She shifts, the magazines slipping in her grip. “Just dropping off a few things.”
I glance at the top one—some reality star on the cover. Christ. I actually recognize them. Daisy’s fault.
“Anything I can help with?”
“No! No.” There’s a pause that extends just beyond natural conversational rhythm. “No.”
Something is off.
I gesture toward the opposite wing. “Right. Well, Bob would be in the other tower of the hospital.”
“Oh, silly me! Thanks for the direction. I should really get over to—” She glances frantically in the wrong direction. “Well, you know how gout waits for no man.”
She goes to walk off.
“Lizzie, wait,” I call after her.
She stops mid-step, shoulders stiffening, then turns back.
I clear my throat, forcing the words out. “I wanted to ask—how is Daisy? I assume you’re aware we’re not on the best of terms.”
Her face flickers—something hard flashing through before she plasters on a breezy look. “I’ve heard bits. Not much really. She’s great. Planning a trekking holiday to . . .” She pauses. “Mongolia, actually. Horse riding.”
“Mongolia.” I stare at her. “Why?”
“It’s been a dream of hers and now she has decided to make her dreams come true. Living her best life.”
“Right,” I say slowly. “Who is she going with?”
There’s a long pause.
“With a friend of ours. He’s a model, race car driver, and Michelin-star chef.” Another pause. “And he’s Spanish.”
I stare at her. She blinks back, unflinching. I stare harder. Daisy trekking through Mongolia with a Spanish race car driver / model / chef? It sounds like something she’s made up on the spot.
But Lizzie doubles down, holding my gaze with fierce conviction. Maybe it’s true. Maybe it’s nonsense.
Either way, the message is clear.
“Wish her the best from me,” I say, my voice rougher than I’d like. Too raw. Too much for a hospital corridor in the middle of the night. I rub the back of my neck.
Lizzie’s lips curl slightly. “You don’t need to wish her well. She’s doing perfectly fine.”
“I don’t know what she’s told you—”
“Anyone with a pair of eyes could see she deserves better than you.”
I inhale sharply, steadying myself. “Right,” I say smoothly, though something sharp twists in my chest. “I see. Well, given I’m such an appalling cad, I’m sure you’ll be greatly relieved to have me out of Daisy’s life.”
She juts her chin up, clutching the magazines tighter. “I’ve got to go.”
“Good night, Lizzie. Hope Bob’s gout clears up.”
She vanishes down the corridor, but the weight in my chest stays put.
Daisy is moving on, it seems. Whether it’s with a Spanish superhuman or not.
The thing is, that absurd little storycouldbe true for Daisy. But never for me.
