Page 5 of The Meaning Of You

“Sorry.” I grinned ruefully. “It’s clearly a day for distractions.”

Madigan gave a soft snort.

“Iwasintroducing—” Jerry paused for drama’s sake. “—Madigan Church. Madigan’s Aunt Shirley was transferred here yesterday. Madigan, this joker is Nick Fisher. You’ll probably run into him more often than you’d like since he’s a regular visitor. My advice is to try and ignore him like the rest of us do. He goes away... eventually.”

Madigan laughed and the warm, low sound of it filled the room and brought a smile to my lips. It was something else missing from my life. Laughter. Humour. Hell, even a few more smiles wouldn’t have gone amiss. Switching from the policeforensic accounting unit in favour of working from home had meant I could spend more time with Davis, but I’d lost the distraction of colleagues and the sound of laughter in my day. I needed to fix that.

Madigan proffered his hand, his grip cool and firm. “Pleasure to meet you, Nick.”

“And you,” I returned. “Madigan’s an unusual name.”

He grinned. “Unusual parents.” He released my hand and took a step back.

I flicked my head toward Jerry. “You’ll get used to this clown. She’s an acquired taste but she grows on you after a while.”

“Like mould,” Jerry added and we all laughed. “Yeah, yeah, funny guy. Now get going.” She gave me a gentle shove. “I’m tired of you already.”

I caught Madigan’s eye. “Like I said, an acquired taste.”

Madigan smiled warmly, those green eyes dancing. “Duly noted.”

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Madigan. Enjoy your visit.”

He held my gaze. “You too.”

Not a chance in hell. I gave Jerry a quick smile and made my escape.

The doorto Davis’s room was closed. I knocked, but Lizzie must’ve been dozing because her head snapped up in surprise when I walked in. She looked younger than her seventy-six years, short grey hair cut in a choppy modern style that framed soft blue eyes, and cheekbones that still looked like they could cut glass.

There was so much of her in Davis that some days I could barely look at her without wanting to cry. A tiny, slight-framedwoman, she looked as if the slightest breath of wind would send her flying, but she was the strongest woman I knew. You underestimated Lizzie Minton at your peril.

When she saw it was me, Lizzie smiled and left her spot beside her son’s bed to greet me with a brief kiss. She rarely pushed for a hug, even though I knew she would’ve loved it. Of Lizzie’s two sons, Davis had always been the demonstrative one, hugs and kisses coming as easily to him as all those words in his books. It must’ve been a huge loss for her, just as it had been for me.

Davis’s casual affection had taken years, not months, to unlock a part of me I hadn’t known existed—a warm, caring side dormant beneath the cold, cynical man everyone was familiar with. My friends, few as they were, had been shocked. But no one had been more surprised than me.

Funny how life runs in circles. That more recently discovered gentler side had perished in the crash along with Davis’s brain. My friends were more wary of me than they’d ever been, and if I cared about anything beyond my aching grief, I might’ve regretted that backward slide.

Davis would’ve hated it. Then again, Davis wasn’t there.

Lizzie sandwiched my face in her hands and said, “You’re too thin, Nick. If you won’t come for dinner, then at least let me drop off some meals to put a little meat on those bones.”

She offered almost every time I saw her, and every time I let it go. She sighed defeatedly and returned to her chair by the bed.

I made for the chair on the other side. “You don’t need to look after me, Lizzie.” I reached for Davis’s flaccid hand. “I can cook for myself. I’m fine.”

She raised a brow and I snorted.

“Okay, maybe not fine, as such,” I admitted. “Then again, I could say the same about you. You’re at least two sizes down on last year. Don’t think I’m not aware of that.”

She winced. “Fair enough. But don’t try and tell me you can cook, Nick Fisher. We both know Davis was the only chef in your house by a long shot.”

“Hey,” I protested, adding a smile. “I can cook. Just last week I made lasagna. And very nice it was too.”

She huffed in disgust. “You mean youreheatedlasagna that you bought from that fancy-pants food place you boys like to waste your money at.”

In present tense. Like Davis and I still did that every Saturday. Like I wouldn’t give my right arm to do it again. That chasm of loss carved deeper into my heart.

“Damn. I’m sorry,” Lizzie amended. “I never know whether to speak of him in past tense or present. I look at him lying there and see my little boy or the man standing next to you at your wedding. But it’s not really true, I know that. He’s a shell now and it kills me, Nick. It kills me. He wouldhatethis.”

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