Her words land like a live wire, the charge between us shifting from playful jabs to something sharper.
My eyes narrow on her—the flush climbing her throat, the faint catch in her breath. “Daisy . . .”
Her gaze holds mine, daring me—to answer, to move, todosomething.
Before I can stop myself, I lean in, reason losing out to instinct, closing the gap just enough to—
“Edward!”
The voice cuts through the moment.
What the hell was I about to do? Pin my sister’s best mate against a church hall column at a bloody funeral? Have some sort of . . .moment?
I straighten, rolling my shoulders back, and smooth my jacket in a futile stab at composure.
“There you are, my boy,” Bernard’s friend, Doug, claps a hand on my shoulder, and I have to employ every ounce of self-control not to throttle him.
I muster a tight smile instead. “Here I am.”
Over his shoulder, I catch Daisy slipping out the door.
“Terribly sad,” Doug says, shaking his head. “I hadn’t visited Bernard in weeks. Now I regret it, of course.”
“Yes,” I reply, clipped, my eyes still trailing the doorway she vanished through.
“At least he’s with Gertie now, after fifty years! Can you imagine? I’m just thankful my Ruth’s still here. She’ll outlast me, mark my words.” He pauses, his face shifting into that familiar mix of pity and condolence I’ve come to loathe. “So sorry, Edward. You understand, of course. Your lovely wife . . . about the same age when she went, wasn’t she?”
For the first time in years, the mention of Millie doesn’t send the usual sharp pain through my chest. I’m too preoccupied with whatever possessed me moments ago with Daisy. “She was. Taken too soon.”
He nods solemnly.
“You know,” he says after a beat, “you’re so like Bernard in every way.”
“I hear that often. Following in his medical footsteps.”
“Oh no.” He waves a hand, cutting me off. “I don’t mean that. I mean as aman.”
I tilt my head, curiosity mixing with dread.
He smiles. “Oh yes. Just like Bernard. When he was your age, I mean. It’s uncanny, really. Not just in your career, but in your looks, your mannerisms, your total character. Even . . .” He hesitates, his expression sobering. “Even in your tragedies, it seems. So much loss, for both of you. He was never the same after Gertie died. Retreated into himself. Buried himself in his work.”
I nod stiffly, the comparison settling like lead in my stomach. “Yes. He did.”
The words thud against my chest.Just like Bernard.
Suddenly, that phrase unravels into something far bleaker.
Because I know how they found him—trousers round his ankles, lube in hand.
Good god.
The parallels hit like a cold slap—too vivid, too grim. Bernard and me, carved from the same mold. Same habits. Same solitude. And, disturbingly, the same pull toward Daisy Wilson’s maddening allure.
A quiet panic clamps down on me.
Bernard used to be respectable. Then his wife died and everything went to hell. The poor bastard spent years starved of intimacy, and look where that got him—dying alone, surrounded by tissues and lubricant.
The image is both grotesque and darkly comedic.And far too close for comfort.
