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 livecover ofMr 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.
XXXIX
LOGAN
He watched her taxi disappear, feeling his heart twist. It’d been over a year since they’d seen each other last, and she still had the same power over him.
“You should go after her,” a voice interrupted his thoughts.
Logan turned his head to see a man standing half-shadowed under the facade of the neighbouring building, leaning against the brick wall like he’d been there forever. A cigarette dangled from his fingers, its tip glowing faintly in the dark, and his voice carried a heavy Jersey accent.
“Do you mean me?”
“Who else would I be talking to? There’s nobody else here but you and me,” the man replied, exhaling smoke that curled intothe cool night air. “You should go after her. The way you were lookin’ at that cab...damn.”
A forced laugh escaped Logan’s lips. He rubbed the back of his neck, his fingers trailing over the collar of his coat. “Even if I wanted to, I can’t.”
The stranger shot him a challenging look. “Sure, you can. You’re in the land of the free.”
“No, I can’t,” Logan said again, firmer this time. He hesitated, then added, “She’s married.”
The man let out a long whistle. “That so?” He took another drag. “Well, marriage ain’t always the good stuff they sell you in the movies, pal. Everyone deserves to be happy. Is she happy?”
Logan didn’t reply right away. His eyes were fixed on the end of the street, where the taxi’s tail lights had disappeared moments before. “Not really,” he finally admitted. He released a sigh, shaking his head slowly. “But it isn’t my place to tell her what to do.”
And it wasn’t. He could tell her to leave Callan, that it was unlikely he’d recover, and that she was young enough to move on. But what right did he have to suggest such a thing? He was her husband, someone she’d sworn before all things holy to love through all of life's challenges. Though he wasn’t a pious man, that didn’t mean he didn’t value the meaning behind those words.
“You should at least tell her how you feel,” the man added. “If you don’t, you’re robbing her of the chance to make up her own mind.”
Logan looked at him then, really looked. The man was older than him by at least a decade. His suit was rumpled, his tie loose around his neck, like he'd come from a bar he didn’t want to be in and was headed to a home that didn’t feel like one. His eyes, though—his eyes had seen things.
“You sound like you speak from experience,” Logan said quietly.
The man smiled around his cigarette, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Once. Didn’t chase her. Told myself I had reasons. Thought I was being noble.” He flicked the ash from the tip of his cigarette. “Turns out, I was just scared. When you get to my age, you realise the scariest thing of all is regret.”
“She has a child,” Logan said suddenly, like confessing it would make things clearer. “A little girl. And her husband is a disabled veteran.”
The man studied him for a long moment before crushing the cigarette beneath his heel. “And? It doesn’t mean she doesn’t deserve the truth. Look after yourself, kid.”
With nothing more to add, the man walked away, hands in his pockets, disappearing into the night like he’d been a figment of his imagination.
He went back into the bar and tried to erase the thought from his mind, but it was impossible. After an hour, he hailed a taxi and headed straight to her hotel.
“Hi,” he said, offering a friendly wave to the young woman behind the desk as he approached. “My friend left her phone here earlier. You wouldn’t happen to know what room she’s in, would you?”
The girl, no older than twenty, paused. “We’re not really supposed to give out that kind of information,” she said, sizing him up.
He gave her an understanding nod and smiled, setting his phone gently on the counter. “Totally get that. It’s just—she lives on this thing. I’d leave it here, but I know her. Right now, she’s probably pacing in circles, retracing her steps and freaking out. And, full disclosure, she’s had a bit to drink tonight.”
The girl frowned, and her eyes flicked to the phone, then back to him. “I can hold onto it and make sure she gets it. That’s usually how we do things.”
“Normally, I’d be fine with that,” he said, leaning in slightly, lowering his voice. “But this can’t wait until the morning, and my bet is it’ll sit here until you're allowed to go up there.”
She hesitated, her fingers tapping lightly on the counter. “I don’t know…” she said slowly. “I could get in a lot of trouble if—”
