Page 73 of When Lemons Give You Life

When we break to breathe, he picks up the soggy form. “C’mon, you duffer, why don’t we call them now? We can get ice cream after—it’ll be like a date!”

I look at him incredulously. “To get a kidney ultrasound? Sounds sexy.”

“I told you I want to see all of you. This is a great chance to view one of your vital organs. How many guys can say they get to do that so early on? It’s gotta be beyond second base, right? Forget boobs and bum, I’m a kidney guy!”

We laugh, and the tension begins to melt. I didn’t know flaws-up-front love existed. It’s utterly terrifying and completely wonderful. How can something this good be happening at the same time as something so bad?

We make the call and schedule the scan for Friday afternoon.

Later, a half-empty pizza box between us, Frank hits pause on the political thriller we are watching. “Sorry, I can’t really concentrate.”

“Me either.”

He shifts a little closer, his eyes soft with something that pulls at my chest. “I know it’s early, and this will sound super corny, but . . . you already have my heart. I wouldn’t hesitate to give you my kidney too.”

I let out a laugh. “Wow. That’s . . . aggressively corny.”

He winces.

I reach for his hand before he can retreat, my fingers lacing through his. “But also,” I add, gently now, “probably the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

43

Griff

My stomach’s staging a protest. Churning, clenching, trying to digest my conscience instead of breakfast. I take a swig of Mylanta, but it barely dents the nausea. The real problem isn’t food, it’s my diet of acidic, highly processed lies.

Scotty didn’t show for his shift yesterday. No call. No voice message. Nothing.

Every time a door opens, I brace, waiting for a furious Lisa or a cop or journalist ready to drag me out by the scruff. I almost didn’t turn up to work myself, but surely, if he reported me, something would’ve happened by now. And I don’t want the residents missing out on good food.

I pull on my chef whites, face mask and glasses, settle Cliff into bed, and head down to the kitchen, my eyes low, avoiding conversation in case someone somehow knows.

“Hey, mate, residents are raving about those crepes,” Nishan calls from the pantry. “Might have to make them a regular. You see the game last night?”

I shake my head, scanning the room.

“Scotty hasn’t turned up again,” he says, following my gaze.

My chest tightens. I throw back a flat white and bury myself in the breakfast prep, but the shift blurs with spiraling thoughts. Scotty’s speaking to Allison. He’s gone to the police. He’s quit. Funnily enough, it’s the last one that fills me with the most regret.

“Sorry I’m late.”

My head snaps up.

Scotty walks in, dark circles under his eyes, like he’s carrying something far heavier than his half-zipped backpack.

“You came,” I say.

“I need the money,” he says, not making eye contact.

“Get a move on—meals won’t cook themselves,” Nishan barks.

“Scotty, I—”

“Gotta go,” he says, moving away. “You heard Nishan.”

The shift crawls. I keep searching for a moment when I can pull Scotty aside. But Nishan’s everywhere.