He cups my cheek in his palm, grazing his thumb along my skin. “We’ll come back.”

“Corabelle.”

My eyelids flutter, rejecting the artificial light spilling into my irises. The poetic sound of ocean waves transforms into angry beeps and buzzes, humming machines, and jumbled voices. My lips are dry and chapped as I part them to speak. “Dean?”

I’m met with a moment of silence before a familiar touch strokes my hair back. “It’s me, sweetheart.”

“Dad?”

Another presence nears the edge of my bed where I’m lying beneath itchy sheets, hooked up to needles and monitors. “Oh, Cora, baby,” my mother says as she sits beside my father.

I blink, willing their blurry faces to come into view. “How did I get here?”

I try to remember the events leading up to this moment. I try to recall the reason I’m lying in a hospital bed with my parents looming over me with tearful faces.

“You overdosed on your sleeping pills. Dean went to your house to check on you and found you unconscious. He called 9-1-1,” my mother tells me. “Oh, sweetie.”

She drapes herself over my stomach and starts sobbing as nurses begin to filter in, poking and prodding me.

Oh, God.

Memories trickle through me, and I feel sick.

I wanted to die.

I genuinely wanted to die.

Tears brim in my eyes, and I can hear my heart monitor start to climb as my breathing escalates. I lie there, dazed and horrified, while a nurse relays information to my parents in a voice that sounds like the adults in Charlie Brown. I wonder if I’m still underwater.

After the nurses check my vitals and file out, I glance up at my mother standing at my bedside. “I-I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything.”

“Honey, none of that matters right now,” she replies, placing her hand against my shoulder. “We’ll talk later. You just need to get better.”

“Where’s Mandy?” I ask, my voice fracturing. “Did she want me to die?”

My father lets out a long sigh, somber and weighty. “Of course not, Cora. Your sister has been worried sick. She’s just down getting coffee.”

I swallow back an acidic lump. I want to ask my next question, but I can’t get the words out—they don’t seem at all appropriate. But the words must be written in my eyes because my mother dips her head, squeezing me gently.

“Given the situation, we thought it would be best if he weren’t here, honey. But he’s extremely worried about you.”

My cheeks burn with shame. I shouldn’t be wanting him here with me. I shouldn’t be silently begging for Dean to be holding me in his arms, kissing away my tears, and singing away the darkness. My parents shouldn’t know that’s exactly what I want, just by looking at me.

My father takes my hand in his. “Your sister filled us in on what happened. She feels responsible. I know this is going to be an uphill battle for both of you, and your mother and I are not taking anybody’s side here. We love you both. Our hearts are breaking for each of you.” He kisses my knuckles. “We’re just so grateful you made it through.”