Chapter June 27, 2020—Seattle, Washington—One Year and Nine Months Later #2
Inside, Logan moved on autopilot, his body going through the motions even as his mind felt detached.
He stripped off Zack’s borrowed clothes, tossing them into a reusable cotton bag, and stepped into the shower.
The water was too hot, scalding his skin, but he didn’t adjust it.
He scrubbed himself clean, as though he could wash away the heaviness that clung to him, but it lingered, persistent and immovable.
He donned one of his tailored suits, which had somehow become too loose; its crisp lines and polished appearance served as a perfect facade for the chaos hidden underneath.
He tied his tie with precision, glanced at his reflection in the mirror, and avoided his own eyes.
Picking up the bag of Zack’s clothes, he left the house, calling out a perfunctory “goodbye” to Sandy as he went.
The world outside moved on, indifferent and unyielding.
Logan slipped into the current of his life, playing along with a script he had written for himself long ago, one where every line felt hollow and every scene dragged endlessly.
As he pulled out of the driveway, the ache in his chest remained, a quiet companion he didn’t know how to part with.
It was one of the busiest days Logan had endured in weeks.
His head swam with every step, the pounding hangover from the night before a persistent reminder of his own self-destruction.
He had downed so many pills throughout the day that he wondered if it was only a matter of time before his body gave out altogether.
Ada Mae, his efficient and ever-cheerful personal assistant, stepped into his office with her tablet in hand, rattling off updates and schedules.
Her voice was light, professional, as though she couldn’t see the exhaustion etched into Logan’s face.
She reminded him of upcoming meetings and the flights he’d need to catch next month for a series of business trips with his father across the States.
“Great. Could you email me the flights details?” Logan asked absently, his fingers rubbing his temple.
“Already done, Mr. Vaughn,” she replied with a smile.
“You’re the best, and again, just call me Logan,” he muttered, standing and grabbing his phone. “Oh, can you send some flowers to Sandy? And book her a vacation, something relaxing.”
“Sure. Where this time, Mr. Vaughn?” Ada Mae asked, typing quickly into her tablet.
“Where would you want to go?” Logan asked, not really thinking.
“Hawaii,” she said dreamily, and Logan paled visibly.
“No. No Hawaii,” he said too quickly, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. “Book something in California. Some fancy hotel. Make it for three or four people, she’ll probably want to bring friends.”
Ada Mae hesitated, glancing at him with a mix of pity and professionalism. “She was in California just a few months ago for her birthday,” she reminded him.
Logan faltered for a moment, the weight of his hollow gestures pressing down on him. “Right,” he said, sighing. “You know what? Just book whatever you think she’d like. A week, maybe more.”
Ada Mae nodded, her sympathetic gaze lingering for just a second longer than Logan could stand before she left.
By four o’clock, she’d informed him the flowers had been sent and asked if she could leave early.
Logan waved her off with a reminder to enjoy her evening and made a mental note to show his appreciation for her loyalty more often, though he knew he probably wouldn’t.
The day bled on, its minutes a blur of meetings and emails.
Logan hadn’t eaten breakfast or lunch, but he forced himself to prepare for a late lunch—or early dinner, depending on how you looked at it—with one of his clients.
He hated these dinners, despised the charade of pleasantries and small talk.
But at least the man he was meeting was neat, punctual, and efficient.
The deal would roll smoothly, and Logan could get through it all with minimal effort.
Sitting in one of the city’s most exclusive restaurants, Logan played his role to perfection.
He was the heir to Vaughn Global Lines, expected to expand the empire his father had built, to swallow smaller firms and carve new routes across the seas.
Tonight was just another piece of that inheritance.
He discussed numbers, bargained, analyzed every angle with a practiced ease that would have impressed anyone watching.
And yet, with every word he spoke, he felt the acid in his chest growing, the sensation of suffocation creeping closer.
He smiled, nodded, and signed off on plans as though his life weren’t crumbling with every breath he took.
When the deal was closed, the client shook his hand, finished his meal, and hurried off to catch a flight.
Logan texted the details to Ada Mae, instructing her to contact the firm’s legal team to draft the contracts.
As he stepped out into the cool evening air, the noise of the city hit him—cars honking, people laughing, the hum of a world moving on without him.
Logan’s fingers grazed the bracelet on his wrist—the one Adrian had given him so long ago, when life had felt expansive and untamed.
It was Adrian’s mother’s bracelet, a sacred piece of her memory.
Logan had always known its weight, not just the physical coolness of the charm against his skin, but the gravity of what it meant to Adrian.
It had been one of the few things Adrian carried from his mother, who had passed when he was just a boy. And yet, Logan kept it.
A hypocrite, he thought. Ungrateful. He’d turned over the idea in his mind a hundred times—of reaching out to Adrian, offering to return it, asking if he wanted it back.
Maybe Adrian had tried to contact him. Maybe he had.
Logan wouldn’t know; he’d blocked the number, slammed the door so decisively shut on that part of his life that even the brilliance of Adrian’s smile couldn’t force its way through the smallest imagined fracture.
And still, he wore the bracelet like a thief carrying a stolen relic, an unbearable reminder of the life he had destroyed with his own hands.
He stopped abruptly on the sidewalk, his breath hitching, his eyes squeezing shut as though the sheer force of his will could keep the tears at bay.
The texture of the bracelet against his wrist burned, an ache not meant for anyone’s eyes but left for his wounded soul to carry.
It was a quiet, concealed pain, one he had lived with for so long that it almost felt natural.
But here, on this unfamiliar street, with people moving around him in shapes he barely registered and voices fading into a low murmur, he felt it sharper than ever.
It was the pain of memories too beautiful and too clear to shut out, the ache of longing that refused to die.
And yes, it was just a bracelet. But it was here.
He could peel it off, god knew how much he yearned for it some moments, he could peel it off and end the torment, but he stayed tethered to it because he refused to let go of the last proof that Adrian had ever been his.
Run. The voice in his head was a whisper, a pulse, an echo of something both familiar and foreign. Run. Disappear. Leave everything behind.
It was the same voice that had driven him to the airport the day after graduation, when the world had felt too tight, too scripted, too certain. A time that now felt like it belonged to someone else, some other version of him that had never really learned how to stay.
It was the same voice that had carried him across the sky, over restless oceans, and straight into the arms of a man who smelled like salt and sun and something dangerously close to home.
It was the same voice that had led him to Adrian.
So maybe—just maybe—it hadn’t been wrong after all.
He opened his eyes, sharp and unseeing, and forced himself to move forward, his steps mechanical.
Running wouldn’t save him. He knew that now.
It hadn’t saved him when he left Adrian; it hadn’t saved him when he married Sandy; it wouldn’t save him now.
But still, he walked, not toward anything, just away.
Sliding into the smooth leather of his black Mercedes, he tossed his phone onto the passenger seat with a force that betrayed his calm facade.
He couldn’t let himself hear Adrian’s voice again, not after last night.
But God, he wanted to. He wanted to replay the song, to soak in the ache of Adrian’s words, to let himself crumble under the weight of his longing.
Somehow, he ended up at the beach. He had no memory of the drive—no recollection of streets or turns or lights.
One moment, he was in his car; the next, he was standing in the sand, the ocean sprawling before him, dark and infinite.
The air was heavy with salt and possibility, but Logan’s mind was a storm, raging with memories he couldn’t escape.
Adrian’s hand in his, pulling him to the cool sand.
Adrian’s lips, warm and urgent, pressing against his with a fervor that felt like coming home.
“You’re the best gift of all,” Adrian had whispered, his voice filled with unguarded sincerity.
Logan could still feel the echo of those words in his bones.
No.
No.
NO!
The thoughts screamed through his mind, threatening to tear him apart.
Last night had been the final straw. Seeing Adrian’s face, hearing his voice—it had cracked Logan open, and now he was bleeding out.
He couldn’t pull himself together, couldn’t piece himself back into the man the world needed him to be. He wasn’t strong enough for that.