I
DAISY
Sometimes, Daisy wished photographs were a gateway to the past. There he was, staring back at her with those toffee-coloured eyes, his hair tousled from the sea breeze. He was smiling, his eyes crinkled, and in the distance, the Atlantic stretched out like a plane of infinite glass behind him.
Time had crawled by over the past eight years, and yet, if she stared at the photo long enough and let her thoughts drift, she could still smell that day like a favourite perfume. Him, the beach, and a soft undertone of Pimm’s.
God, she’d loved him—she still did. Life had robbed her of many things, but that was something she knew she would hold onto forever.
It was 2010, and Brexit was on everyone's mind. She hadn’t long joined The Daily as an investigative journalist when she was tasked with interviewing him and his colleague about men’s mental health. From her notes, she knew he’d recently graduated from Cambridge and had launched a crowdfunding campaign to raise money for a male-oriented suicide support hotline. She’d imagined him as a clean-shaven, polished, and well-spoken individual, and was surprised when she walked into his office and saw him wearing a faded Black Sabbath shirt, his long raven hair loosely tied back.
“You must be Daisy,” he said, standing to greet her. “Aiden shouldn’t be far behind.”
They shook hands and took a seat. She’d been working as a journalist for over three years and had interviewed countless local celebrities; she’d even sat in on an interview with Liam Gallagher a year or so earlier. It wasn’t in her nature to get nervous easily, but as she sat across from him in silence, she felt her heart begin to race. It wasn’t just his appearance; the way he stared at her made it feel like he was observing her every move.
“Tell me what it’s like being a journalist with everything going on,” he said, breaking the silence. He reached for a box of mints and offered her one. She declined.
“It’s…busy,” she replied. “Everyone seems to have a different opinion on it.”
He slipped a mint between his lips, tilting his head slightly. “And what’s yours?”
She hesitated. Her boss, Russell, had always told her to play the platonic card if you wanted a long career in the industry. “I don’t have one.”
A slow smile crept across his lips. “Everyone has an opinion. Most are just afraid to say it.”
“I wouldn’t say I'm afraid,” she refuted. “Very few are educated enough on the matter to make an informed decision.”
“You’re educated, though, aren’t you?”
“I like to think so.”
“And yet, you don’t have an opinion,” he replied, gesturing to her. “Funny that.”
She couldn’t tell if he was flirting or just messing with her head, but before he could say anything else, Aiden walked in. He was exactly what she’d imagined Logan to be: clean-shaven, well-dressed, nothing like the rugged-looking scally she’d already met.
Aiden handed Logan a coffee and took his seat. “Have you two already started?” he asked, shooting them a quizzical glance.
Logan grinned and flicked his gaze towards her. “Daisy was just telling me all about her stance on Brexit.”
Aiden turned to her then, coffee in hand. “And what is her stance?”
He let out a soft laugh, shaking his head slightly. “She’s against it.”
Somehow, he was right.
Her mother had once told her, “People give most of their secrets away without words,” and that “everyone, regardless of their make-up, has their own language.” As a woman who’d only loved one man, her mother didn’t believe in fate,The One, or soulmates. To her, love was simple arithmetic. “Find the one who cares to learn that language fluently,” she’d say, “and you’ll never go wrong.”
Daisy had thought about that a lot. Some called her unlucky and always the bridesmaid, never the bride. But as someonewho valued connection over physical attraction, she preferred to consider herself misunderstood and selective.
After meeting Logan, she found it impossible to forget him. It was as if their encounter infected her somehow, infiltrating her thoughts and making it impossible to think. She wanted to know more about him—she had to know more—but after going down a rabbit hole of late-night social media hunting and Google searches, all she found was a few articles about his work with the armed forces and a YouTube clip of him delivering a graduation speech at Cambridge.
She’d resigned herself to the belief that it would be unlikely their paths would cross again when, a month later, running late for work, there he was. Seated outside a café, phone in hand, a half-read Ian Rankin book lying face down on the table.
“Look who it is,” Logan said as she passed.
Too disrupted in her thoughts, it wasn’t until his voice reached her that she froze mid-step and turned around.
“Logan,” she said awkwardly. “Nice to see you again.”
