“You know we’re adults now, right? We don’t have to sneak alcohol anymore.”
I shrug and reach around her for an unopened cabernet. “Yeah, but it’s more fun to pretend that we do. Plus, I spotted Dr. McCormick on my way down and you know if he corners me, we’re done for. He’ll want to talk shop all night.”
Madeleine’s brown eyes go wide as saucers. “Oh god, you’re right. Go. I’ll grab glasses.”
“Daaaaiiisssyyyyyy!”
My mom’s singsong voice stops me dead in my tracks. My instincts tell me to drop the bottle and feign innocence, but then I remember I’m 28. Legal. Board-certified.
“Look what just arrived!”
I turn and nearly drop the bottle of cab. She is walking through the doorway of the kitchen holding a bomb.
“What. Are. Those?” I croak.
“They’re flowers for you!” She beams. “Looks like a couple dozen.”
Nearly three dozen to be exact. Fat, happy daisies. White.
“Get them out!”
“What? Don’t be ridiculous! They were just delivered.”
She is already bent over the kitchen sink, filling the massive vase with water. I wrench them out of her hand and water spills down the front of my thin dress. Now I’m everyone’s teenage dream.
“Daisy!”
“No. No. No.”
It is three steps to the backdoor, four to get down the stairs, and then I pitch the flowers into the trashcan out back. There, inside the bin, a small envelope taunts me from atop the discarded stems.
He is never one to overlook details; the envelope is a shade of pale pink that enrages me.
“Are you going to read it?” Madeleine asks. She’s leaning over my shoulder, staring down at the envelope.
“No.”
“Maybe it says something nice?”
I ignore her. As his sister, she can’t help but want to defend him. She always has.
“How did he write it?” I ask.
“What?”
I keep my tone even. “If he is in California, how did he write the note? That,” I point down, “is his handwriting.”
“Oh. Well…”
“Madeleine.”
“I thought you knew…”
My mouth is the Sahara. My words rasp out like a dry wind.
“You thought I knew what?”
“He’s back. He moved back last week. I really thought you knew.”
Just like that, my parade is over, and confetti is stuck to my shoes.
I don’t hate flowers; I hate daisies. They give me hives. They’re the flower everyone wants me to be. The world sees me with my pale blonde hair and my big, shining blue eyes and they want to pat my head and plant me in their gardens. I’m not a daisy. I’m a doctor. I never want to be reduced to a daisy, and Lucas knows this better than anyone.
I drag Madeleine up to my room after I stuff the lid back on the trashcan. If Lucas has moved back to Hamilton, I need to know why. Like a chipmunk collecting nuts, I need to gather intel in my cheeks until they pop.
“Madeleine. Why is he back?”
“Well he’s finished with residency, like you, so he came back for a job.”
She isn’t meeting my eyes.
“What job?”
She wrings out her hands, nervous.
“At Dr. McCorm—”
“NO!” I erupt. “GOD NO!”
She finally turns to me, her face twisted in sympathy. “I’m sorry, Daisy! I thought you knew! Why wouldn’t Dr. M tell y’all you’d be working together?”
I hold my hand to my throat and feel my pulse—racing. I drop it and start to pace. There has to be an explanation. The facts are simple: Dr. McCormick owns the only family practice in town and he’s hinted about retiring. His office is a one-man operation and he offered me a job during my last year of residency. Obviously, I took it, hence the celebratory parade.
So how the hell does Lucas factor into the equation? I clutch to a rapidly shrinking shred of optimism. Maybe Dr. McCormick needs an office manager, or better yet, a janitor.
Madeleine crosses in front of my path, momentarily stalling my paces. “Don’t you think it’s time you two put this weird animosity behind you? It’s been 11 years. You’re both on the cusp of becoming successful doctors. Surely you don’t still hate each other!”
I laugh. It sounds hysterical.
“Madeleine, Madeleine, Madeleine.”
“Stop saying my name.”
“Do you remember when Mrs. Beckwith, the school counselor, pulled Lucas and me into her office during our senior year? After the parking lot incident?”
“No—”
“It took one hour for us to break her. She gave up counseling. Quit that same day, moved to upstate New York and started farming root vegetables. She said Lucas and I had—and I quote from her resignation letter—‘robbed her of all faith in the future of humanity’.”
“That sounds made up.”
“I know your brother—probably much better than you do. We will never get along. 11 years apart is nothing. It has changed nothing. If anything, it’s given our animosity time to mature like a fine wine—or better yet, a stinky cheese.”