Four more hours of standing under lights hot enough to melt makeup and tits, grinning like a demented Barbie doll while pretending my heart hasn’t been put through a shredder.
I drag my carcass onto the fake garden set, the astroturf crunching ominously under my heels. The artificial flowers nod their garish heads at me, their colors so cheerful they make my eyes hurt.
We go live, and I suck in a breath, clawing for my usual spark. But it’s like trying to draw water from a dry well.
“Welcome back!” I chirp. “Today we’ve got a fantastic selection of gardening tools to help you create your dream outdoor oasis.”
I try to remember my script, the patter that usually flows so effortlessly from my lips. But the words seem to slip away from me, my mind a foggy, muddled mess.
Simon’s watching me like a hawk.
I take another deep breath, squaring my shoulders, plastering on my brightest smile. “Let’s take a closer look at this fantasticmulti-purpose rake,” I say, my voice only wavering slightly. “It’s perfect for . . .”
Perfect for what? Digging a hole to crawl into? Beating Simon to death?
My mind’s gone blank.
“Cleaning up leaves, grass clippings, and even light tilling,” I force out, muscle memory finally clocking in for its shift.
I need to get my shit together, or I’m about five seconds from being fired live on air.
The bright studio lights bear down on me, making my head swim and my vision blur around the edges. I try to focus on the trowel in my hand, but it’s like trying to grab hold of a dream right before you wake up.
The room seems to tilt and sway around me, the astroturf moving beneath my feet like waves on a sickening green sea. I blink hard, trying to clear my vision, but it only makes the vertigo worse.
“Daaaaaiiisssyyyy?”
Simon’s voice crackles through my earpiece, but it’s wrong—too slow, too deep, dragging out like some horror movie demon crawling up from the depths.
“Aaaarrreeee yoooouuu fuuuuuucking hiiiiiiiiiigh?”
I squeeze my eyes shut, shake my head, but that’s worse—the vertigo swells, the floor shifts again.
The trowel slips from my fingers, clattering onto the fake grass.
The floor rushes up, and the last thing I see is Lizzie’s face—pure horror, like she’s watching a train wreck in slow motion.
Which, really, is a pretty accurate description of my life right now.
Edward
I turn the corner of the hospital corridor, fluorescent lights washing everything in that institutional glow—the kind that makes us medical staff look even more exhausted than we are.
It’s been years since I pulled these midnight shifts regularly. Now, doing one here and there feels like a small mercy, a reminder that it’s not a common occurrence.
I’m out of practice, but Dr. Murphy had an emergency. And we do favors for each other. There’s no such thing as a hangover day when you’re a doctor. If you’re not here, it means something catastrophic has happened. In this case, his father has died.
I roll my shoulders, trying to shake off the weight of fatigue, flashing a quick, perfunctory smile as I hand over change for a banana at the coffee shop kiosk.
I turn to head back to the ward.
My vision registers a familiar blonde bob and fringe before my exhausted mind can properly process the image.
“Lizzie,” I say, frowning, doctor-worry immediately kicking in. But the trashy magazines in her arms—fresh from the shop—and her easy stroll tell me it’s not serious. You pick up on these things fast in this line of work. “What brings you here at this hour? Has something happened?”
“Oh!” She startles visibly, eyes widening. “Nothing serious. Just visiting a friend . . . Bob. He’s got gout. Nothing to worry about.”
“You’re visiting him at this time? Visiting hours were over long ago.”
