Chapter 30
LOGAN
If I had to guess, I’d say it was sometime around three in the afternoon.
Or three in the morning. Honestly, who could tell in this place?
The blackout curtains had been drawn for so long that the edges were curled from the damp.
The air smelled like old takeout and newer whiskey, and I hadn’t looked at my phone in.
.. days? Weeks? Time had melted into this slow, syrupy nothing—like the bass from a party next door that I wasn’t invited to.
Not that I wanted to be at a party. Not that I wanted to be anywhere.
The funny part was that as far as the world knew, I was doing great.
Sophie’s wedding blew up in spectacular, viral fashion, sure. But the press spun it like I was a poor, heartbroken guy, and fans couldn’t get enough of my music. I didn’t want to see the headlines.
“Logan Richards: Left at the Altar, Now Climbing the Charts.”
“Heartbreak Makes Hits.”
“Why America Is Falling for Logan Richards.”
They ate it up. Every perfectly framed photo. Every clip of me looking sad but noble. Every edited soundbite Elizabeth hand-fed them. Because yeah, that’s the part I hated: She gave them the story.
Well-placed comments. Strategic photos. Just enough silence to make it look tragic, artistic, and sellable.
I thought Elizabeth was different. I thought she saw me—the real me—and didn’t need to fix me. But I’ll never forget the look on her face after Sophie called off the wedding.
She didn’t run to me like I imagined she would. She wasn’t relieved, or happy, or ready for us to finally begin. She looked panicked. Like all she could think about was what had just gone wrong. Not what could finally go right.
And when she did that, it hadn’t just felt like rejection. It felt like confirmation, like I’d always been too much for people to hold onto. Too chaotic. Too emotional. Too loud.
No one ever asked what I wanted. Not my dad, not the label. Not even me. I never asked, because I didn’t believe I deserved it. And Elizabeth… she was supposed to be the one who saw past all that. But instead, she flinched. She hesitated. She didn’t choose me.
Sure, she came after me eventually. But by then, the damage was done. I already knew that I wasn’t what she wanted. Not really.
The whiskey bottle next to my bed was half empty.
Or half full, depending on your level of denial.
I grabbed it, took a swig, and immediately coughed because it was flat and warm and probably older than this spiral I’d fallen into.
My stomach turned, but not enough to stop me from taking another pull.
There were notebooks everywhere. Crumpled pages. Scribbled-out lyrics. Metaphors that would’ve embarrassed me even in high school. Every time I tried to write something, it came out sounding like I was auditioning for a middle school slam poetry club.
Rhymes about love that stand the test of time. Stuff that meant something when I wrote it with her in mind. Now it just felt like noise.
I sat at the edge of the bed, guitar in my lap, fingers resting on the strings without pressure. It was like I’d forgotten how to play. Like the notes were afraid of me.
Or maybe I was afraid of them.
Somewhere beneath the pile of laundry and pizza boxes, my phone buzzed. I didn’t even look. If it wasn’t Mick or my manager or the label, it was probably a fan account tweeting about how “raw” my new heartbreak era was.
I wondered what they’d say if they saw me now—unshowered, unshaven, sitting in yesterday’s hoodie with my guitar in my lap like it might remind me how to breathe.
I plucked one string. Then another.
A D chord. Sloppy. Weak. Still, it rang out.
The sound echoed in the room. Small. Honest. Real.
I closed my eyes and whispered her name, not because I expected her to hear it, but because I needed to remember what it felt like to say something true.