“What was what?”
“That,” Tad said, gesturing behind them. “What’s going on?”
“You’re reading into it,” Logan muttered.
“Something happened?” Tad pressed.
Logan ignored the question, taking a slow sip as he scanned the dancefloor.
“I heard about her husband,” Tad continued, his voice lowering. “Are you two having an affair? Is that it?”
Logan stiffened. His hand tightened around his glass before he set it down and shoved Tad hard. “Fuck you for even going there.”
Tad stumbled and then locked onto him. He knew what was coming next. Tad, like him, had never been one to front an agreement by playing the avoidance card.
“Fuck you,” he yelled, shoving him back. “You’ve got issues, Logan, deep and twisted fucking issues.”
He tried to swipe at him again, but his work colleagues held him back. “Get a taxi back to mine, take your shit, and go.”
Before Tad could say another word, Logan turned on his heel and headed for the door. He knew he needed to deal with it,all of it: Aiden’s death, Daisy, the resurfacing memories of his childhood. He just didn’t know how or where to begin.
XXXI
DAISY
She remembered the time Logan had told her there was only so much wine one could drink in a lifetime. At first, she’d assumed he meant it literally, especially since she’d always been the one to drown stress in a glass of red. But the more she thought about it, the more she realised that wine had been a metaphor for something far deeper. Everything in life had a threshold—a point where pleasure turned to pain. Love, sadness, grief—indulge too much in any of them, even by a mouthful, and they would make you sick.
Was that what she was? Sick?
When her love for Callan felt as though it was drifting away with the outgoing tide, she forced herself to love him harder.When sadness came in waves, each larger than the last, she held her breath, bracing against the whitewash. And when grief—insidious and relentless—came for her sanity, she swam against it, white-knuckled and breathless, refusing to let it take her under.
Logan had once asked her if she’d ever considered the personal cost of her plight. But did anyone? Society screamed for self-care yet condemned those who practised it. By the time Easter arrived, all of them were drowning.
Callan had been struggling in rehab, and they’d put him on a mood stabiliser. On one hand, it helped him regulate. On the other hand, it made him utterly vacant—and Daisy couldn’t decide which was worse.
Life at home hadn’t improved either. He was still living with his mother, and the stress was starting to show in her body. She’d begun to lose weight rapidly, her already slight frame shrinking to little more than skin and bone. The meticulous grooming she once took pride in—manicured nails and blow-dried hair—had given way to a dishevelled appearance that spoke of a neglect only those living in hell could understand.
“Sometimes, I wonder if he’s truly happy,” she murmured as they sat watching him with his therapist in the water. “His eyes have seemed so empty lately.”
Daisy dropped her gaze. For someone who had spent a lifetime burying her emotions, saying it out loud must have taken immense effort. But she wasn’t wrong. Callan had lost that spark. It was as if every light within him had gone out, leaving behind only a single candle, flickering weakly on the edge of its wick.
“It’ll get better,” Daisy said, forcing the words out.
“I’m not sure I believe that anymore.”
“It will. You’ll see.”
His mother hesitated before reaching into her bag and pulling out a crumpled piece of paper. Daisy knew what it was before reading beyond the first sentence; Callan had started writing a suicide note.
“Where did you find this?” she whispered, her eyes scanning the barely distinguishable words.
His mother closed her eyes, biting down hard on her lip. “In the pocket of his jeans.”
“We need to tell someone.”
“We aren’t telling anyone. He doesn’t know we found it, and that’s a good thing.”
Daisy stared at her. “How is that a good thing?”
