Annabel and Momma leave, promising to return in the morning.

It’s a little after seven when I finally get the okay to go to Abby’s room. At first, I think I’m not gonna get a chance to talk to her about anything important because her momma’s still there.

This is gonna be bizarre as hell, pretending to be her boyfriend when it’s so over.

But the moment I see Abby, take in her bruised and battered face, dark and swollen, none of that matters. I take her hand. Lean forward and kiss her head. I would’ve done that anyway. Despite our past, Abby is still an old friend.

“Can you talk?” I ask in a hushed tone.

“A little.” Her lip is swollen, her voice low but steady.

“I’ll go get some coffee. Give you two a minute.” Martha pats our joined hands before heading out the door.

As soon as she’s out, Abby squeezes my hand. “You didn’t tell them.”

“No.”

Her eyes shut in relief. “Thank you.”

“I’m sorry you’re hurting. I’m glad you’re okay. What happened?”

She grimaces in pain. “I can’t talk about it.”

“Okay. Fine, I get it. But . . . I need to talk to you about your parents. We have to tell them the truth.”

Her head shakes and her eyes are filling with tears. “No, Fitz, please. Give me a little more time.”

“Abby, you need to talk to someone about all of this. Your parents can get you help. They love you, they want what’s best for you.”

One of her monitors beeps but the numbers mean nothing to me. Abby starts to shake and cry, tears falling freely down her face. This isn’t manipulation, not anymore. She really looks like hell warmed over.

“Okay, okay,” I relent. “You don’t have to say anything yet. But Abby . . .”

I’m going to convince her to come clean soon, but how can I when she’s in this condition?

“It’s fine,” I say and she finally starts to calm down a little. “It’s all going to be fine.”

I really hope I’m telling the truth.

21

The truth does not change according to our ability to stomach it.

—Flannery O’Connor

Reese

When my phone rings on Saturday midmorning, my heart leaps. Fitz!

But it’s not Fitz.

“Annabel?”

“Hey, I wanted to let you know everything is okay. Abby is okay.”

“I’m glad.” I am, but I’m more concerned with someone else. “How’s Fitz?”

“He’s fine. Everyone’s tired and hungry, I think. Hospital food is terrible. They think she’s gonna be released later tonight.”

“That’s good. What happened?”

“She crashed her car.”

“Oh no,” I breathe.

“We aren’t sure exactly how it happened, but the cops think she intentionally drove off the road.”

Guilt swamps me.

I knew Abby had problems, and now that I think back, they’re smacking me right in the face and a few times upside the head for good measure.

The manic episodes, the neediness, the depression . . . the constant desire to take out her insecurities and problems on me as the nearest and most convenient punching bag.