Maeve Donnelly always gives the impression of living exactly as she pleases. That’s probably why Nerissa has put up with her—and loved her—for more than fifteen years.
“You look terrible,” Maeve blurts out the moment she sees her sit down across from her.
Nerissa snorts as she drops her phone onto the table with a weary gesture.
“What a lovely reunion.”
Maeve signals the waiter for another coffee and studies her closely. Nerissa tries to ignore the strange heaviness that has settled in her chest over the past forty-eight hours. The restaurant buzzes with overlapping conversations and the clatter of dishes, but she feels exhaustion throbbing behind her eyes like a swarm ready to sting.
“Did you have a complicated surgery?” Maeve asks.
“Complete ACL tear, shattered meniscus, and a proximal tibial fracture,” Nerissa lists as she picks up the menu without really looking at it. “A fucking disaster. I spent four hours trying to rebuild the career of a man who’ll probably get injured again within a year because someone will pay him millions to run before he’s fully recovered.”
“That sounded very optimistic,” Maeve remarks dryly.
“I’m feeling especially cheerful today,” Nerissa replies with a crooked smile.
Maeve studies her in silence for a few seconds. Nerissa knows that look all too well: it’s the one that always precedes a conversation she’d rather avoid.
“What?” she finally mutters.
Maeve sets her camera on the empty chair beside her and leans forward slightly.
“Is she on your mind again?”
Nerissa feels her stomach tighten instantly.
“Don’t start, Maeve.”
“The look on your face belongs in a clinical manual under the heading ‘severe emotional obsession,’” her friend insists.
“I’m tired, that’s all.”
“Sure. And I’m a nun,” Maeve replies sarcastically.
Nerissa clenches her jaw as the waiter places a cup of overly strong black coffee in front of her. She thanks him and stirs in sugar unnecessarily, just to keep her hands occupied.
Maeve never takes her eyes off her.
“I just want to remind you that what happened with Daphne wasn’t that long ago,” Maeve says, pausing to take a sip of her coffee. “It still smells scorched.”
Guilt pierces Nerissa’s chest once again. Daphne Mercer. Smart, funny, and far too patient for the little she got in return. Nerissa looks away toward the rain-speckled window.
“I really don’t need you acting as my therapist today,” Nerissa protests.
“Well, that’s too bad, because you’re going to listen to me anyway,” Maeve replies, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms.
The photographer pauses for a moment before continuing with the brutal honesty that has always defined her.
“You used Daphne to prove to yourself that Seraphina Chapman didn’t control your body and your thoughts, and all you managed to do was break the heart of a woman who didn’t deserve it. Are you really going to keep wrecking your life like this?”
The words hit hard. Nerissa hates her a little for being right, but even so, she can’t help how she feels. The waiter sets a plate in front of her, but she barely notices; her stomach has been in knots for hours.
“Let’s see who’s going to tell her we’ve started this all over again...” Nerissa thinks bitterly.
“I wanted to care, Maeve,” Nerissa admits, her voice sounding broken, stripped of sarcasm and arrogance, leaving only deep exhaustion. “I swear I tried. I tried to make Daphne’s touch be enough. I wanted to be in control of something in my life. But every time I closed my eyes... it wasn’t her face I saw.”
Maeve exhales slowly. She isn’t judging her—far from it—but she’s tired, resigned to watching her best friend repeat the same pattern over and over.
