sun-kissed chest to hold him close, to look at him as though he were the universe itself, worthy of every sacrifice, every breath.
Breathless and shaking, he was about to leave the room, a storm of emotions crashing over him, carrying him away.
He wasn’t broken in the way she thought.
He was just… elsewhere.
Some part of him—the part—was still thousands of miles away. On a cliff. In a river. In amber eyes and strong hands. In the memory of being held like he mattered.
His breath caught, heat rising to his face, shame and anger coiling in his throat like smoke. He moved, barely aware of his own movement, ready to walk out, to escape this house, this lie of a life.
But then Sandy’s voice, softer now, stopped him. “What about your urologist appointment?” she demanded. “You said you’d look into it!”
Logan felt his whole body freeze. “I’m fine, Sandy. I don’t need a doctor.”
“Logan, don’t be stupid. You can barely get it up! You need to fix this. Maybe it is dangerous!” she pleaded. “It could be something serious. You… you don’t look good, Logan.” She added silently. “You… have lost a lot of weight… you barely sleep, and you drink too much!”
Her words stung, raw and painful. Logan turned away, gripping the back of the couch as his anger and shame churned within him.
“So now I’ve got even more problems?” he snapped, voice rising.
“Go on, Sandy. What else is wrong with me?” He stepped away from the couch, hands clenched at his sides.
“I work too much? You mean the job that pays for our lives? The one that helped you open your stores and pays for basically everything here?” His laugh was bitter, joyless.
“Right. That’s a flaw now.” He turned, eyes flashing with something between fury and fatigue.
“I’ve got stress at work, and suddenly I need a urologist?
I don’t sleep enough, again, working, and I have a drink from time to time, so I must be an alcoholic?
I’ve lost weight, so now I’m falling apart?
” His chest rose and fell, breath ragged, like he was trying to hold something back and failing.
“Go ahead. Keep going. Let’s make a list. All the ways I’m not enough for you. ”
“That’s not what I said, and you know it,” she snapped, stepping toward him, her voice steady despite the heat rising in the room.
“Don’t twist this into some story where you’re the victim and I’m the villain.
” Her eyes didn’t waver. “I’m not some na?ve little girl who’s going to back down just because you raise your voice.
” She took another step, hands clenched at her sides.
“You’re not okay. You haven’t been okay in a long time.
” Her voice lowered, firmer now—not angry, but unshakable.
“You don’t want to hear it? Fine. But I’m not going to lie to make you comfortable. ”
He turned away, shoulders taut. “I’m fine,” he muttered through clenched teeth. “You’re making a big deal out of nothing. Let it go.”
But she didn’t.
She stood her ground, arms crossed—not defensive, but bracing herself. “If you’re so fine, then why do you look like a ghost in your own house? Why can’t you even touch me?” Her voice cracked, but her spine stayed straight. “Tell me the truth, Logan. Is it me?”
He froze, chest tightening like a fist inside him. His throat worked, but no words came.
“I didn’t marry you to become a stranger to you,” she said. “I deserve to know what I’m even trying to hold onto.”
Logan squeezed his eyes shut. The ache in his chest wasn’t just pain, it was pressure, memory, grief, desire, guilt, all crashing down at once.
“It’s not you,” he finally said, barely above a whisper. “I swear, it’s not you.”
He could feel the bracelet against his skin—Adrian’s bracelet. His fingers found it without thinking, rubbing the worn threads like a prayer.
He wanted to explain. To pour everything out and watch her understand.
The saddest part was that he knew, deep down, if he ever told Sandy the truth… she would understand. She would cry, maybe. Shout, maybe. But she wouldn’t hate him. She’d listen. She’d be kind. She would have been his friend.
But he never told her.
Not once.
Instead, he dragged her into this; into a marriage that was always half-alive. Into a home that never felt like home to him. Into a life built on the hope that if he constructed the right pieces—house, wife, job, routine—it might quiet the thing inside him. The ache.
He thought if he just acted like the man he was supposed to be, maybe he would become him.
But he didn’t.
He couldn’t.
Because a part of him was still back there, in saltwater and sun, in a voice that called him by name like it meant something. In arms that made him feel whole.
And Sandy… she didn’t ruin anything. She just stood where he put her—loving a man who was never really here to begin with.
And that, Logan realized, might be the worst thing of all.
Sandy turned her back on him, quietly gathering the dishes. She didn’t speak, but her shoulders trembled. She didn’t want him to see her cry, but he did. He just didn’t know what to do with it.
“I’ll make the appointment,” he said, his voice hoarse and barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry.”
For the appointment he’d never make. For the silence he couldn’t fill.
For all of it.
She nodded. “Logan, you didn’t eat,” she said softly, holding up his untouched food. “You want to finish?” her eyes were glassy as she tried to change the subject.
“No,” he whispered, “I’m not hungry. I had a big lunch at the office.” He lied, the thought of food making him nauseated.
Later, as Sandy went to bed, Logan stayed behind. He grabbed his phone, pressing play on the one song that had become his lifeline, the familiar strings wrapping around him like an old memory.