“He’s making it worse,” she counters, voice shrill. “Inserting himself into your life, taking advantage of Ashe not being here, doing all these favors, he’s buttering you up.”

“He feels bad,” I say weakly. “He’s trying to make up for it. Besides, the help has been nice.”

“He’s only being nice to protect his wallet. He doesn’t care about you. That one doesn’t care about anyone except himself.”

I don’t know what she means by that one. That Tripp. That man. That human. Not that it matters. His reputation makes it hard to argue.

“I don’t know him well, but that’s not what I think.”

“Exactly! He’s putting on a caring show for you, appealing to your good nature so that you won’t sue the pants off of him.” She shimmies to the edge of her chair, leaning closer like a TV news reporter in a tense interview. “You don’t see the lasting implications yet. You’re young and still recovering. But as someone who struggled to get pregnant, who battled the shame and disappointment of infertility for years before our miracle happened, let me tell you… this is only the beginning of the devastation that man has caused. You will feel this loss every day for the rest of your life.”

She’s right—the impacts haven’t hit me yet. Physical pain has taken priority over long-term effects, and I’m almost grateful for it. Considering every day for the rest of my life is an overwhelming prospect.

Cora smiles weakly, like she knows her words have gotten through to me. “Enough of that. Now, Marnie. What can I do for you, huh? I took the afternoon off, so give me one of your famous to-do lists.”

A chuckle emerges, thinking of my infamous list-taking at Sunny’s. I have a notebook for it—a repurposed Trapper Keeper filled with every concept, idea, display creation, and, yes, many lists, I’ve had since starting. I call it Marnie’s Market Manual, and it’s become a running joke at work. I’m rarely seen without it. Right now, it’s safely locked in my desk at work.

Giving my boss and future mother-in-law a to-do list seems like a bad move, so I do what I always do. Tell her I’m fine, but ask, gently, for her to bring my notebook next time she visits.

“If I’m couch-ridden, I might as well get some work done,” I tell her.

She claps her hands, beaming with pride that Sunny’s is on my mind, and promises to bring it.

Only she doesn’t.

Not at her next visit, days later.

Or at her final one.

14. Marnie

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Marnie