Page 52 of Near Miss

Because driving his two teenage daughters off a bridge was apparently the final straw for my father, and they don’t give livers to people who can’t stay sober. But I was a perfect match.

My brain whirs back to life, and it screams at me:Back away from the ledge because you’re going to fall. You’ve already fallen off once, and you might not survive again.I give him a small smile. “Something like that.”

The corner of his mouth kicks up, and his dimple pops. “That’s the third time I’ve asked you a question like that and you’ve given me that same answer.” I’m not sure what to say, but the sharp planes of his face soften, and he whispers, “That was brave of you.”

I don’t think it can be considered being brave when you think you might regret it. When you did it because the only thing you’ve ever known was giving away pieces of yourself.

“Coming to the hospital was brave of you,” I offer quietly. I mean it.

His eyes flash with a wince. “Yeah, well, if you ask Nathaniel, I should have been running PR stints there and fundraising for kids with cancer since he set foot through the door.”

I shrug one shoulder. “Grief is complicated.”

Beckett starts to shake his head, brow creasing. “Grief?”

“Grief,” I repeat. Those lines stay between his brows, and his lips turn down. He still looks confused. It looks cute on him, but I cock my head. “Have you ever grieved?”

“What do I have to grieve? Sarah lived.” Beckett rolls out his neck, like he can shake it all off, like it’s this nothing thing.

“Your childhood?” I ask. He doesn’t answer, but his shoulders slump an almost undetectable amount, and I can tell he’s hurting. I sit forward, stopping his hand where his fingers still toy with my shirt, interlacing them with mine. “Imagine a positive, healthy, but hypothetical childhood. What would that look like? Would it look like yours did?”

He glances down at our joined hands, thumb brushing over the back of mine. “Huh. There you go again. Seeing right through me.”

When he looks back up, he stares at me a little too intently, so I push my shoulders back and let go of his hand.

If he’s bothered, he doesn’t let on. He pushes back, hand resting behind his head again, and he rolls his neck to look at me. “What was your childhood like? It’s just you, your sister, and your dad, right? Do you—”

I spare him from trying to find a polite way to ask whether I ever had a mother. “I don’t really remember my mom. She left when I was four and Stella was two.”

“But you were her kids.”

We were. But she was also my father’s wife and I don’t think she could live with him for a second longer. Her self-preservation instincts kicked in, and for some reason, they didn’t include us. She’s not around for me to ask her, but she got out.Stella says I have more grace for her than I do anyone else, and I think that might be true. Sometimes, I understand why she did it and I’m not sure it’s entirely unlike all the lines I try to uphold. “It’s okay. I hope she’s happy, wherever she is.”

I mean that, though.

Beckett looks at me, and it’s another look that’s a bit too much, but he raises his eyebrows before reaching forward and grabbing the remote again.

“You’re quite something, Dr. Roberts.” He’s not looking at me when he says it, but his voice is low, and the line of his mouth looks like it might be curving upwards into a smile.

I don’t answer, but I sit back against the headboard, my shoulder resting against his while he flicks through the channels. He stops on one, glancing sideways at me and grinning. “American Psycho? Seeing as you love the fictional restaurant so much you have a shirt with its logo.”

“Sure.” I nod, even though I know I should ask him to leave, and I should go to sleep and let those lines around me darken their ink so I can wake up tomorrow and remember that boundaries exist to keep people like me safe. “We can watch.”

And we do.

We get about halfway through when my phone starts going off with a page. My eyes cut to where it sits on the windowsill, and I’m hardly paying attention when I pick it up.

But when I see the screen, I inhale, a small audible gasp of excitement, and I’m climbing out of bed and over Beckett.

I glance back at him, holding up the phone. “I’m so sorry, I have to go. But you can stay—finish the movie. Shower, sleep. Whatever. Just press the lock button on the keypad when you leave.”

“I take it that page means good news?” He smiles faintly.

“Yes.” I smile—it’s wide, and my cheeks hurt—pressing my hand to my heart. I think the beats are telling me that this iswhat it was all for at the end of the day. For my sister, for my father. For every other person I get to give life to. “A liver. For someone who’s been waiting a long time.”

“Someone who deserves it?” Beckett asks quietly.

He looks at me, and I know the question is bigger, grander, than just those four words strung together. My hand presses harder into my chest, and I give him a smile I hope he knows is just for him. “Everyone deserves a second chance, Beckett.”

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