Page 137 of False God

“It didn’t hurt this bad when we broke up. I think … I think because Charlie brought the book.”

“What book?” Cal sounds confused.

“Middlemarch. I gave you a copy.” After a moment of deliberation, I add, “It was a bad gift. You should have hated it.”

“I didn’t hate it.”

“Yeah, you did. And you should’ve. And I should’ve wanted to give you something different.”

Cal sets me down carefully next to the limo. I lean against it heavily as he pulls the door open.

“Where did he bring it?”

I exhale. “It was in his bag. In France. I was … snooping, and I saw it.”

I crawl into the limo, kick off my heels, and sip more champagne.

Cal eyes the bottle like he’s contemplating wrestling it away from me. I’d like to see him try.

“Maybe you two should start a book club,” he suggests.

I snort. “I’m done with that …cad.”

“Okay, Lili.”

He doesn’t believe me.

I slump down on the cool leather, staring blankly ahead at the black privacy divider and trying to remember the name of the nightclub in Brooklyn where we went for Hugo’s birthday two years ago. That place was fun.

And then I’m flying forward, a panicked shout of my name the last sound I register before everything goes black.

33

The buzz of fluorescent lights is obnoxious. And blinding. The brightness sears into my eyeballs, making spots dance across my vision. And the humming is endless, burrowing into my brain like a drill.

A woman with curly black hair, wearing a white coat, appears around the curtain, distracting me from the irritating beam. The drone I can still hear.

“Hi, Elizabeth. I’m Dr. Moore. How are you feeling?”

“My head hurts. Otherwise, I feel fine.” Same thing I told the EMTs and the other two doctors who checked me over since I arrived at the hospital.

“Do you remember what happened?” she asks.

“A car swerved to avoid a biker and hit the back of the limo I was in.”

Dr. Moore nods. “Very good. There doesn’t appear to be any issues with your memory.”

“So, I’m … fine?” I ask.

“You likely have a grade 2 concussion. Your CT scan didn’t show any bleeding or skull fractures. We still need to get yourforehead stitched, but you should be feeling back to normal in a few days.”

I lift one hand, tentatively touching the gauze taped there.

Since I wasn’t wearing a seat belt, my head slammed into the counter above the minibar in the limo. I haven’t asked to see the cut, but one of the EMTs assured me it would only require a couple of stitches and I’d barely have a scar.

Considering the hysterical scene surrounding me, I’m not sure I can trust he wasn’t just trying to keep everyone calm.

“You’re still not experiencing any nausea? Double vision? Dizziness?”

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