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‘You’re not a bitch. And you’re not wrong. I lied.’ He brushed his thumb under her eye, the puffy skin damp. ‘I’m sorry I made you cry. It’s been kind of a shit day. I wasn’t expecting to see you.’
She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her sweatshirt, making the loose fabric droop at the neck to reveal the lacy strap of her vest top. Adrenaline shot through him.
‘What did you lie about?’ she asked.
‘I did want to kiss you in the pantry yesterday. And it wasn’t the first time.’
‘Oh, OK.’ He couldn’t tell if she was pleased. ‘Are you sure? You’re not just saying that to make me feel better?’
‘No, I’m not just saying it. I thought you could tell.’
‘I thought maybe I’d made a mistake,’ she countered. ‘Usually when guys want to, they don’t hold back.’
‘Guys like your ex, you mean?’
The blush burned hotter. ‘I suppose.’
‘Did he cheat on you a lot?’
‘Probably.’ She shrugged, and the baggy sweatshirt slipped further to reveal one slim shoulder. ‘He got bored with me. He said I was always whining and I didn’t want to do him enough.’
His jaw tightened. The anger real again.
No shit? I wonder why?
‘The more I hear about that prick,’ he said, ‘the more I wish I could give him a good kicking.’ The world was full of wankers like Lizzie’s ex, who thought getting sex whenever they wanted it was their due. It wasn’t Lizzie’s fault she’d fallen for one. Those guys always had lots of moves to excuse their shitty behaviour.
‘It wouldn’t be much of a contest. You’re a lot bigger than he is.’ She looked away, but he was pleased to see the small smile. Good to know she wasn’t still hung up on the little turd.
Leaning onto his knees, he tugged the sweatshirt back up over her shoulder to hide the strappy top. Her gaze shot to his, no longer demure. No longer devastated, either.
OK, then.
He stood, the look in her eyes stirring stuff that shouldn’t be stirred. ‘Do you mind if I sit next to you for a while?’ he said.
‘Don’t be silly, you don’t have to ask.’
He nodded and sat. Closing his eyes, he let the weariness intrude. He absorbed the quiet, disturbed only by the flutter of some nearby pigeons, the ripple of water against the paved edge of the lake, the distant shout of a mother calling her child—and the watchful presence of the girl beside him.
He came to sit here most days. The park air a welcome break from the sweet cloying scent of the morphine drip, the vague undertones of bleach and decaying flowers in the hospice. And all those feelings he couldn’t always control.
Normally, he liked the silence, the emptiness.
But it was nice to have Lizzie beside him now; it made him feel less al
one.
‘Could I ask you something, Trey?’
Seeing her earnest expression, he knew what she was going to ask. But he nodded anyway. Because he didn’t want her to leave. Not yet.
‘Who is it you’re visiting in the hospice?’
‘My mum.’
He saw surprise. Then distress. Then confusion. All plainly revealed on her face. He steeled himself for the obvious next question.
‘Why did you tell me she’d died?’
