Page 120 of The Tryst

“Like what?” I ask, irritation rising in me.

“Like all is lost,” he points out.

I breathe out hard, annoyed. But I say nothing as I turn over his comment in my head, considering it. Finally, I admit, “Fine. Maybe I expected too much.”

“Then give it time. And don’t give up,” he says.

I scrub a hand across my chin, considering his advice. His wise advice. “Of course I won’t give up.”

“Good,” he says. “So keep groveling.”

“Is that what’s required? Is that what Marilyn makes you do?”

He waves a dismissive hand. “Word to the wise—don’t do what Marilyn and I do. Do the opposite. We are like…” He pauses to think. “A Taylor Swift tune.”

“Shit, man. It’s that bad?”

He sighs heavily. “It is that bad. I don’t think we’re going to last.”

Even though I saw this coming, I don’t say I told you so. I just tell him the truth. “I wish you weren’t dealing with that, but I’m here anytime you need me.”

With a faint smile, he taps the desk. “I know you are, Nick.” He rises but looks hard at me one more time. “I mean it. Don’t give up. Just keep trying.”

“I will.”

I won’t give up at all. But trying again with David will have to wait a few hours, since there’s something else I need to do tonight.

* * *

After work, I stop by a flower shop then head to the hospital during visiting hours. At the check-in desk, I ask the woman in scrubs if I can see Cynthia Sweeney. She makes a quick call to the room, then tells me, “She’d be happy to see you. Room 203.”

I knew the number from sending flowers yesterday. I take the stairs to her floor. Carrying a get-well basket and another bouquet of flowers, I rap on the open door.

My son’s girlfriend greets me with a bright smile. “Hi, Mr. Adams,” she says and waves me in.

She lies in bed with her leg extended and supported by a pillow. Her dark hair is looped into a messy bun. A scratch cuts across her cheek, and a small blue bruise dots her chin. Poor kid.

“I’m guessing you’ve had better days,” I say with sympathy, eyeing the bulky black brace on her leg.

“Well, you should see the other guy,” she says dryly.

The man who hit her walked away with mere scratches, David told me. “Glad to see your sense of humor is uninjured.” I’m glad to see, too, that she’s not as shy as the first time I met her.

I hold up the flowers. “I got you a little something.”

“Thank you. I don’t have too many. Just from my parents and my brother, and the ones you sent yesterday morning,” she says, gesturing to a handful of vases. “Oh, and Layla’s too.”

I note that Rose hasn’t come by. Neither have the Bancrofts, David’s maternal grandparents. Nor have they sent anything.

“David told me you liked flowers,” I say, explaining the dahlias. “And I told Layla.”

No point in hiding that detail when the cat’s out of the bag.

“It was kind of you. And her,” she says, then gestures to a plastic chair. “Want to sit? They’re serving dinner soon.”

Sounds like an invitation to keep her company, so I take it, since the room seems empty and she sounds eager. First though, I set the flowers down, then gesture to the basket. “There are some puzzles in there. Crossword puzzles and cards, and a few other little things.”

“Cards,” she says, brightening, like I brought candy to a kid.

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