“Yeah, usually just on horses,” he chuckles, “but I thought it’d be nice to get it out of your way. Is that okay?”

“Yes, thanks, but Grady Tripp being nice?” I mumble through heavy breaths.

“Desperate times and all.” He moves away from me and grabs a scrunchie from the counter to tie the end.

I lean against the tub’s edge and close my eyes. “Mom used to do that.”

“Braid your hair?” he asks.

“For school. On good days.”

“What do you mean? On good days?”

My eyes open, but barely, enough to see him leaning against the back of the door, hands in the pockets of his scrubs. My temples pound with pressure, and I feel flushed and embarrassed, on the floor against the toilet and babbling about Mom.

I brace myself against the tub’s edge to get up, and he quickly assists me.

“Easy,” he says.

“I think I can move to the couch now.”

“Good.”

We navigate the narrow hallway slowly and with little contact as if braiding hair and mom-talk cross an invisible line between us, and we need to pull back.

He retrieves the water and pill, and soon, I feel good enough to keep it down. He opens a window to air out the floral smell and warms up Elena’s chicken soup, assuring me “from experience” that it’s easy on the stomach.

It’s delicious, teaming with chunky vegetables in a creamy broth. The cliché is true—homemade is always better. It’s a shame I rarely get it since I don’t cook. I enjoy it slowly. And soon, my head isn’t spinning. After an hour, Grady gives me a second dose of the migraine medicine, and belly-full and headache numbed, I comfortably drift off to old British mysteries on PBS with my cats curled beside me.

When I wake, the room is dark except for the glare of the TV. My head is sore but not hurting. The same with the rest of me. I spy a note on the coffee table.

Marina,

Anytime for anything. I mean it.

Grady.

I’m glad he’s gone, not because I don’t want him here. There’s something extremely comforting about him. But he has a life, a career, and a busy family to contend with, and he shouldn’t feel guilty over me. Besides, I don’t want Ashe or Cora to get any wrong ideas.

Cora visits the next morning and seems almost surprised that Grady isn’t here. We’ve texted a few times—he likes checking in—but I haven’t needed anything except time to recover.

“Keep your distance from him, Marnie,” Cora says. “He’s liable for everything. More if we file a civil suit. The pain and suffering alone⁠—”

“I don’t want that. Please, Cora. I don’t want this to be any worse than it already is.”