“You’re kidding.”

“I wish. So the neighbor took me and they set my arm, and then they sent protective services out to my house the next day, but my mother explained the situation away, and that was that.”

Oliver shook his head. “I don’t understand parents like that,” he said.

“Neither do I.” I looked across the waiting room without really seeing anything. “That’s one of the reasons I was so hooked on Trey,” I said. “His family. I loved them. They were normal.” I shook my head at how pathetic that must sound. “They were very kind and loving. I hated losing them.”

“Do they know their son lied about driving the night of the accident?” Oliver asked.

I loved hearing those words from his mouth. I loved that he’d believed me about Trey driving. He was the only person who did.

“His parents were really … compassionate to me after the accident,” I said. His father had said, “Anyone can make a mistake,” to me as I sat numbly in their living room two days after it happened, the stitches on my forehead burning. “It’s what you do about that mistake that matters.”

“Eventually, though, I started telling the truth,” I said. “That their son had been driving. And of course, like everybody else, they thought I was lying.” I’d lost them then. Lost their sympathy. Their love. I lost my place in their hearts, which I’d believed to be so secure. “I’ll never know if they actually believed Trey over me,” I said. “They acted as though they did. I guess they had to. He was their son, and I was not their daughter, much as I wanted to be. I’d become a liability.”

Oliver’s hands rested on my shins, and he squeezed my left leg through my jeans. “I’m sorry,” he said. Then, “So I guess that was your other time in the ER? The accident?”

I hesitated. “Yes,” I said.

“You told me you weren’t injured.”

“Just a scratch.” I lifted my bangs to show him the scar. “Five stitches. I got off easy,” I said. “But I’d rather not talk about it.”

“Gotcha,” he said.