“Emma.”
It cracked in the middle, a fault line.
“Hi,” I said. I hovered near the foot of the bed, hands shoved into the pockets of my coat like they might bolt if I let them out. “You look… okay.”
She huffed out a laugh that turned into a cough. “You always were terrible at bedside small talk,” she said.
I shrugged. “You always did prefer Lily’s.”
The joke hung there between us, half-hearted and heavy.
She looked away first, toward the window.
“I’m not going to yell,” she said quietly. “The nurses would kick me out.”
“That would be very on brand for us,” I said.
She smiled, just barely. Then it faded.
“I asked your father to call you,” she said. “I didn’t know if you’d come.”
“I almost didn’t,” I admitted. “But… here I am.”
She nodded, eyes shining.
“I’m not dying,” she said quickly. “Just… a scare. A reminder that I’m not twenty-five anymore.”
“Right,” I said. “Good. I mean, not good, but… you know.”
We fell into silence again, the machines filling in the gaps with their steady beeping.
“I’ve had a lot of time to think,” she said suddenly. “Hospitals will do that to you.”
I waited.
“About you,” she continued. “About us. About… money.”
The last word came out like it tasted bad.
“You taught me a lot about money,” I said. “Mostly what not to do with it.”
A ghost of her old glare flickered in her eyes. “Still with the smart mouth,” she murmured. “You get that from your father.”
“I get my spreadsheets from me,” I replied.
She took a slow breath, as if collecting herself.
