Chapter III
III
DAISY
She was surprised when she got his email—a quick ten-word message that simply said, “I would text you, but I don’t have your number.
” They kept in touch after that, trading the occasional email, him asking for dating advice, her opening up about her childhood in the hope his expertise might help her untangle questions that had followed her since her youth.
In a strange way, it was easier to tell him these things.
She was a bona fide over-sharer, and they weren’t friends, not really; she wouldn’t even call them acquaintances.
They were strangers, loosely connected by some odd, unspoken understanding, willing to swap fragments of their lives.
Pen pals of sorts, but messier and less defined.
It wasn’t until another year later that their paths crossed in person, and by then, she’d casually begun dating Idris, a boy she’d known since high school.
She knew others judged her for it and didn’t blame them.
Idris had always edged on the cocky side.
He was loud, opinionated, and couldn’t hold down a job, but she was scared.
At twenty-six, everyone around her was either engaged or becoming parents, and naively, she thought her time was running out.
It was one of those typical June afternoons in London that felt insufferable: humid, drizzling, the sky low and heavy.
There she was, walking across the Aldi car park with her head down, damp hair clinging to her temples, lost in thought.
Then, the low rumble of an engine hit her ears as it pulled up beside her in a green 70s Stag.
“Miss Daisy,” Logan called out, winding down his window. “It’s been a while.”
She knew the sound of his voice straight away. She’d recognise that blended Cork and Geordie accent anywhere.
“It has,” she said, turning to face him. “How long has it been? A year?”
He brushed a hand through his hair and grinned. “A year, wow. Time flies, doesn’t it?”
“For you, maybe,” she said, glancing behind him at a white, late-model BMW that had pulled up. The woman inside shot them a glare, and Daisy gestured to it.
“Ignore her,” Logan said, checking his rear-vision mirror. “She can wait. Now, do you fancy a catch-up? You know, for old times’ sake?”
Daisy stared at him for a moment, noticing how he’d cut his hair and that a new tattoo had appeared on his forearm, which he’d failed to mention. She only knew the parts of him he chose to share, and yet, as she walked around to jump into his car, it felt like the most natural thing to do.
They settled into easy conversation as he drove and ended up at a pub called The Horseman, a place she’d passed a dozen times in the last year but had never once stepped inside.
“This place is famous,” Logan said, nudging her as they walked through the door.
“For what?” she asked, glancing around at the sports regalia cluttering the walls, the garish checkered carpet beneath their feet. It was hard to imagine it being famous for anything other than cheap pints and desperate one-night pickups.
He laughed at her judgement. “Believe it or not, for being the place I was born.” He paused, almost as if evaluating her expression. “My mam, she worked here. Apparently didn’t have the chance to get herself to St Thomas before I decided it was time.”
She thought he was joking. But before she could press him on the finer details, a woman with a crown of fiery ginger hair appeared from behind the bar, balancing a tray of pint glasses. When she saw him, her face lit up.
“Where the hell have you been?” she asked with a thick Glaswegian accent. She set the tray down and pulled him into a tight hug. “I haven’t seen you in ages. It’s been months!”
“I know, I know,” he said, kissing her cheek. “I’m sorry; I’ve been flat out. You know how it is.”
She let go of his arm, her gaze shifting to Daisy with interest.
“And who’s this wee beauty, then?”
“Oh,” Logan said quickly, almost stumbling over the words. “This is my friend, erm…Daisy.”
The woman raised a perfectly arched brow, looking Daisy over before turning back to him. “Pretty thing, ain’t she?”
Logan exhaled sharply, running a hand over his face as if he could hide behind it. “She is, yeah.”
“Uh-huh. I’m sure she’s just a friend?”
He turned to Daisy then, mouthing an apology, and the woman laughed.
“Between you and me,” she said, directing at her. “He’s never been good with the ladies. Always seems to go for the ones who—”
“Can we grab a table?” Logan cut in. “I’m sure Daisy here would really love to hear you dissect my exes one by one, but I have a meeting in an hour.”
“Of course. Booth would be better. I have a quiz group coming in at five.” She paused and winked at Daisy before disappearing behind the bar.
“Friends, huh. Let’s see how long that lasts, shall we?
” she said under her breath before reaching for a pair of glasses.
“What are ye’s drinking? It’s on the house. ”
Of all the things life has taken away in time, she remembers the details of that afternoon with surprising clarity: Bob Dylan’s voice drifting from the speakers, the faint sting of cigarette smoke in the air mixing with the sticky sweetness of malt, and Logan, sitting across from her, tracing the rim of his glass with a fingertip, watching her like he’d seen their movie play out twice over and still hadn’t figured out the meaning of the end.
She’d thought about it more times than she cared to admit over the years—why, out of all the places in London, he’d chosen that one that day. She still did.
It was the day before Christmas Eve, six months after Daisy had been to The Horseman, when she ran into Logan once again. She would always remember it because it was snowing, and there he was, dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, filling up his car when she pulled up next to him.
“Aren’t you cold?” she asked, the question slipping out before she could reconsider.
He glanced at her and grinned. “Well, if it isn’t Miss Daisy,” he said as if no time had passed. “How long has it been this time?”
He’d been notably quiet on the email front, and she hadn’t received one since September, when he told her he had gone on a disaster date of epic proportions, complete with awkward silences, spilled wine, and a dramatic finale where the woman’s unhinged ex-husband had slashed his tyres.
She shrugged, tightening her scarf. “A few months.”
“And how’s life treating you?” he asked, blowing air into his hands to keep them warm. “Good, I hope?”
She hesitated. Idris and she had not long moved in together, and Logan didn’t know about him. How could he? She debated telling him, but instead, she pocketed her hands and forced a smile.
“It’s going well. And you?”
He shrugged and set the nozzle back into place before reaching into his back pocket. “I’m alive.”
She stood there awkwardly, waiting for him to continue. A part of her expected him to invite her for a catch-up and felt disappointed when he didn’t.
“Well, it’s good to see you,” he said, his eyes flicking to her with a warmth that didn’t quite reach his smile. “You look really great, Daisy. Truly. I like the hair.”
It caught her off guard how he’d noticed. Two weeks prior, she’d decided to cut off all her long hair, and a few hundred quid later, she’d re-emerged with blunt bangs and some barely noticeable lowlights. People who saw her every day hadn’t uttered a word, and yet, he did.
He walked inside, leaving her standing there, watching as he paid for his petrol. Despite the compliment, something about his demeanour, the distance, the way he kept it so casual and forced, left a sour taste in her mouth.
Later that night, instead of preparing the Christmas ham as she should have, Daisy found her mind circling back to him.
She wanted to email him to check he was okay, but something stopped her.
Instead, she searched for him online, half-hoping to find a trace of something—perhaps a girlfriend to explain it all—only to find nothing to suggest that.
What she did find was an article in an online newspaper that made her gasp.
Four days ago, Aiden, his best friend and business partner, had died. By the one thing Logan spent his days trying to prevent: suicide.