Chapter 38
XXXVIII
DAISY
She’d once told him in one of her emails that, as a child, she’d dreamt of going to New York.
Her mother had spent her twenties and the first half of her thirties there, a time she often spoke of with longing.
When she died, it became clear that it had been the only place where she’d felt truly happy, the only time she’d been entirely herself.
In New York, there had been a glow in her mother’s eyes, as though her soul were alight and nothing could extinguish it.
But after becoming a mother, after she was forced to leave everything behind and return to England, the photographs told a different story.
They illustrated the slow, quiet erasure of a woman who had once known herself, only to lose that sense of self to the demands of motherhood, never able to find her way back.
“Remind me, what did your mother do when she lived here?” he asked as they walked through the crowds.
“She was a musician.”
He considered her answer, exhaling a soft laugh. “That explains it.”
“Explains what?”
“You,” he said, waving a hand towards her. “Your energy. You have that way about you, the thing all artists do. Like you see the world in colours no one else notices.”
She shook her head. “I am many things, Logan, but I’m definitely not an artist.”
“You are,” he said, as if it were obvious. “You should embrace it instead of pretending you aren’t.”
She rolled her eyes. “You make it sound as though my mother was the next Nina Simone and I’ve got some pedigree lineage to tap into.”
“Maybe you do,” he said, a teasing glint in his eyes. “And maybe she was, in some alternate universe.”
They stopped at a crossing, waiting for the light to change. When suddenly, he turned towards her, that mischievous spark she’d come to know flashing across his face.
“I have an idea,” he said, his eyes alive with it. “You and me. Karaoke bar. Then we can test this theory.”
“I agreed to dinner, nothing more.”
“Come on,” he teased. “We're friends now. Remember?”
“You said that,” she shot back, fighting a smile. “Not me.”
“And yet, you’re not denying it.”
They walked a little further before stopping outside an indie bar and grill.
She’d imagined something sleek and modern, with glass walls and polished stainless steel.
Instead, it was warm and worn-in. There were a dozen tables, a small curved bar, and an ‘80s rock playlist drifting through the air.
But the moment they stepped inside, she understood his choice; the people in band tees and faded jeans were echoes of him.
“They do the best Negronis here,” he said as they sat down.
“Are you going to get one?”
“Just the one drink for me,” he said, pulling her a menu.
She didn’t question, and after the waiter took their orders, they eased into relaxed conversation, unbothered even when their drinks arrived. He told her he had dated for a time, until he realised life offered no time for a relationship and that love had always asked more of him than he could give.
In return, she told him about Ida, how she was growing more independent, how she was searching for a new house, something more wheelchair-accommodating.
He listened, not just to her words but to the silences between them, and she realised how long it had been since she’d had a friend who truly saw her.
“So, Miss Daisy,” he said, as their meals arrived, “how’s everything at home? I mean, really.”
Heat rushed to her cheeks. She stared at him, searching for a way out. “It’s fine. How’s work?”
He tilted his head, watching her carefully. “You do this thing when you lie,” he said. “You deflect. I ask, you answer just enough to be polite, and then you turn it back on me. But you know you can trust me, don’t you? With anything.”
It felt like a contradiction for him to say that. How could she trust him when, behind her back, he could read her like a book? There was no hiding from him, and while some might find that intriguing, she found it unsettling.
“Do we have to do this now?” she asked.
He shrugged. “If we get it out of the way now, you might actually enjoy the night.”
She traced the rim of her glass, debating how much to say. Admitting she was failing, that she wasn’t the wife Callan needed, was one thing. But telling him the rest, how afraid she was, how she woke up every day feeling like she was going to damage Ida by staying with him, was something else.
“I don’t even know where to begin,” she admitted, lowering her gaze. “Callan, he wants to die. We found another note a month ago. And the worst part, the part that makes me feel like the most horrible person alive, is that I think it’s really what he wants.”
He exhaled sharply, shifting closer. “Christ,” he muttered, reaching for her hand.
“He doesn’t even know who I am anymore—who we are.
He just…exists. He’s not living, he’s just there.
And I don’t know what the hell to do. What would you do?
Should I haul him off to Switzerland? Let him down a dozen tramadol and finally have some peace?
” She stopped, biting her lip until it nearly bled.
“Christ, I sound like a monster. But I’m not.
I just— I hate watching him like this. I wake up and see him lying there, breathing, but it’s like he’s already gone.
Like someone swapped him out with some knockoff version and hoped I wouldn’t notice.
Please,” she whispered. “Tell me what the fuck I’m supposed to do. ”
“If you want my honesty, I’d listen,” he said finally. “Not to my head. Not to my heart. To him. Some people believe in it. Others don’t. But the answer can only come from him.”
She closed her eyes, letting the tears slip free. “That’s not what you were supposed to say.”
His fingers traced slow, deliberate circles over her knuckles. “I know,” he murmured. “But sometimes, the hardest thing is giving someone the space to find their own answer.”
She tried, after that, to be present. To lose herself in the music, in his company, in the illusion that, for a few hours, none of it mattered.
If he noticed that she couldn’t, he never let it show.
Even when she started to cry, half-drunk and swaying to a live cover of Mr Brightside, he just held on, steady and unwavering, despite being sober.
Later that night, she took a taxi back to the hotel, and he didn’t stop her. Once, he might have done so, but something in the way they stood there, in the still and frigid air, told them both that if they crossed that line, they wouldn’t be the only casualties left in the rubble.