Chapter 16
XVI
LOGAN
When her email had come through, he’d stared at it, re-reading the words one by one.
He could imagine her sitting there on her wedding day, thinking of him.
It might have been just a fleeting thought, a sporadic surge of impulse, but something woven into the shortness of her words made him question otherwise.
Wanting to do right by her, he chose not to respond, and as the months rolled on, he forced himself to think of her less and less.
It had been a while since he’d thought of her when he saw her approaching him. In an instant, it was as if time froze, and his heart began to race like an infatuated schoolboy.
“Miss Daisy,” he called out, the words feeling dry and strained.
Pregnant women had always borne a certain radiance to him, and on her, it was ethereal. From her glowing skin to the way it had added an extra ounce of volume to her hair. He couldn’t take his eyes off her.
They decided to go to a café down an old town sidewalk. It was nearly empty, save for a group of a dozen middle-aged women who looked like they were in the midst of hosting a capricious book club.
After ordering their drinks, they settled into an easy conversation about life, but Logan couldn’t help noticing the way her eyes kept glancing at the empty space where his wedding ring once sat.
“We divorced,” he admitted, rubbing his finger over the invisible indent where the ring had been.
“Guess you could say we rushed into it and soon realised we weren’t right for one another. ”
“I’m sorry it didn’t work out.” She stirred her tea, watching the swirl of steam rise. “The positive is you found out before you had children and all.”
“I suppose you’re right.” He studied her for a moment, wondering if there was a loaded meaning behind her words. “Well, here’s hoping you have better luck than me.”
She laughed, but it seemed forced. “Here’s hoping. Guess I won’t know till he’s home.”
“When is he home?”
“Two months or so.”
He hesitated, and the weight of her words settled between them. “So, that means you’ll be—”
Her features softened, a flicker of contemplation and other emotions crossing her face, too fleeting for Logan to decipher. “Giving birth alone?” she finished with a small smile. “Looks that way.”
“Daisy—”
“Oh, stop,” she cut in, waving a dismissive hand. “Women have been giving birth since the start of time. I’ll be fine.”
But Logan could sense the sadness in her voice. It lingered in the air between them, unspoken but undeniable. He wanted to press her on it and offer something—anything—to comfort her, but she shifted the conversation, and he let it go.
Their conversation circled back towards work, and by the time they finished, two hours had passed, the sky had darkened, and light snow had begun to fall.
“Thank you for this,” Daisy said, fixing her coat. “I needed this.”
He didn’t admit it, but he’d needed it, too.
Outside of work, he’d adopted a hermit-like existence, where socialising was limited and sleep had become an indulgence.
He knew his doctor would label it depression and would throw some Prozac at the problem, but he believed it would come right; all he needed was time.
They strolled, their footsteps crunching as they made their way down quiet streets in silence. Whether it was nerves or a sense of knowing, Logan walked a step ahead, his hands buried in his coat pockets, occasionally glancing over at her.
Daisy seemed lost in thought, her head low and arms cradling her belly.
“You alright?” he asked her, after they’d walked a block in unbroken silence.
She looked at him then and forced a smile. “Sorry,” she apologised. “I’m just tired, and my feet are killing me.”
“Do you want me to carry you the rest of the way?”
She laughed, and unlike in the cafe, it felt real. “I’ll be fine, but thank you for the offer.”
As they reached the corner where they would part ways, she turned to him, her face dusted with delicate flecks of snow. Without thinking, he reached out and brushed a few flakes off the tip of her nose, and her breath caught, startled by the sudden intimacy of the moment.
Their eyes locked, and for a second, everything else faded.
He wanted to kiss her; God, he wanted to kiss her.
And in her eyes, he saw it—the same longing, the same pull towards something they both knew shouldn’t happen.
But then, as if waking from a dream, he cleared his throat and took a step back.
“If you need anything, Daisy,” he said, dropping to a whisper. “Please promise you’ll call me.”
She looked down, pinching the skin on the back of her hand in small repetitive motions, almost as if using physical pain to ground herself.
“I will,” she said, bringing her gaze back to him. “I promise.”