Page 70 of Ethan & Grace

“I’ll see what I can do. You can take a seat for a moment.”

I thanked her again and sat down on one of the uncomfortable chairs. They reminded me of the police station—and of Ethan. I wished he were here to have my back, perhaps even to hold my hand. But he was in Cambridge for the weekend visiting his best friend James. I missed him more than I ever could have imagined, which was a pretty alarming realisation.

I didn’t know what had happened during the two months I’d been away from the hotel, but it was clear Ethan had changed during that time. It was as though a switch had been flipped in his head. The selfish, arrogant, self-absorbed playboy had somehow turned into a considerate, helpful, and attentive man—one who could very well be my downfall if I wasn’t careful. Because no matter how much I might want to, I couldn’t give him my heart. It was too broken. And you shouldn’t gift broken things. I pulled out my phone to message him anyway.

Me:

How’s Cambridge?

His reply came almost instantly: a selfie of him and James on the sofa in James’s flat. In the background, a huge TV showed whatever game they were playing, and the table in front of them was covered in takeaway boxes. But my eyes lingered on Ethan, who grinned into the camera with tousled hair and, unusually for him, a hint of stubble.

Me:

You look happy.

Ethan:

I’d be even happier if you were here.

Me:

You’re sweet.

Ethan:

I know. What am I missing in London?

Me:

Not much. I’m at the hospital.

I had just pressed send when my phone started ringing. Ethan. I declined his call.

Me:

Don’t worry. Nothing’s happened. I just want to get hold of Amy’s medical file. Maybe there’ll be something in it that could help us.

Ethan:

Don’t scare me like that! I was all set to hijack James’s Maserati.

“Grace?” I looked up to see Garrett a few steps away. He’d changed quite a bit since Amy’s funeral. His auburn hair was shorter now, and he’d grown a moustache that made him look older than his twenty-six years. Though that also might have been thanks to the dark circles under his eyes. I wondered if they came from working night shifts or from grief over Amy.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Hey, so you’re still alive.”

He grimaced. “Sorry I never called you back.”

“Let me guess. You were busy.”

“That too. But mostly I was trying to avoid you,” Garrett confessed, running his hand over his cropped hair. His honesty caught me off guard. “You just look so much like her. You’re even wearing her coat.”

I stroked the mustard-yellow fabric. “It reminds me of her.”

He nodded. “I still have her things at my place. One of my flatmates packed them into a box so I don’t have to keep looking at them, but I still take them out every day. I just can’t let her go.”

I bit back the remark that he should have shown this much interest in Amy when she’d still been alive. But reproaching him wouldn’t change anything. At worst, it would annoy him, and I needed his help.