Page 20 of How to Walk Away

Chip blinked at the question. “I think so. Probably.”

“It’s six in the morning.”

But he was studying my face. “You used to be so beautiful—and now you look like a pizza.” He made himself laugh with that one, and Nina and I stared as he doubled over for a second and hung from his waist, his shoulder shaking with chuckles. Then he stood up. “But I just kissed you anyway! Because you”—here, he held up an imaginary glass for a toast—“are the love of my life.”

I looked over at Nina, who lifted her eyebrows to see if she needed to stay.

I waved, like,No big deal. “I’ve got it.” Whatever he was about to say, I certainly didn’t want her hearing it. I didn’t even want to hear it myself.

Nina set the nurse buzzer next to my hand before going. “Call if you need me.”

I turned back to Chip. “Where have you been, Chip? I’ve been waiting for you.”

I hated the way my voice sounded. I’d learned many boyfriends back that desperation never works. You can’t ask someone to love you or bethere for you or do the right thing—and you certainly can’t guilt them into it. Either they will or they won’t. I’d have sworn that Chip was a guy whowould—up until the crash, at least.

Suddenly, I wasn’t so sure.

“Do you know I escaped that crash without a scratch?” Chip said then. “The plane is totaled. You”—he let out a bitter honk of a laugh—“are totaled. But me? Nothing. I didn’t even get a Band-Aid.”

“Chip, what are you doing?”

At the question, he crumpled down beside the bed—literally fell to his knees on the hospital floor, his hands in fists around the bedrails—and he broke into sobs.

It was a shocking sight. I’d never seen him—or any guy—cry like that. My father never cried. He got wet eyes at funerals sometimes, but always quietly, stoically—nothing like this. This was shoulder-shaking, full-body sobbing. I poked my hand through the bars and stroked Chip’s hair.

“Hey,” I said, after a while, as he started to quiet. “Maybe you should go home and get some sleep.”

“I can’t sleep,” he insisted. “I don’t sleep anymore.”

I made my voice tender. “I bet you could, if you tried.”

He broke away—pushed off from the bed and paced to the far wall. “Don’t be so nice to me.”

“You’re overwhelmed. You need some rest.”

Now he was mad. “Don’t tell me what I need!”

“Chip,” I said. “It was an accident.”

But that just made him madder. He stared straight at me. “I ruined your life.”

“You didn’t. It was the weather! It was the wind!”

“You’re blamingthe wind?”

But who else could I blame?

“You’re better at self-delusion than I thought. Have you seen yourself? Have you seen yourface?”

I hadn’t, actually. My mother had covered the mirror in the bathroom with a pillowcase. Not that I could have stood up to see into it anyway.

“You’re like something out of a horror movie! Because of me! I did that.”

Wow. Okay. “The doctor said there’d be minimal scarring.”

“Not on your neck. Those arethird-degreeburns. They’re never going to heal right. They will look like Silly Putty until your dying day. You’ve got me to thank for that—me and my ego and my insecurities—” He shoved his hand into his hair. He looked a little green, like the alcohol was catching up with him.

“It was an accident,” I insisted.

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