Daisy followed direction without question. Her only thought to get home so she could continue to sleep.
When they finally dropped her off at her flat, the air smelled stale. She fell into bed and didn’t move for two days.
She awoke to the frantic pounding on her door and found Maryanne on the other side. Her friend’s face darkened with fury that spilled out in rolling Spanish.
“English, Maryanne,” she’d said, backing up to let her co-worker in.
“Seven days!” she had snapped. “I’ve been calling and texting you for a solid week!”
Daisy fell onto the couch and pulled her T-shirt to cover her thighs. “I’m sorry. I…” She stumbled, trying to think up a lie. “I had the flu.”
It was a believable lie, since she looked like death.
Maryanne’s anger dissolved into concern, and she pressed her cool palm to Daisy’s forehead. “Poor child.” She had clicked her tongue to the back of her teeth. “When is the last time you eat something?”
Her answer had been irrelevant. That night, Maryanne returned with a big pot of soup.
Daisy was supposed to meet Maggie on Saturday and knew if she missed their lunch date she’d probably lose touch with her and never see her again. She didn’t want that to happen so she forced herself to shower and order a car.
The money had arrived before her flight home. An impervious mountain of proof that the whole thing hadn’t been a dream.
The brasserie on Piccadilly was exactly as described, from the gilded arches to the marble floors.
Maggie was already seated when Daisy arrived. “Daisy!” She rose so quickly her chair scraped the floor.
Her dark Irish curls bounced with the giddy energy of a woman who’d gone from a cramped flat in Galway to sipping tea in an iconic Piccadilly café. She pulled her into a fierce hug, and the warmth of it cracked something open in Daisy.
She tried to match her friend’s excitement. Tried to smile and exclaim over the menu and share in the wild, improbable joy of drinking tea from bone china in the middle of London on an overpriced Saturday. But her composure soon crumbled.
Maggie didn’t flinch. She reached across the table and took both of Daisy’s hands, held them firmly, and asked, “Was it the man from the Feast?”
The relief of finally being able to discuss this with someone was incredible but short lived. Daisy skimmed over any personal details about Jack, trying to summarize the events without incrimination.
“He just let you leave?” Maggie had asked, her expression a twist of confusion and repulsion.
After tea, they wandered through Green Park into St. James’s, and sat on a bench as pigeons scattered at their feet. Maggie listened as Daisy described everything she was feeling as best she could.
“I know it was only one night, but I honestly thought we shared something…bigger.”
“Oh, Daisy. That’s the problem with sex. It confuses things.”
But they hadn’t had sex. A truth too complicated and layered for her to admit.
“If something is truly meant for you to have, it won’t pass you by,” Maggie said it with quiet conviction.
The sun had begun to set. “Do you want to come back to my flat?”
“Sure. My flight back to Ireland isn’t until late tonight.”
When they reached Daisy’s flat Maggie took one look at the rotting moldings, the stained ceilings, and the paper-thin walls. “Jaysus. Your place is as bad as mine.”
That was when the idea of getting a new place together surfaced between them.
“But you’re leaving.”
“I don’t have to.”
“What about your family?” Daisy had asked. “Wouldn’t they miss you?”
