Author: Kristan Higgins

“That’s right. Blame the victim.” Ethan grins. “Good night, Nick the Tick,” he says, hugging his son. He winces slightly—he’s probably a mass of bruises, let alone the concussion and gash on the head. Hit by a car. My brain leaps away from the image of him tumbling through the air, the dull whump sound his body made when he landed on the street…I choke out another cough, wave to Corinne, Chris and my mother as they make their way out, too.

And then it’s just Ethan and me. I help him button up his bloodied shirt, my fingers shaking as they fumble to get the job done. I can smell the sharp scent of disinfectant, can see where blood has matted his hair.

We don’t speak.

Finally, after what seems like ages, yet another doctor sticks his head into the room. He looks at Ethan’s chart, then does a double-take when he sees me. “Okay, Mr. Mirabelli. Tylenol for your headache, a nice hot shower. You’re gonna feel like you were hit by a car tomorrow.” He smiles at his own joke. “Got someone to stay with you?”

“Yes,” Ethan says.

“All right.” He hands Ethan a copy of instructions. “You’re one lucky bastard,” he says.

“That I am,” Ethan agrees.

The doctor starts to leave, then turns to me. “You’re Jimmy Mirabelli’s widow, aren’t you?”

I blink. “Yes,” I answer.

He looks at Ethan. “So you must be Jimmy’s little brother.”

“That’s right,” Ethan says smoothly.

“I’m Tony Aresco,” he says. “I went to high school with Jimmy.” He gives that sad smile I’ve seen so many times in the past five and a half years. “Great guy. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Thanks,” I answer.

“Take care,” he says. He gives my shoulder a squeeze as he leaves.

I stand there for a second, then pick up Ethan’s shoes and hand them to him. He doesn’t put them on, just places them carefully on the bed, then looks up at me, his hair sticking up on the side where they put the stitches.

“Are you feeling okay?” I ask.

“I’m fine,” he says for probably the fiftieth time tonight. Those brown eyes are steady on me. Ethan knows me, after all, knows me better than anyone, really, and no one has ever accused him of being dumb. My eyes sting as they fill with tears.

Ethan sighs, the sigh of the defeated, and looks at the floor. He knows. “You may as well say it,” he says quietly.

I bite my lip hard enough to taste blood. “I’m so sorry, Ethan,” I whisper, because whispering is easier with the stone in my throat. “I can’t do this. I want to, but I can’t.”

He doesn’t answer for a second, still staring at the floor. Then he shakes his head slightly. “Okay, Lucy,” he says, weariness weighing down his voice. “If this is what you want, fine.”

And just like that, we’re done.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

FOR THE FIRST TIME IN SIX YEARS, I spend the night at my mother’s. The last time I did such a thing was right after Jimmy died.

The house where I grew up is not a place I spend a lot of time. Since Christopher and Corinne have been married, holidays have been spent at their place. Mom’s has changed a lot since I was a kid, as my mother exhibits the same delight in dressing the house as she does herself. I haven’t yet seen the new color palate for the living room—celery-green, white and red. It looks like the waiting room of an upscale salon, which is to say, vaguely superior and not very welcoming.

“Here,” Mom says, nudging my arm with a glass of something. “Looks like you need it.”

I take a sip. Whiskey. It burns down my throat, which surprises me a little, since I’m fairly numb.

“I take it you and Ethan broke up,” Mom says, sitting next to me and slipping off her red high heels. She takes a sip from her own glass.

“Yes,” I say.

She nods.

“I know why you never got married again, Mom,” I blurt. “I’m sorry I bugged you about it all those times.”

“Not that Joe Torre isn’t a nice man, mind you,” she says with a smile. Then she sighs and slides her arm around me, pulling my head down so it rests against her shoulder, and I inhale the comforting smell of her Chanel No. 5. “Ethan’s a good boy,” she murmurs. “And don’t worry…he’ll do fine. He’ll find someone else. You haven’t ruined his life, sweetie.”

I try to picture Ethan in the future, a wife, a couple more kids, but instead, I see Captain Bob, forever fixated on a hopeless cause, drowning his love in alcohol. It would be good to cry about now, but the pebble seems to be acting like a cork. “I called him over, Mom,” I whisper. “That’s why he got hit by a car.”

She snorts. “Well, I’d say he got hit because that idiot cop would rather run down a human than a papier-mâché clam. Honestly, I’m surprised those troopers don’t kill more people.” She takes a pull of her own drink. “And those uniforms are just ridiculous,” she adds, her mind ever on clothes.

“The night Jimmy died,” I say, my chest convulsing, “I told him I missed him. I wanted him to come home, and I should’ve told him to stop, take a nap, get a room, something—”

“Honey, stop,” she says firmly. “Stop. You’re being ridiculous. You didn’t cause Jimmy’s death. If you’d known how tired he was, you would’ve said just those things. You didn’t know because he didn’t tell you. And you didn’t cause Ethan to get hit tonight.”

I nod obediently.

“You’re not going to work tomorrow,” she says. “Jorge and I will take care of the bread. It won’t be as good as yours, but it won’t be horrible, either.”

“Thanks, Mom,” I say.

She stands up and hauls me off the couch. “Lucy,” she says, pushing a lock of hair behind my ear.

“Yes, Mom?”

She sighs. “Sweetie, I know you’re hurting over Ethan. But look at it this way. Life’s going to be a lot less complicated if you stay alone. It doesn’t sound very exciting, but there’s a lot to be said for playing it safe.”

I nod. She sure has a point. Ethan wasn’t safe. Not for me, not from me, and we’ll both be better off. I can’t live life fearing that every time my husband leaves the house, I’ll never see him again. Life will be clean and smooth—like this living room, maybe. Not really the place you’d choose to be, but not bad just the same.

“Finish that whiskey,” Mom commands. “It’s the good stuff. Then get into bed. You can wear some new pajamas I just bought from Nordstrom’s. They’re silk.”

I SLEEP HORRIBLY, THE MEMORY OF ETHAN’S accident playing over and over in my brain, the sound of the car hitting him, of his vulnerable, helpless body thudding onto the hard pavement. I didn’t want to break up with him, not when he was hurt, but he knew. And I just can’t be with him. I tried, but I can’t.

I’m sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the cupboard door, when Mom comes home from the bakery that afternoon. “Look what came to the bakery today,” she says, dropping her keys on the table. She’s holding a bouquet of white roses in her arms. “They’re for you.”

Listlessly I open the card, feeling more tired than I have since those endless days just after Jimmy died. “‘Sorry such an awful thing happened,’” I read aloud. “‘If there’s anything I can do, say the word. Matt DeSalvo.’”

“How nice,” Mom says, bustling the flowers over to the sink, where she fills up a vase. “He called this morning to see how Ethan was. And how you were, of course. Very kind of him.”

“And how is Ethan?” I whisper, my eyes stinging.

“Well, actually, he called, too. Said he’s a little sore but otherwise fine.” Mom pauses. “I told him you might stay with me a couple of days.” She fusses with the flowers, filling a vase with water.

“Thanks,” I say. I grab a napkin and wipe my eyes. I’d called Ethan to see how he was—I needed to know he was okay, no matter what the status of our relationship—but he was sleeping, Marie said, and doing fine. After I hung up, I spent an hour and a half on the Internet, looking up “concussion” and “closed brain injury,” then called Anne in a panic with a dozen or so somewhat terrified questions about the possible complications. She put my mind to rest—sort of. You never knew what might happen.

Mom slaps the vase down on the table, making me jump. “Are you going to do that bread deal?” she asks. “Have you signed anything yet?”

“Nope,” I said. “I mean no, nothing’s signed, and yes, I think so.”

She sits down next to me. “Well. I think it’s a good idea. Now. Do you want me to cook something for dinner?”

“I should run home and check on Fat Mikey.” He’ll need food—plus, he misses me if left alone for too long, which I can tell by the way he ignores me when I return. “Can I bring him here for a day or two?”

“He’ll probably hate being moved, but sure,” she answers. “Okay, I’ll make dinner. We’ll eat around, say, six? You’d better get going, then. Jump in the shower, honey. You smell a little funky.”

AN HOUR LATER, I’M STANDING IN FRONT of the Boatworks, wondering if Ethan’s home. How he’s doing. If he’s mad/sad/completely disgusted with me. I don’t have to wonder for long. Parker comes bursting through the doors, Nicky in tow.

“You!” she says, and I resist the urge to dart behind the lamppost for protection.

“Hi.” I reach down and pick up Nicky, kiss him on the cheek. “How’s your daddy?” I ask.

“He’s good. I beat him at CandyLand. He was only in the Peppermint Forest when I won. And Nonny made me pancakes for lunch.”

“Good for you, Nicky,” I say.

“Lucy, walk with us,” Parker says in a terrifyingly cheerful tone. “Nicky and I are going to the playground, right, pal?”

“Yup! I’m gonna go on the slide,” Nick tells me. “You can come, too. I’ll teach you. It’s not scary.”

“Actually I have to—”

Parker grabs my arm and goose-steps me across the street. “Lucy and I will watch you, Nick. Have fun!” she orders merrily, shooing her son over to the jungle gym. “We’ll be right here!”

The second he’s out of earshot, she whirls on me, two pink splotches burning on her cheeks. “Are you out of your mind, Lucy?” she hisses.

“Look, I know—”

“You dump him in the hospital? When he’s bleeding from the head and has just been hit by a car?”

“It wasn’t like that,” I say, swallowing. “I wasn’t going to say anything, but—”

“But what?” she demands.

“But…but…” I stop, swallow again, hard. “But he knew.”

“Knew what?”

I close my eyes. “He knew, Parker.”

“Knew that you’re scared? That it was sickening, seeing him hit? That you love him? That you’re afraid he’ll die? Knew what, Lucy?”

Suddenly my temper flares. “Don’t judge me, Parker. Okay? I did my best, I really did, and I just can’t do it. You don’t know what it’s like.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Parker says sharply. “Did you want me to pity you? Because I thought you wanted to be a normal person.”

“Well, I’m not a normal person,” I blurt, my voice harsh and shrill. “There’s something wrong with me. There’s a hole in me and Ethan can’t fix it and neither can I, and you just don’t understand, so don’t lecture me about what I can and can’t do, okay?” The thud of Ethan’s body hitting the pavement echoes in my mind, and I clamp my hands over my mouth and bend over, the horror of the memory, the fear causing me to gag. Nicky pauses from the top of the slide, looking over at us.