“I need you over here, babe,” I call. Loudly. There. Babe. Not a term that can be misconstrued. Babe is someone you’re sleeping with. You don’t call someone babe without good reason.

Tommy Malloy nudges Ethan’s arm and makes some comment, and Ethan, not taking his eyes off me, grins. Relief sings through me—I didn’t blow it after all. I smile back, warmth rising in my heart as I look at the man I love. Because yes, I do love Ethan, and it’s time he knew it.

Ethan waits a second—Ed’s driving Stuffie past just now—then, when the clam passes, starts into the street, each step bringing him closer to me. His eyes are on me, that smile still in place, and my heart swells.

Then one of the boys who bought the pumpkin cookies slaps a shot into the street. Another boy darts out in front of Ed Langley’s truck, hockey stick in hand, and smacks the makeshift puck into a storm drain. Ed stomps on the brakes—he’s only going about ten miles an hour—and yells at the kid, who runs into the crowd and disappears. No harm done. But Stuffie, unsettled by the lurching stop, sways, then slowly, inevitably tips into the street with a crash, right in front of an oncoming state police car.

Lights flashing, the cruiser swerves around the fallen Stuffie, then jerks back to correct course.

And hits Ethan.

Ethan tumbles through the air like a rag doll. My hand reaches out helplessly as he lands on the pavement with a sickening thud, ten feet in front of the cruiser.

He doesn’t move.

The images rain into my head like bullets. The cop car screeches to a halt, the officer already on his radio. Ethan is so still, but pandemonium explodes all around him. People are screaming, and Tommy Malloy races to Ethan’s side. Parker, too, emerges from the crowd, running to Ethan, her long hair wild around her face. He still hasn’t moved. Ed Langley’s out of his truck, his hand covering his mouth in horror. Roxanne the waitress is on her cell phone. Ash joins the crowd at Ethan’s side, her chains swinging as she crouches next to his body. His body. I look down the street and see Nicky’s eyes wide with terror, his mouth open in a scream, but I can’t hear him over the roaring in my ears. Doral-Anne picks him up. Ethan has not moved. There might be blood. I think there’s blood. Christopher, who was required to take a paramedic course before Corinne would agree to have children, materializes as well and puts his hand to Ethan’s head, then withdraws it. Yes. There’s blood.

“Oh, my God, who is that? What happened?” my mother gasps.

I turn to her. “Ethan got hit by a car,” I say, and then the grass is under my face, damp and cold, and welcome, because at least now I don’t have to watch Ethan die.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

ETHAN IS TAKEN TO THE HOSPITAL. I, too, am transported, once again, to the Emergency Room, not at his side, as perhaps would be fitting, but in my mother’s car. By the time I’d come to, Ethan had already been packed up into the ambulance, and though I was repeatedly assured that he was conscious and talking, I couldn’t seem to stop screaming his name over and over in a voice so contorted by terror I didn’t recognize it as my own. My memory of those moments isn’t all that clear. I do recall Iris stepping in and slapping me rather hard, which stopped the screaming, at least.

I’m put in a cubicle, as I can’t seem to answer the question as to whether or not I’m okay. Unsurprisingly Dr. Hateswomen is the doctor on call. He asks me if I’m taking any more drugs, drinking or smoking anything illegal. My mother stands at my side, awkwardly patting my shoulder.

“Where is Ethan?” I ask hoarsely, my throat raw, my earlier screams echoing in my mind. I’m shaking uncontrollably, tears streak down my face, and I’ve thrown up twice so far. “Are you sure he’s okay? Is he dead? Are you just afraid to tell me?”

“He’s not dead, honey, but I’ll go check on him, okay?” my mother says. Her face is white but set.

“Have you taken any more of that medication I told you to throw out?” the doctor asks, bending down to peer into my eyes with a searing flash of penlight.

“Turn that light off or I’ll stuff it up your ass,” I snarl, batting his hand away.

“Patient exhibits aggressive tendencies,” he murmurs to himself. “Please control yourself, Miss, er—” he glances at my hospital bracelet “—Miss Mirabelli…or I’ll have to call for restraints.”

“He’s just a few doors down,” Mom says, bustling back into the room. “He’s got a bad cut on his head, but he’s talking and asked about you.”

“Are you sure?” I ask. My stomach convulses again, but I manage not to puke this time.

“Honey, he’s fine,” she murmurs, stroking my hair, such a foreign gesture of motherly love from her that I don’t believe her. Ethan’s dead, or horribly hurt, and no one’s telling me.

Dr. Hateswomen takes out his stethoscope. “If we could stop chatting and get on with this exam,” he says, rolling his eyes.

“Leave her alone, you ass,” my mother snaps. “Her husband died in a car accident, she just watched her boyfriend get hit by a car and she fainted. She’ll be fine. Doesn’t take four years of medical school to figure that out.” She takes my arm in a firm grip. “Come on, honey. Let’s see Ethan. You’ll feel better.”

Ignoring Dr. Hateswomen’s outraged cry of “Patient leaving against medical advice!” Mom leads me down the hall to another examination room. My legs are shaking wildly, and my head seems to be disconnected from my body. Mom would tell me if he was dead, wouldn’t she? She wouldn’t tell me he was okay and then bring me to his body, would she? The tears continue to pour out of my eyes almost without me noticing.

There he is, lying on a gurney, holding a wad of bloody gauze to his head. A woman is pressing on his abdomen. His shirt is open and streaked with blood. His blood. My knees threaten to give out, but I stay upright somehow. “Ethan,” I say in a strangled whisper.

“Hey,” he says, making a move to sit up. The doctor tuts and pushes him gently back on the bed.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“I just got banged up, honey,” he says. “I’m fine.”

“Hi there,” says the woman. “I’m Dr. Pierce. Your husband’s going to be okay, from the looks of it.”

“We’re not married,” I answer woodenly. There’s blood all over the side of Ethan’s face. The pebble is back, and I give a choking cough.

“Ethan, I’ll go find your folks and tell them you’re okay,” my mom says, patting his leg.

“Thanks, Daisy,” he says, sounding reassuringly normal. “Lucy, I’m really sorry I scared you, honey.” His eyes are worried.

“I think you’re one lucky bastard,” Dr. Pierce says cheerfully, “but let’s get you down to Radiology and make sure. We’ll do a CAT scan, just in case we’re missing any internal injuries.” My vision grays momentarily, then clears. Internal injuries. Jimmy’s official cause of death was massive internal injuries. “Sometimes shock camouflages the pain,” the doctor continues, “so we’ll take a look and make sure that spleen is okay.”

Ethan looks at me steadily. More than likely, he knows what I’m thinking. I can’t take my eyes off his bloody face. My hands buzz, and my knees are water.

The doctor glances at me. “Lucy, is it? Have a seat, hon. You’re white as a ghost.” She gives me a squeeze on the shoulder, then leaves the room, calling someone named Karen to transport a patient.

Ethan reaches out the hand not holding the gauze to his head. “You okay, honey?” he asks.

I teeter to the edge of his bed and take his hand. “I’m fine,” I say around the stone. “Are you really all right?”

He nods, then winces. “I’m fine. I guess I’ll need stitches,” he says. “And I’ll be pretty sore tomorrow.” He looks at me seriously. “You sure you’re all right, Lucy? Your hand is ice-cold.”

“I’m fine,” I repeat. I’m fine, he’s fine, everyone’s fine.

“What about Nicky? Did he see me get hit?” Ethan asks.

“I think so,” I repeat, not wanting to tell him that I stood there like a lamppost and watched his son scream. That as half the town rushed to his side, I remained rooted where I was, watching him bleed on the asphalt. That I fainted when he needed me the most.

“Damn it,” Ethan mutters. “Can you make sure he knows I’m okay? He must’ve been so scared.” I nod, and Ethan again looks into my eyes. “Your mom said you fainted,” he says, his thumb rubbing the back of my hand.

“Ethan, I’m so sorry,” I whisper, my eyes filling.

“Oh, honey, don’t say that,” he says, pulling me in for an awkward hug. “Don’t cry.”

I nod and swallow, and swallow again.

An orderly or tech comes in, and I pull back from Ethan and stand on my unsteady legs. She unclicks a few things on Ethan’s gurney. “Going for a little ride, my friend,” she chirrups. “You’re the one hit by the giant clam, right?”

“Police car,” Ethan says, raising an eyebrow mischievously. “Imagine the lawsuit.”

“Yes, indeedy,” the tech agrees. “Okay, big guy. Off we go. Wife, you can stay here or go into the waiting room with everyone else, okay? Back in a bit.”

I float down the hall, my mind numb, to the waiting room. There are the Mirabellis, Gianni’s heavy arm around Marie’s plump shoulders, Marie’s mascara smeared from crying. Mom perches on the arm of Gianni’s chair, patting his back. Parker holds Nicky on her lap, and he’s hiccupping, thumb in his mouth, though he gave that up last year. Christopher and Corinne are there, too, Emma asleep on Chris’s shoulder. Everyone falls silent at the sight of me.

“He seems fine,” I report in a squeaky voice. “They’re doing a CAT scan just to make sure, but he’s awake, talking, all that. He’s sorry he scared everyone.” I crouch down in front of Nicky and stroke his head with a shaking hand. “Daddy’s fine, honey. He has a cut on his head, but he’s okay.”

Nicky buries his face against Parker’s neck. “Did you hear that, sweetie?” Parker murmurs, kissing her boy. “Daddy’s fine. I bet we can go see him when he’s cleaned up a little.”

She’s right. Forty-five minutes later, Ethan has been cleared by the radiologist, and a PA has put seven stitches in his head, who declares this “a beautiful concussion.” Ethan kisses his son repeatedly, is hugged by his mother, watches his father wipe tears from his eyes and reassures everyone that he’s fine.

“Why did Stuffie fall on you, Daddy?” Nicky asks, pressing a button. Ethan’s bed rises a few inches.

“Stuffie and I have never gotten along,” Ethan says. “He’s a big meanie.”

Nicky giggles. “Maybe Mommy can put you in a book.”

“The Holy Rollers and Stuffie the Big Meanie,” Parker says. “I love it.” Ethan smiles at her, then kisses Nicky again.

I observe the whole scene as if I’m floating above it, oddly detached. My heart stutters and races, and my throat is so tight I’m surprised I can breathe, but outwardly, I’m calm.

A nurse pops her head into the exam room after about a half hour. “As soon as the doctor signs your discharge papers, you can go home, Mr. Mirabelli.”

“We’ll wait for you outside, son,” Gianni says. He grips Ethan’s shoulder briefly.

“Thanks, Dad,” Ethan replies.

“Come on, Nicky. We’ll see Daddy tomorrow,” Parker says. She leans down and kisses Ethan’s cheek. “I’m glad you’re okay, idiot,” she murmurs. “Next time, look both ways when you cross the street.”