“Hi, Grady Tripp. Marnie, here’s the biggest ice pack I could find. Apply it at least three times a day to keep the swelling down,” she says, handing over a thick, blue patch.

“Thanks.” Marina drops it in her suitcase.

Ivy looks at me, hands on her hips. “I feel slightly better about this since you’re here. I was starting to worry that no one would show.”

“Still waiting on those papers, Ivy,” Marina says. “I know I’m your favorite, but seriously. I’ve got it covered.”

“Okay, okay. But I don’t like it.” Ivy bounces from the room.

“What doesn’t she like?” I ask.

“That I’m leaving.”

“Isn’t that… good?”

Marnie shrugs, winces, and then eases herself onto the side of the bed. I meet her there, anxious to help.

“I’m fine, Grady. I need breaks, that’s all.” She manages a weak smile, but I don’t trust it.

“Why doesn’t she like that you’re leaving?” I try again.

“The doctor wants me to stay another day or two, but we eventually agreed it wasn’t necessary.”

“What the hell, Marina?” I demand, my abated frustration making a quick return. “That’s ridiculous. You should stay. Why argue with the doctor?”

She winces at my abruptness but doesn’t lose her friendliness. “Thanks for your concern, but I know what I’m doing.”

“No, you don’t. This was a major surgery, not a damn oil change.”

Her bright, denim-blue eyes narrow, but her smile stretches at my harshness. “This is why they call you Grouchy Tripp, you know.”

“I’m serious. Wait… Do they?”

She nods, her left brow cocked high on her forehead.

I take a deep breath, not surprised. “Call me whatever you want, but going against a doctor’s advice is risky, even dangerous. If the doctor says stay, you should stay.”

Her head tilts as she peers up at me, seeming to evaluate my frustration. I rake my fingers over my head before perching both hands on my hips.

“I need you to relax, Grady,” she says, almost breathless but still managing a weak smile. “The rest of Seagrove might tolerate Grouchy Tripp, but here, now, I don’t have the energy. So, either he goes or you do.”

Her words stun and disarm me. Was I being harsh? I rethink our conversation and realize, alarmingly, yes. I don’t notice how I come across to people anymore—I often don’t care.

But with her, I do. She doesn’t deserve my harshness. She doesn’t deserve any of this.

“I’m sorry,” I say, dropping my hands from my hips and taking a breath.

She smiles. “Good, now that the grouch is gone, I’m happy to explain.” She motions to the chair in front of her. “Sit down.”