Chapter IV
IV
LOGAN
He’d gone over Aiden’s autopsy a thousand times, and he still didn’t know why he’d died.
It seemed unlikely science could provide the answer either.
The autopsy was inconclusive, and the cause of death had not been determined.
At first, they assumed he’d taken a concoction of painkillers, but his toxicology was clear.
After that, they focused on the idea that he’d somehow died by self-inflicted asphyxiation, but there was no evidence of that either.
The only thing that linked it to suicide was the carefully laid-out suicide letters he’d written one by one.
Logan hadn’t read his one yet, and in his bitterness, he doubted he ever would.
In the wake of Aiden’s death, those in his circle had retreated into domestic life, and to no fault of his own, he’d been left behind. Then he met Anne.
She ticked the boxes his mother had drilled into him as a boy: educated, attractive, and unproblematic. But the sex was boring, mechanical, and forced, and so was the conversation.
He tried to warm to her, going on a half-dozen ill-fated dates and even introducing her to friends.
In his head, he could grow to like her. Attraction didn’t always have to be instantaneous, and love could grow with nurture.
He soon realised how questionable that theory was, and opposites didn’t always attract. She wasn’t The One; she never would be.
After they ended their short-lived love affair, as much as he tried to avoid it, he found his mind reflecting back to Daisy. It wasn’t a superficial infatuation driven by looks and lust; he wanted to know her. Her story and all of her secret languages and desires she shielded from the world.
She hadn’t reached out in months. Her last email posed a question about whether trauma could be inherited, but she hadn’t included any context.
He’d responded by asking why, hoping to steer the conversation into deeper waters.
But she never answered, and he couldn’t help but wonder if it was just nerves holding her back.
In one of her earlier emails, she’d called herself a habitual oversharer, desperate to find her own Mr Darcy, who could overlook her awkward shortcomings and ignite her soul.
He’d laughed at that, genuinely amused by her candidness.
It was the twenty-first century, after all.
When he asked what a modern-day Mr Darcy might even look like, metaphorically speaking, she once again side-stepped the question.
When he saw her next, it was raining, and he’d decided to take the Stag he’d bought a month prior out to the supermarket. There she was, head down, trying to avoid the rain, when she walked right in front of the bonnet.
“Miss Daisy,” he called out.
She stopped, the briefest of pauses as she glanced around, unsure if he was speaking to her. Then her eyes met his and the world seemed to still. Time stretched and bent, and for a moment, it felt like nothing existed but the two of them.
What was it about her? He didn’t know. But whatever it was, she made him feel seen, and it terrified him, from the inside out.
The pub was empty when they walked in. He’d debated taking her to Soho but, in the end, decided to take her to the one place he’d never dreamed of taking a girl: The Horseman.
It wasn’t just where he was born; it was a token of his childhood, where his mother had worked night and day to keep them afloat.
He would sit behind the bar, running his trucks up and down the nicotine-infested carpet while his mother worked behind the bar.
Even as a child, it was hard for him to understand how a woman could play two roles.
When they were alone, she was a quiet, reserved, and articulate woman who ensured he’d read every night before bed and always washed his face.
In the bar, she became animated and sultry.
Behind closed doors, she would take strangers and reappear with her hair a mess and lipstick smudged around her lips.
He didn’t understand what prostitution was until his teenage years, and even then, he struggled to believe his mother would do such a thing.
But she wasn’t doing it for her own gain; she did it for him.
Every “tip” she received for selling her body, she put away, believing he would one day put it to good use.
“I’d do anything for you,” she’d tell him, kissing him with lips she’d shared with a man only an hour before. “One day, when you’re a parent, you’ll understand.”
Although his mother had passed, he often visited The Horseman to feel her in spirit. He’d sit in the bar, pint in hand, and he could smell her, as though she’d never left.
After a short conversation with Elaine, a woman who was once his mother’s best friend, he led Daisy to a booth where they took a seat.
“I like it,” Daisy said, almost to herself as she panned the surroundings. “Reminds me of a pub my mother used to take me to when I was little.”
“Is she still around?” Logan asked, already knowing the answer.
Daisy sunk into her thoughts for a moment. “I wish she was,” she admitted. “I lost her a few years ago now.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s life, isn’t it? It’s not half as long as we wish it was.”
He contemplated telling her how he, too, knew the feeling when her phone began ringing. She seemed hesitant to answer, picking it up and staring at the screen.
“I…I should probably take this,” she said, “Do you mind?”
“Of course not.”
He watched her answer, seeing that whoever it was shifted something in her.
They shared a brief conversation in which she said she was “out with a friend” and she would “see them later.” This was followed by words on how they needed to stop trying to control her.
It hit him when he remembered her mother’s obituary, and it couldn’t have been her father, meaning she’d met someone.
“I’m sorry,” she said, once she’d hung up. For a moment, it looked as if she was going to admit it to him, but then she retreated into her thoughts.
He let the silence settle between them before he asked. “Boyfriend troubles, I take it?”
She hesitated at first, then let out a small breath. “Yeah,” she admitted. “Between you and me, he’s not the most ideal one, but…yeah.”
He studied her, watching how her fingers fiddled with the sleeve of her jacket. “Are you happy?”
“Is that a loaded question?”
“No,” he said, “just a question between friends.”
She let her hands relax and looked up at him. “Are any of us truly happy?”
“You know, you can’t answer a question with a question. It isn’t fair.”
“I just did.” A small smile took hold of her lips.
He laughed and then, as if trying to drown the conversation, she began humming along to Bob Dylan playing in the background.
He wanted to dig further, and in hindsight, he should’ve. But instead, he found himself staring at her, questioning if he reached for her hand, would she pull away.