Hell, that’s what I do.

Unless there’s a problem.

I practically plaster myself to the wall, listening by the door. It’s wrong, I know. But I must know she’s alright to minimize the agony over what I’ve done. If she’s fine, it’s a wrecked car and a wedding to reschedule—we all move on.

If she isn’t… well, I have to know that, too.

With a gentle breath, the doctor says, “Surgery went well. You suffered damage to your large and small intestines, but we patched those easily. Your iliac artery was nearly severed. The paramedic said that someone at the scene applied a clamp?”

“Um, yeah. Tripp. Grady Tripp.”

A pained smirk travels across my lips, and a tear slips down my cheek, hearing her say my name again, especially like that.

“He saved your life,” the doctor reports.

I hate hearing that—I’m the villain here.

“He’s also the asshole who hit her,” Ashe scoffs, reading my mind. “So, she’ll be okay?”

“The uterine artery was also damaged,” the doctor continues, “and your uterus. We repaired the arteries, of course, but there was too much damage to the uterus. Irreparable damage, unfortunately. A hysterectomy was our only viable option.”

No, no, no. My back slides against the wall until I crouch over the floor. My guilt compounds into a boulder on my shoulders, an imaginary world, heavy and untouchable—an existence that could’ve been hers and now never will be. I did this to her. I took away her choice. Her children, if she wanted them. Her family. The weight feels unbearable.

“I don’t get it,” Ashe says.

“Recovery from surgery will take several weeks. You have a nasty hip bruise to contend with. Barring any infection or complication, Marnie will make a full recovery. However⁠—”

“I can’t have kids,” she says in a wildly unemotional tone. “No uterus means no kids.”

“Oh, Ashe.” Cora’s voice trembles.

“What?” Ashe demands loudly. “Is this a sick joke? She comes in here for a car accident, and you’re telling me she can’t⁠—”

“I shouldn’t have had the knife in my lap,” she says. “It slid around the passenger seat on the curves, and I wanted to keep it from falling into the cracks or on the floor. It was a dumb mistake. An accident. It’s my fault.”

“No, it’s that asshole’s fault for hitting you,” Ashe corrects rightly.

“The hospital provides counseling services,” the doctor offers, “or a Chaplain, if needed. The important thing is that she’s going to be okay.”

“Okay? She’s not okay,” Ashe argues. “She’s…”

His voice trails like he can’t finish his sentence. I wonder, briefly, what he would’ve said. Broken. Defective. Unfixable.