Don’t get involved. They keep yapping over what would’ve been at the wedding and theories about a more suitable woman for Ashe. That they speak so disparagingly of Marina and completely disregard the true culprit in all this—me—makes me want to jump in and defend her. Somehow.

Someone bumps me from behind, nudging me into one of their messy buns.

“Watch it,” she says.

“Shut up and move up,” I bark.

“Rude,” she gasps before obeying. “I swear, the oafs around here!”

“Yeah, we’re almost as bad as the fucking busybodies.”

Finally reaching the counter, I hand the barista my thermos to fill with overpriced coffee. Rushing to The Beast parked outside, I glimpse The Seagrove Groove on a table, its headline larger than usual—The Wrecked Bride.

I hate this town.

Driving home, I go slowly around the same curve where I hit her. The road is scarred with brake marks on her side and the gray ashes of flares, burnt out. And the guilt crashes over me again.

Her red hair flayed on the gray concrete.

Her labored breathing.

Holding her delicate hand.

I still feel it. Feel her.

At home, I enact my plan, anxious to melt into one of my few pleasures. Within ten minutes, I cast my first line into the glassy lake. The dogs whimper at my feet, so I throw a ball from their toy basket. Harley gets there first, or maybe the boys let her have it—hard to tell sometimes. Blackbeard’s as good on three legs as most dogs on four, and Hannibal doesn’t let his shorter legs hold him back. Harley prances in her win, racing through them to return the prize to me.

My phone pings with a text from Mom.

Want half of a Valentine’s Day cake? It’s delicious. I could bring it over.

No.

Grady, I’m worried about you.

I’m fine. Fishing. With the dogs.

As much as I know you love one-sided conversations, the dogs may not be the best therapists right now. Would it hurt to have some company?

Yes. Conversation scares the fish.

Marnie’s doing well. Father Andrews offered prayers for her at church today. Cora gave an update—good as new in no time.

No. She’ll never be the same again, not that I dare explain that to Mom or anyone else. I wonder how she’s handling it. If she’s talked to someone. If she needs anything.

My phone buzzes in my hand again. It’s Colin, asking me to dinner at their house tonight.

A minute later, a text from Luke, inviting me to the bar later for half-price beers.

Mom must’ve sent out the family Bat-Signal.

I toss another ball for the dogs. Hannibal gets it first this time, promptly rolling around in a patch of grass as his victory lap.

It could’ve happened to anyone. There’s nothing to feel bad about.