I lower myself into a chair, still too shaken by the sight of Isaiah like this to trust my legs.

“They said I broke my femur,” he whispers. “And a couple of ribs.”

I nod, not that he can see me. He can’t seem to keep his eyes open. I want to ask him what on earth he thought he was doing, getting behind the wheel after drinking, and why the fuck he was drinking in the first place. Instead, I say, “You’re strong. You’re gonna get through this.”

“Carter?”

“Yeah, buddy?”

“Don’t tell my dad. Okay?”

I know he’s confused—delirious from the meds and the trauma. But the words are like a blow to the chest.

I won’t tell his dad. I can’t. Because his dad is dead, and if I were the hero everyone claims I am, he wouldn’t be.

Teagan

There’s a knock on my door way too early on Sunday morning. I groan as I roll over in bed and look at the clock. It’s just after eight a.m.

I pull a pillow over my head. What kind of sadistic asshole thinks this is an appropriate hour to wake me up on my day off?

“If you don’t answer this door, I’m going to assume it’s because you’re in my brother’s bed, and I’ll gossip with the girls about it at breakfast!”

Shay’s warning has me bolting upright and flying toward the front door.

On my way, I grab my robe from the hook in the bathroom and shove my arms into the sleeves. I don’t bother to tie it as I stomp toward the door. If Shay doesn’t want to see me in my boy-short “Can’t Touch This” undies, a tank top, and no bra, then she shouldn’t be pulling me out of bed with threats of Jackson family gossip.

I unlock the door and open it, scowling. “What do you want?”

“Cute panties.” She grins and folds her arms. “But you don’t look like you spent your night getting ravished.”

“Because I didn’t.” She’s all sweaty and in shorts and a T-shirt so thin that I can see her blue sports bra through it. My scowl deepens. “Have you already worked out? Do you know how early it is? Don’t you ever sleep in? What is wrong with you?”

Completely unfazed by the bite in my tone, she pushes past me and into my house. “I ran here. Because, as you know, it’s Sunday, which means I’m having brunch with the family later.” She plops down on my couch and arches a brow. “A brunch at which you’re likely to be the main topic of conversation if you don’t show your face.”

It’s not uncommon for me to go to the Jackson family brunch. In the four years since I moved here, the Jacksons have become my surrogate family of sorts. They’re the kind of people who are more inclusive than exclusive, so they make it easy for a single girl like me to have a place that feels like home. But that’s on days when I didn’t just have a hot make-out session with one of the Jackson brothers.