I groan over Mom’s text while yet another comes in. Marty—my only sibling not in town. He joined the Peace Corps, currently doing humanitarian work in Haiti.

Hey, you okay? Mom sent an all-caps text for me to reach out. What’s going on?

A turtle prowls around my line, ready to steal my bait. Not that anything’s biting. I reel in an empty hook, debating whether to cast it again, and consider my family’s onslaught.

They mean well, and asking them to back off wouldn’t do any good. And maybe they shouldn’t. If one of my siblings had caused the accident, I’d be by their side, ensuring they were okay. I don’t let family down. Not like I used to.

Are you family? The nurse’s voice replays in my head along with my lie. Yes.

“Shit,” I mutter, getting up and calling for the dogs. Distraction is only temporary, and what’s the point?

I return all their texts, politely refusing their offers while reassuring them that I’m okay.

But I’m not. How can I stop thinking about her? And what kind of shithead would I be if I did?

Besides, I made a promise.

It’s midafternoon when I arrive at the hospital and snake my way to her room. The Valentine’s Day balloons and bouquets are gone, and the place is quiet. I steel my nerves with a deep breath, expecting the worst. The Sullivans will probably kick me out within five minutes, and part of me wants them to. If she or they don’t want me around, staying away will be easy. I promise myself to avoid confrontations, if possible. All I need is to see that she’s okay.

Finding Marina dressed and standing over an open suitcase on the hospital bed surprises me almost as much as finding her alone. Sunlight streams through the window behind her, dancing through the thin sundress she wears and delicately revealing her soft curves. Her long hair is pulled to the side, waving lightly down her chest. She looks… lovely.

It’s a relief, seeing her this way. It’s the first time I’ve seen her look normal—not lying on the ground or in a bed or bleeding or in pain.

But the pain is there. She winces with her movements, struggling to haphazardly fold the messy clothes pile with one hand while balancing a cane with the other. She closes her eyes to the pain, almost like she’s shutting it in.

A light knuckle rap against the open door brings her attention to me. A warm smile miraculously replaces her obvious discomfort.

“Tripp Grady Tripp.” She drops what looks like a bikini into her suitcase and waves me in. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Um, really?” I say.