God, he missed him.
His breath hitched as he swirled the whisky in his glass. He drained it in one go, the warmth of it spreading through him, though it couldn’t warm the coldest parts of him, but maybe he could numb that ache that seemed to live just beneath his skin.
His phone beeped. A message from Sandy:
Okay. I’m waiting for you. Thanks for the flowers, by the way. Got them a few hours ago.
Logan cursed under his breath. Of course. The assistant had taken care of it, sending her the flowers and chocolates, booking the weekend getaway Logan had pretended to plan. She was too kind, too hopeful, and Logan had allowed her to keep believing in something that he had long since stopped believing in himself.
He scrolled back through the gallery on his phone. Adrian’s smiling face, caught in a moment that felt like a lifetime ago. He stopped on a photo of Adrian, playing the guitar, unaware that Logan was even watching him. Adrian had been so carefree, so alive, so full of everything Logan wasn’t. He found himself staring at it, that ghost of a smile pulling at his lips, as though it could ever be enough to fill the emptiness in his chest.
But it wasn’t.
Not for the first time, Logan silently thanked his relentless need to capture moments, to cling to time in frames and fragments. His love for filming had always been an obsession, a quiet compulsion, but now, it felt like salvation.
During their trip, with his beloved GoPro—the one he, too, had left behind—he had captured Adrian in ways the world never could. He had filmed laughter woven with sunlight, hands reaching, bodies falling into each other like gravity itself had conspired to keep them close. He had recorded fleeting seconds of love so raw, so unguarded, they now felt like relics from another life.
These memories, etched in light and inked in happiness,shouldbe enough to last him a lifetime.
They must be.
They must.
And yet, as he sat in the silence of the present, drowning in the ghosts of their past, he knew they never would be.
Logan couldn’t live in that memory forever. He couldn’t stay trapped in a ghost of a life he had let slip away, so he stood, leaving money on the bar, his stomach turning with each step he took away from the only thing that was able to numb him.
The drive home was silent, the weight of it pressing down on him harder than any hangover. One drink hadn’t been enough. He needed more to escape the reality that had been clawing at him, that had been pulling him further and further from himself.
When he arrived home, Sandy was waiting for him, standing in the doorway with that smile, the smile that he had to learn to hate. She was wearing a robe, her black tights accentuating her legs, and Logan’s stomach churned as the thought hit him with brutal clarity: he was going to have to have sex with her again.
The only person who suffered in that marriage more than Logan was Sandy—trapped in a union just like him, with a man who wore a smile like armor, but whose heart was never really hers to begin with.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured as he kissed her, the hollow kiss of a man who had long since given up on being a husband. She smelled of lavender and warmth, and he wished it didn’t feel so wrong. But it did.
They had sex before, sure. But he managed to be away from home as much as possible, mostly by coming home when she was asleep. On weekends, he would usually tell her he went surfing even though he hadn’t set foot in the ocean since he got back home. So, he limited the possibilities for sex as much as possible. Plus, he always bought her some special gifts like plane tickets to some fancy country, hotels, or spa—anything that would get her away from him, with the hope that he could buy the happiness he would never give her.
He cared for Sandy but never loved her.
Inside, the house was quiet, candles flickering on the table, casting soft shadows against the walls. Logan’s throat closed as the scent of dinner filled the air.
“You work so hard, Logan,” Sandy said softly, her voice a tender echo in the quiet room.
“Yeah,” he replied, the words hollow as they slipped from his lips. “You know how my dad is... and I don’t want people to think I’m just there because of him... I need to prove myself.” It wasn’t a lie, exactly. He did work hard, but it was more than that. He worked to avoid the weight of his own soul, to escape the ghost of Adrian that clung to every corner of his mind. His work was a prison, a way to drown out the agony of coming home, of pretending that the life he built was enough. Three lies wrapped in one act of relentless motion.
Sandy had arranged everything. The table for two and the aroma of warm food filled the air, but the comfort was empty; he did not deserve any of it.
“Something smells wonderful,” Logan remarked, his voice tense, battling the ache in his chest.
Sandy’s face lit up, her smile like a flickering candle in the dark. “Thank you,” she said, the words too innocent, too unaware of the chasm between them.
Logan reached into his pocket, the red envelope crinkling in his hand like a small, desperate apology. “It’s for you,” he said, handing it over, his fingers brushing hers for a moment. Sandy took it with a smile, so eager, so full of hope.
“It’s a weekend at a hotel,” he continued, his voice a little quieter now. “Spas, pools, massages... all that stuff.”
Sandy’s eyes widened with excitement, a spark of joy lighting her face. “Oh my god! We’re going to a spa?!”
Logan’s heart sank. “Oh, no. I can’t. I have to work.” His words were sharp, too quick, but he couldn’t help it. “It’s an open ticket. You can take one of your girlfriends or something.”
