Page 51 of What You left in Me

“Family of Eleanor Wagner?” Doctor Ames appears with a tablet and a mercifully normal expression. He’s the kind ofman who could narrate nature documentaries and soothe your childhood nightmares. “Everything points to dehydration and stress. We’re going to hydrate her, keep her for observation a few more hours. If her pressure remains stable, she can go home this afternoon. That should be cause for celebration, not another argument.”

“Define ‘argument,’” I say, because the man knows our family and I’m not about to lie to a person holding a discharge form hostage.

“Anything that raises blood pressure,” he says wryly. “Which includes disagreeing with my discharge orders, Mrs. Wagner.” He raises his voice just enough to be heard through the curtain.

It rustles. A royal sigh floats out.

“Please tell my mother that the word ‘rest’ is not a personal insult,” I add.

He smiles. “I’ll use Latin if I have to.” Then he softens. “She’s fine, Ariane. Scared you, but she’s fine.”

My shoulders drop half an inch. I only notice the ache in them now that it loosens. “Thank you.”

When he’s gone, Julian squeezes my fingers again. “I told you it would be fine.”

“You did,” I say, because he did. Because he likes being right and I’m too tired to dent the shine. “You also told me the coffee was fine.”

“I said it was ‘efficient,’” he corrects, mouth quirking. “There’s a difference.”

“Efficient at corroding organs, maybe,” I tease, and stand because my legs need to move before my thoughts catch up. “I’m going to see her.”

“Tell her I’ll swing by before I head to the airport.” He rises, straightening an imaginary wrinkle. “I have a call in twenty minutes. Can I borrow the chapel to take it? Better acoustics.”

“It’s not a WeWork, Julian.”

“Every room is a WeWork if you believe in capitalism.” He pecks my cheek again, already half gone. “Back soon.”

I watch him walk down the hall, sleek and precise.

I picked this. I walked into this with eyes wide open because stability is a kind of love too, right? Because wanting quiet is not the same as being weak. Because Finn is chaos wrapped in restraint, and I am tired of being the match. Because I shouldn’t be thinking about Finn at all.

Mom makes sure I can’t think about anything else for a minute. She has her lipstick on, naturally. A shade called Power Move. Her hair is smoothed, and she’s sitting up like the IV pole is merely a seasonal decoration.

“Well?” she says, as if she might cry and as if she might fire me in the same breath.

“Hydration, observation, liberation,” I report. “You’re fine. Or you will be once you stop arguing with the doctor in your head.”

“I do not argue,” she says, then immediately argues. “I advocate.”

“Try to advocate for broth and Netflix,” I say, pulling the blanket up nearer her waist because it’s riding low and there are limits to what the general public needs to see. Caring is a muscle memory. “Also, you scared me.”

“I scared me,” she says, and for a second the queen’s mask slips. There is a frightened woman underneath, the one who raised me with a timetable and a tighter hand every time lifeslipped. She clears her throat, swallows the softness. “But I am… what did he say? Fine.”

“Fine,” I echo, and sit. “You’ll appreciate this: Julian wants to convert the chapel into a conference room.”

She sniffs. “He would. It’s quiet and people have the decency to whisper.”

A laugh huffs out of me before I can stop it. “I hate that you’re right.”

“I’m often right,” she says, but her gaze searches my face like she’s looking for an answer to the wrong question. “You look tired.”

“I am tired.” Too much is underneath that. Finn in a hallway, Finn’s mouth on mine, my hunger and my shame like twin fires. Not now. Not here. “Drink your water, Your Grace.”

She gives me a look that would wilt fresh roses and sips anyway.

We lapse into a quiet that’s not terrible. Monitors chirp like patient birds. The soap opera on mute shows two people clutching each other dramatically in front of a fake funeral. Nurses float by with purposeful steps. I tuck my feet under the chair like I’ll stay planted if I can’t bolt.

“Julian is leaving tonight,” I say finally, because I might as well rip off the bandage.