Page 8 of Every Chance After

Grady’s hand is no longer hooked to my insides, thank goodness—that felt so embarrassing. A cold metal thing sticks out from my belly instead, pinning me together. Best not to think about that. He holds my free hand in both of his beside me, warming me like a glove, and our hands stick together from the blood residue. My French manicure, white with light gold sparkles, curls around Grady’s sun-browned, dirty hands, making my skin look paler than usual. It’s a ghost hand holding onto a live one.

“This’ll pinch a bit,” says the paramedic.

Grady grips my hand tighter, fixing my attention. “So, there’s Triscuit. Tell me about your other cats.”

“Hershey,” I whisper against the oxygen mask, holding back a whimper as a needle punctures my arm.

“It’s just the IV. You’ll feel better with fluids and meds.” He leans closer, nearly to my ear. “Let me guess. Black cat?”

“Long-haired. And my tabby, Sunkist. Rescues. From the dumpster behind Sunny’s.”

“Triscuit, Sunkist, and Hershey—sweet.” His lips edge into a side-smile. “Surprised we haven’t met before.”

I use a Wilmington vet who offers free shots, spaying, and neutering for newly homed stray cats, but I keep that a secret to avoid offending him.

Even so, I’ve seen Grady Tripp before. Everyone knows the Tripps. But Grady gets the most attention in gossip circles, first for being the eldest, most handsome, and most mysterious brother, but a close second for his unfriendliness. He’s known as Grouchy Tripp. He left Seagrove and his father’s generous offer to take over Tripp Family Farm while working as the town’s only vet for a wife and swanky practice in Charlotte, but returned two years ago with neither and has all but taken over his dad’s farm, anyway.

Sirens echo, muffled by the oxygen hissing and the ambulance rattling. My abdomen rips with pain, like I’m an acupuncturist’s practice dummy, and he’s getting it very,verywrong. Lightheadedness brings bile rising in my throat.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt, “but I might be sick.”

The paramedic raises my mask and holds a plastic tub to my face as I roll gingerly to my side.God, it hurts.

Nothing comes out, but fresh agony surges across my midsection for the effort. “Sorry,” I manage again.

“No apologies. It’s like I tell my brothers,” he says. “A body must what a body must.”

Grady’s voice pulls me from my dry-heaving, and I picture his close-knit family—him with his four brothers, hocking loogies or farting or whatever gross things boys do when they’re together. I’ve never had that. Even Ashe and I still keep those things private—proper decorum, Cora calls it.

Now, with my guts open and stomach churning, I wonder what she’d think of me. Or if you can really claim to belong to someone without being privy to their farts and vomit and whatever else.

Oh, my God! Why am I thinking about that right now? Is this delirium?

He eases me back on the gurney, dabs my face with a towel, and replaces the oxygen mask. “Just breathe, okay? You’re safe. You’re in good hands. Everything’s okay. Breathe.”

“Truth?”

“Truth. That’s our deal.”

He’s surprisingly gentle and comforting for someone so gruff—something I once experienced firsthand, though he clearly doesn’t remember. I do as he says.Relax, Marnie. What’s done can’t be undone.But at the mercy of my circumstances, it’s impossible to calm down. I’m reminded of times with Mom, when I felt helpless and desperate. The more I think about it…

Missing my wedding.

Upsetting Ashe and his family.

Disappointing our guests.

The money lost on food and flowers.

My dress. Oh, my dress.

The honeymoon. We’re supposed to leave Sunday morning.

… the worse I feel, like the knife hit my heart, too, cutting it into pieces. Tears slip from my eyes—Inevercry.Never.It’s the life code I adopted at fifteen—no frowns, no fears, no tears. But aches and a sharp gnawing burn my midsection. Excruciating pain is the one understandable exception to my no-tears rule.

I got stabbed.I could die.

I crumble a little more, imagining leaving this earth with a stranger holding my hand. The pastel card I left unopened on my kitchen table haunts me now. I knew it was from her—her curvy handwriting gave it away. She never does anything without drama. Should I have opened it? Somehow, I imagined that tearing open that envelope would set off her Marnie-spidey senses, and she’d show up in one of her classic states (she called them her upsies and downsies) and ruin everything. Now, the day’s ruined anyway, and I wish she were here, freaking out and making a fuss.

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