Page 19 of A Prescription to My Heart

I stare up at the ceiling with the dream still clinging to me like the scent of something burnt—unshakable, lingering in the air long after the source is gone.

Talia’s laughter. Marigold’s wide, bright eyes. The feeling of something settling into place, something thatshouldn’t. I need to get her out of my head.

I scowl, finally forcing myself up. The floor is cold beneath my feet, grounding me, but it does nothing to push away the unease curling in my gut.

It was just a dream. A collection of stray thoughts, stitched together by exhaustion. Nothing more.

I roll the tension from my shoulders and head to the bathroom. The fluorescent light buzzes to life as I turn the faucet, letting the icy water pool in my hands before splashing it over my face. It shocks me awake, but it doesn’t shake Talia out of my head.

By the time I step into the shower, my movements are automatic—body on autopilot, mind still trapped in a loop. I scrub harder than necessary, as if I can wash the thoughts away along with the soap.

Talia Vance is a woman who moved in next door. A nurse at the hospital. Someone Marigold—for some reason—has taken a liking to.

Nothing more. She isnothingto me.

I step out, dry off quickly, and dress in crisp, dark scrubs, buttoning them with quick, sharp movements. The dream is a shadow now, hovering at the edges of my thoughts, though refusing to dissipate.

It angers me.

I make my way down the hall, stopping in front of Marigold’s door. I knock once before pushing it open.

“Morning, Goldie,” I say, softening my tone to keep my anger away from my daughter.

She’s already half-awake, curled up under her blankets, blonde curls a tangled mess. She groans in protest, burrowing deeper.

“Five more minutes,” Marigold mumbles.

I resist the smile and check the time. “Nope. You’re going to be late.”

Another groan. Then, begrudgingly, she sits up, rubbing her eyes. “What’s for breakfast?”

“Cereal. Or toast.”

She wrinkles her nose. “That’s boring.”

“Life’s boring.”

She gives me an unimpressed look. “Talia made pasta last night.”

The name slams into me like a brick to the chest. My jaw tightens. “Good for Talia.”

“Youlikeher.” Marigold throws the blankets off and slides off the bed.

“What?” I scoff, staring at her.

Her lips twitch like she knows she’s testing me. “You like Talia.”

I grab her hairbrush from the dresser and hand it to her. “You need to worry less about my life and more about untangling that mess on your head.”

She takes the brush but won’t let this nonsense go. “You’re grumpy.”

“I’malwaysgrumpy.”

“No. You were different last night.”

I don’t respond. Because I don’t have a response.

Instead, I turn toward the door. “Ten minutes. Downstairs.”

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