Page 11 of Every Chance After

The teal scrubs clash with my black-rubber paddock boots, not that it matters. I meet the nurse in the hall, and she leads me to a private waiting room.

She equips me with a clipboard and pen. “Fill this out as best you can. I’ll be back with updates.”

“Thank you,” I mutter, regretting how I snapped at her.

I stare at the forms, surprised when I start filling in the blanks with what I learned at the accident.

Full name of patient…Marina Ann Strange.

Age and birthdate…25, February 14, 2000.

Allergies…None.

Medical conditions…None.

Employment…Sunny’s Beach Market.

My handwriting is jagged, with my hands still trembling. I drop the clipboard into the empty seat next to me and bury my face in my hands.

Marina, please be okay.

I don’t know how long I sit there. Maybe I drift off, repeating the same prayer. But I don’t look up until I feel a firm hand grip my shoulder.

“Son?” My father’s deep but gentle voice, his worn but friendly face, his large, sturdy frame all call to me at once.

I stand, falling into his outstretched arms. “Dad.”

“Wade called. Got here as soon as I could. It’s okay. It’s all okay.”

“No, it isn’t.” What’s left of my strength melts into him, like I can’t grip it any longer, and he’s all that’s holding me up.

He pats my back, hanging on while I confess, “I fell asleep, hit her, she’s… she’s hurt, Dad.”

“It was an accident, Grady. Nothing more.”

“No, it’s my fault. She was supposed to get married today...”

My voice trails off. I haven’t cried like this in years, not since losing…I can’t think about that now.I feel small and devastated, wishing I could take her place, wishing I could rewind time and make better choices, go a different route, anything to have spared her this. Wearing comfortable scrubs against my father’s nearly invincible shoulder, I feel like a child in pajamas, being consoled after a nightmare.

Only the bad dream is real.

“It’s okay, Tripp,” another voice cuts through, splintering my moment with Dad. “Wade and I are here for you, too.”

“No, we’re not.” Wade shoves a paper bag at me. “Here’s what we could salvage from your truck.”

I eye the contents—a hoodie, my medical bag, odds and ends, and my phone. The screen is cracked, but it works.

“We brought Marnie’s things,” Christie chimes in. “Her phone. Her veil, though it’s… how is she?”

“She’s… I don’t know.”

“Cops’ll be here soon,” Wade says. “They’ll have questions.”

“They can wait,” my father insists as I plop back into the nearest chair and run my hands over my fuzzy head. I plant my elbows on my knees, staving off a rising panic.She has to be okay.

“They don’t take kindly to assholes who leave the scene of an accident,” Wade says gruffly.

“What are you implying?” Dad returns, hands going hip-side.

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