I press my lips together and nod. “That’ll do. Yeah. Send him in.”

Thirty-Five

He peeks his head in the door, and it’s so weird to see him in this situation, with me lying here all vulnerable like this. His dark hair is disheveled and he’s wearing an Angotti’s shirt, as if he came straight from work.

There’s a look on his face that is so pained, I almost feel like I should offer him some meds—they’re starting to kick in, numbing some of my aches.

He sees my eyes are open and he stops and just stands there, six or eight feet away, like he’s feeling bad for intruding. “Hey,” he says, and his voice cracks on that one syllable, and then he’s bringing his hand to his eyes, and his shoulders start to shake. I watch him react, and a lump rises to my throat. I am overcome.

“Oh, hell, Jules,” he says after a minute. “Oh my God.” It’s all he can say.

“I must look really terrible to get that reaction,” I say, slurring my words. I’m starting to feel a little loopy from the drugs. “Come and sit. Aren’t you supposed to be at the dance or something?”

He comes over and eases into the chair by the bed and just looks at me, all this pain in his face that won’t go away.

“Hey.” I reach out my right hand toward him. “Why so serious?” I tease.

He takes my hand in his, holds it to his warm cheek, and leans in and hesitates, then gently strokes the hair off my forehead.

“I just—” he says, and the words are so hard for him that I want to find my Crescent wrench and yank them out. But I stay quiet. Because the truth is, he thinks he owes me this. I understand that. And he does owe me, but not for saving his life. He owes me something else.

“I—” he starts again, and this time he continues. “I’m so sorry. Jules, I’m . . . God, I was so wrong, and I didn’t believe you and I should have, and I feel so . . . so guilty about it, I feel terrible about everything. About not believing you, and about the last few years, which . . .” He sighs and shakes his head. “I’m just ashamed of the way things have been, and . . . the way I treated you.”

I touch my thumb to his lips and he closes his eyes.

And then he goes on. “When they couldn’t get you out at first, you almost died, and they had to use the Jaws of Life . . . and Trey was begging the paramedics not to take him away because he couldn’t leave you . . . I mean, I just wanted to die too. And I can’t believe I let this happen because of our stupid families.”

I blink hard. Jaws of Life? I almost died? “So that was me in the second bag,” I murmur.

“What?”

I try to focus on him, but I’m starting to get sleepy again. “In the final vision, there were still two body bags in the snow, but one of them went away.” I close my eyes and can’t open them again. “That must have been me.”

Sawyer squeezes my hand and presses his lips against my fingers. “I’m sorry.”

“Hey,” I say. The thoughts and words I mean to say are jumbled up in my head, and none of them come out at all, and then I’m slipping away again.

• • •

The third time I wake up, I see the face I’ve needed to see this entire time.

“Hey, good morning, Baby Bop. All purple and green.”

“That’s not nice,” I say, grinning sleepily. “That’s a great, um . . .” I point to his neck. “What’s the word?”

“Scarf?”

“No.”

“Noose?”

I laugh. “Ow. No, like Fred What’s-His-Name wears.”

“Who?”

“You know. From Scooby-Doo.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Oh, an ascot.”

“That’s it. Is it new? Oh, hell, this joke isn’t even funny anymore.”

He adjusts the white brace around his neck. “You like it? It came free with the whiplash and approximately two trillion dollars in hospital costs. My sister’s a crazy driver.”

“It’s lovely.”

Trey smiles and reaches toward me, fixes my pillows. “You okay, kiddo?”

I nod. “They call me the girl who lived.”

He smiles, and then grows serious. “I’m sorry I doubted you.”

I take his hand. “You didn’t doubt me. You believed me. Or else you wouldn’t have come.”

“Actually,” he says, cocking his head, “I was just delivering a pizza down the street and saw the truck, thought I’d say hi.”

I roll my eyes. “So, what’s everybody saying? Where’s Mom and Dad?”

“Mom and Dad were here overnight. You slept the whole time, they said. They just left when I came. Rowan’s home getting ready for the big day-after-Valentine’s rush.”

I laugh and pain sears through my side again. “Stop hurting me.”

“And the news story was interesting but fleeting. You had your fifteen minutes while under the knife, sad to say. But we were superheroes there for a minute or two.” He leans toward me conspiratorially. “You were, actually. But I was happy to take credit during your incapacitation.”

“Oh, good job, vice president of awesome. So . . . what do Mom and Dad think about me stealing the food truck?”

“It was a bit of a shock. They didn’t know you’d ever driven it before, so obviously they think you’re going to become a crazed food truck thief. And probably a mobster, too. An addicted one.” He gives me a sad, sideways grin. “Truth is, they think this is all Sawyer’s fault, and he’s turning you into some lovesick emo rule-breaker. I’m not sure this whole thing did your relationship any favors.”