“Yes, I know.” It feels like the moment I came out of surgery, trapped by cords and bedding, confused and hurting. So, I react in a way Cora understands. “You surprise me, putting him on a plane with me here. Aren’t you concerned about… what was the word you used when we discussed putting Wren on the floor? Optics?”

Her red lips widen. “You always think about the family. I love that about you.”

“I don’t want anyone thinking badly of Ashe for leaving.”

“They won’t, not after all the wonderful pics and positive updates he posted yesterday. For all anyone knows, you encouraged him to go.”

I nod. As usual, Cora thought of everything.

Ivy bounds into the room as if she senses my distress. “Sorry to interrupt. Ready for more moving and grooving soon, Marnie?”

“Yes!” I answer a little too loudly. “If that’s okay, Cora.”

“Of course!” She glances at her fancy watch. “If I leave now, I’ll make it to Saint Francis’s before the choir starts. I’m lighting a candle for you, Marnie.”

“Thanks.”

She gathers her bag at the bed’s end and rests her hand on my covered foot. “Your family is here for you. When you get out, come home with me for your recovery—no arguments. I’ll have a room prepared. I’ll check in later.”

Then, in a brisk wind of expensive perfume, she clicks into the hall.

“Oomph.” Ivy tugs my blankets back. “She’s a force to be reckoned with.”

“I once saw her drop kick a shoplifter and put him in a choke hold until the police arrived,” I say. “She didn’t even wrinkle her suit.”

“Impressive.”

I lift myself from the bed, refusing Ivy’s extended hand. I fight through the soreness with quick, determined steps.

“Look at you!” she beams. “You’ll be running marathons in no time.”

“Is the doctor here? I’d like to see her if she has time.”

She checks her watch. “She should be in shortly for rounds. Why? Is something wrong?”

“No, not at all. I need to talk to her about getting out of here. Early.”

8. Grady

CHAPTER EIGHT

Grady

The line for coffee at Moon Beans & Books is atrocious. Six customers await service ahead of me. I fold my arms over my chest, hugging my thermos, and stare at my boots, hoping my cap and general bad attitude prevent anyone from talking to me—usually, people know better.

I shouldn’t be here.