Chapter 37
XXXVII
LOGAN
After dropping her bags at the hotel, they made their way back to Logan’s apartment.
Logan excused himself to the bathroom, where he stood staring at his reflection.
Fine lines traced the corners of his eyes, and his hair had started to thin in places.
Time had passed, relentless and indifferent, like spokes on a wheel that neither of them could steer. And yet, here they were.
It had been over a year since they last saw each other, and now, somehow, their paths had crossed again.
He couldn’t make sense of it. Sure, there was that theory about everyone being connected by six degrees of separation, but this didn’t feel like coincidence or some quirky law of probability.
She was here, in New York, on the same flight, on the same day. It had to mean something.
He splashed cold water on his face, then wiped it dry before stepping out.
Daisy stood by the window, gazing out at the city unfolding beneath her and he couldn’t deny how beautiful she looked.
At the airport, she’d worn jeans and a knit sweater.
Now, she was in a fitted black dress and an open pale pink coat, and the transformation stirred something in him.
Logan considered himself a moral man, someone who would never pursue a married woman, but resisting the urge to reach for her was harder than he wanted to admit.
“Do you believe in the law of attraction?” he asked, moving towards the wine rack in an effort to distract his thoughts. “You know, that idea that what you think, you become. What you feel, you attract. What you imagine, you create.”
She laughed and shrugged, watching as he pulled out two glasses. “I guess it depends on the context.”
“Go on, elaborate.”
She smiled again, amused. “Well, dramatic people attract drama. Lonely people attract loneliness.”
“I’ve never heard that one.”
“Which part?”
“That lonely people attract loneliness. Do you agree with it?”
He watched her, noticing how she seemed to retreat into herself before meeting his eyes. “I do.”
“In college, one of my professors once said that if we treated loneliness with the same seriousness as mental illness, we’d see fewer diagnoses—and fewer people relying on diazepam just to get through the day.”
His professor had a point. Logan had seen the best and worst in people.
He’d seen men collapse under the weight of failure, women starving themselves to meet impossible standards, children absorbing trauma like sponges.
Beneath it all though, behind every fear and unmet longing, was a single, universal truth: the insatiable need for connection and belonging.
Daisy would never admit it, not even to herself, but he could see straight through it.
The way she performed for the world, the desperate way she reached for something invisible.
Her impulsive decisions weren’t careless.
They were quiet acts of desperation, attempts to fix something she believed was broken.
And in her eyes—those beautiful, haunted eyes—he recognised the same loneliness that lived in him.
It’s one thing to exist; it’s another to feel like you belong.
For both of them, that was something they understood like a native language.
“I think he had a good point,” she murmured, turning back to the window. It was subtle, but he sensed the change of tone.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
“I’m fine,” she replied without looking at him. “There’s a young couple having a barney.”
Logan selected a bottle of merlot and walked over, standing behind her, close enough to feel her warmth and catch a hint of vanilla on her skin.
Peering out, he saw them: two young lovers mid-argument, the girl barefoot and flushed with anger, shouting words that didn’t reach them through the glass.
“Oh, to be young,” Daisy murmured.
“Hey,” Logan said, nudging her. “We’re still young.”
“No, we’re not. We blinked, and now we’re standing on the edge of forty. It’s terrifying.”
“I’d say it’s exciting. Everyone I’ve ever spoken to has sworn their forties were the best years of their lives.”
“Spoken like a true optimist.” She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.
Turning from the window, Daisy wandered through the apartment, eyeing the photos and artwork scattered across the walls before her steps slowed at a picture of Logan and his mother.
“This isn’t the kind of apartment I imagined you’d have,” she said.
“Oh, yeah? What were you expecting?”
She shrugged. “Something sterile, maybe? But definitely not this. This is…beautiful.” Her gaze lingered on the photo. “Is this you?”
“It is.”
“I have to admit, you were kind of cute.”
He laughed. “Still am, aren’t I?”
She shook her head with a smirk. “I’m not answering that.”
“Come on, I need to know if my abysmal dating history is because of my unfortunate facial features or my terribly awkward bio.”
“Maybe it’s both.”
He laughed again. “I’ve always liked that about you.”
“Liked what?”
“Your sarcasm.”
She pulled a face. “Who said I was being sarcastic?”
He held her gaze, and the room fell still. “Should we have a drink before we head to the restaurant?”
She nodded, not looking away, and he moved into the kitchen. He poured two glasses of wine and gestured to the couch.
“Make yourself at home. I’ll put on some music. Any requests?”
She thought for a moment. “Hmmm…maybe some Fleetwood Mac.”
“Great choice,” he said, grinning as he set the vinyl. Moments later, Landslide drifted softly through the speakers.
“I remember an interview Stevie Nicks did about this song,” he continued, handing her a glass.
“Oh, yeah?” Daisy asked, though her eyes were focused on something in the distance.
“It’s hard to explain. It was like she was talking directly to me.
I was working as a trolley boy back then at Tesco.
I remember listening to Landslide and thinking—how can someone I’ve never met put into words something I didn’t even know I felt?
That’s when I knew I wanted to study the brain.
I wanted to understand how music could do that.
How someone else’s truth could unlock your own. ”
Daisy smiled faintly and stared into her glass, swirling the wine.
“So, Stevie Nicks inspired your career path?” she teased.
“In a way, yeah.”
The room fell quiet again. Daisy took a long sip of wine, then another.
“What are you thinking about?”
She opened her mouth, then closed it, shaking her head. “It’s nothing.”
“You look like you want to say something.”
“I do,” she whispered. “But I really shouldn’t.”
“You know you can tell me anything,” he said, dropping his voice to a whisper
For a moment, it seemed she might let down her guard, but when her eyes lifted to his, he felt it: something had shifted within her, and the silence between them no longer felt safe.