Page 84 of False God

“Stop making me sound like an invalid, Tripp,” I say. “I’ll go with Charlie. Then, none of you have to miss the rest of the reception.”

Cal grunts. “Stop worrying about the damn reception, Lili.”

“How much have you had to drink?” Tripp asks Charlie rudely.

“Tripp!” I chastise. “He’s not?—”

“Nothing.” Charlie holds Tripp’s gaze for a few seconds, then glances at me. “Sooner we leave, the sooner you can reunite with yourfriends.”

I nod reluctantly, still not thrilled about having to go to the hospital.

“Are you sure you don’t want us to come?” Bridget whispers to me.

“I’m good,” I tell her.

“Call if you need anything.” Fran squeezes my hand.

I walk toward Charlie, leveling Tripp with a half-pleading, half-annoyed look as I pass him.

“He’s just worried about me,” I tell Charlie as we start along the path that leads away from the carriage house and toward the hotel.

“I know. That’s why I didn’t punch him.”

I snort, then shiver. It’s chillier out than I would have thought possible, considering temperatures were in the eighties earlier.

The warm weight of Charlie’s jacket settles over my shoulders a few seconds later. He’s wearing the same suit from last night, the one that spent the night on my floor, but there’s not a single wrinkle in the stiff fabric.

I startle, then begin to protest. “I’m going to get blood on it?—”

“Don’t care.”

Arguing sounds exhausting. He’s as stubborn as I am.

“Thanks.”

A low hum is his only response.

There’s no one standing at the valet stand when we reach it. It’s only nine o’clock, earlier than they assumed any guests would be departing, I guess.

“Someone is probably at the front desk …” My voice trails off as Charlie leans down and opens the stand.

After surveying the interior for a few seconds, he stands with a pair of keys clutched in one hand.

“Stay here,” he instructs, then jogs toward the parking area.

A slight breeze picks up, blowing hair away from my face. I tug Charlie’s jacket tighter around my shoulders, inhaling his delicious scent deeply.

Something sharp pokes at my chest. After glancing at the darkness to ensure Charlie isn’t in sight, I loosen my grip on the fabric and stick a hand into the inside pocket, my fingers brushing against something hard.

I stare at the rectangle. A matchbox. I squint at it until the scrambled letters make sense.The Beach House, it reads. Thename of the restaurant where Charlie and I ate last night. I remember seeing a matchbox beside the lit candle on the table. I almost knocked it off with my wineglass at one point. But I don’t know why it’s in the pocket of Charlie’s suit.

The crunch of gravel makes me jump. I quickly slip the matchbox back where I found it, focusing on the approaching car instead. Headlights sweep across the bushes beside me before the convertible rolls to a stop.

I rush toward the passenger side, the flipped interior layout automatic for the first time, not wanting Charlie to climb out and assist me. I have some dignity left, and I’d like to preserve it.

It looks like Charlie’s forehead furrows, but he says nothing as I slam the door shut and click on my seat belt.

And all I say before he hits the gas is, “You would’ve been a really good doctor.”

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