Page 14 of Every Chance After

Please, let her be okay.

I peek through the opening, over their shoulders, and between their bodies.

I remember the crowded hospital room Dad was in after his surgery. Despite the traumatic circumstances that landed him there, the room was filled with laughter, love, and relief, and everyone felt happy seeing his smile and hearing him crack jokes.

There’s none of that here. There’s only tension and anxiety.

Another sickening feeling sweeps me when I see her—copper hair against the white pillow, her face pale, her arm and chest wired with tubes and monitors. Her wedding dress is gone, surely filling a biohazard bag by now, and the usual hospital garb swallows her like a fallen tent. Her make-up has been washed away, revealing a dusting of freckles under her eyes. She looks young, weak, and pained, but Ashe’s arrival brings a wide smile, lighting her up.

“Marnie,” he cries out, going to her side. “Are you okay?”

“Getting there. Sorry about the wedding.”

“It’s okay. We’ll figure it out.”

Then, he must kiss or embrace her because she says, “Easy, Ashe.”

“Oh, sorry, babe.”

“Doctor, this is my fiancé, Ashe.” Her voice sounds tired but still cheery somehow. “And his parents, Cora and Wes.”

“Miss Strange?—”

“Oh, call me Marnie, please.”

“Marnie, I want to review your surgery and the extent of your injuries—privatemedical information. It might be best for everyone to wait outside.”

“It’s fine. They’re the only family I’ve got,” she responds with forced cheer.

I peek around the corner to see the white-coated doctor sitting on a rolling stool beside her, tablet in hand. In my experience, doctors don’t hang out with patients after surgeries. They check in, read charts, and disappear.

Hell, that’s what I do.

Unless there’s a problem.

I practically plaster myself to the wall, listening by the door. It’s wrong,I know.But I must know she’s alright to minimize the agony over what I’ve done. If she’s fine, it’s a wrecked car and a wedding to reschedule—we all move on.

If she isn’t… well, I have to know that, too.

With a gentle breath, the doctor says, “Surgery went well. You suffered damage to your large and small intestines, but we patched those easily. Your iliac artery was nearly severed. The paramedic said that someone at the scene applied a clamp?”

“Um, yeah. Tripp. Grady Tripp.”

A pained smirk travels across my lips, and a tear slips down my cheek, hearing her say my name again, especially like that.

“He saved your life,” the doctor reports.

I hate hearing that—I’m the villain here.

“He’s also the asshole who hit her,” Ashe scoffs, reading my mind. “So, she’ll be okay?”

“The uterine artery was also damaged,” the doctor continues, “and your uterus. We repaired the arteries, of course, but there was too much damage to the uterus. Irreparable damage, unfortunately. A hysterectomy was our only viable option.”

No, no, no.My back slides against the wall until I crouch over the floor. My guilt compounds into a boulder on my shoulders, an imaginary world, heavy and untouchable—an existence that could’ve been hers and now never will be.I did this to her.I took away her choice. Her children, if she wanted them. Her family. The weight feels unbearable.

“I don’t get it,” Ashe says.

“Recovery from surgery will take several weeks. You have a nasty hip bruise to contend with. Barring any infection or complication, Marnie will make a full recovery. However?—”

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