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My chest tightens as a lump starts to form in my throat. I look away for a moment, blinking back tears. “Was the airway even your part of the surgery?” I ask, my voice muted, slightly hoarse.

“It doesn’t matter. He was my patient, and I told him he’d be fine. I was so fucking sure of myself.” He flinches, as if it’s just happened, the hand closest to me curling into a fist.

Even if he’d never ask for it, he needs something right now. He needs to be reminded he isn’t alone, that not everyone loathes him the way he seems to loathe himself. I scoot closer, until my arm presses to his, and rest my head on his shoulder. His closed fist relaxes. “And you left?”

“I stuck it out a few more months, completed a training at the Cleveland Clinic as planned. Then Ella left and I just…called it. It’s all for the best. I make ten times what I would in pediatrics.”

I hate Ella more than ever now. How could she have done that to him? Did she really not understand how guilty he must have felt? All she had to do was be patient, and she couldn’t even give him that.

It makes sense to me that he’d choose a more painless path. What I don’t understand is why he went so very far in the other direction.

“If you don’t want Ella back, does the money really matter that much?” I ask softly.

He glances at me and away. “I suppose not. But I had a certain future ahead of me, and suddenly it was gone…I needed a new goal.”

Except he chose a goal that will never make him happy. I wonder if he realizes it. I wonder if it’s ever occurred to him that he could have a life like this one with someone: waves crashing in the darkness a few yards away, a woman with whom he can share things, one who wants to give him everything.

Our bare calves brush against each other—smooth to less smooth. I picture sliding my legs over his, glancing up at him to gauge his reaction. Would his hand land on my hip to pull me into his lap? Would he roll me beneath him, his weight pressing me hard to the seat?

Would we ruin everything?

I set my wine on the table and climb to my feet. “I should get to bed. Big day tomorrow.”

His eyes travel over me for one long moment, climbing from hips to breasts and settling, finally, on my mouth. “Ah, yes, the line at Starbucks. I can see where you’d want to rest up for that.”

I scurry back to my room, certain I’ve narrowly avoided making the worst mistake of my life. But then I lie awake, twisting in the sheets, wishing that, just once, I could stop being so fucking responsible.

28

Light is filtering through the windows when I wake. I push the hair out of my face and roll to look at the clock on the nightstand.

8:32.

It’s a punch to the stomach, remembering. A year ago, nearly to the minute, my father was in the car with Charlotte on the way to get donuts. It was his idea, of course—he’d use any excuse to get his hands on junk food—but he said it was to get Charlotte more practice behind the wheel.

I picture his heart attack from her vantage point, again and again: panicked and inexperienced, with no idea how to help him and unable to find a place to pull over. She hasn’t been behind the wheel since.

I assume there will come a time when I can think of my father without imagining his last moments. When I can remember him and feel happy instead of lost. But it’s probably a long way off.

I release a single slow breath, waiting for the grief to lessen, and then I throw off the covers and force myself to move on with my day. I rinse off quickly before donning a T-shirt and shorts and brushing my teeth. My hair remains unruly and I refuse to do a thing about it…I’m on vacation after all. Plus, I secretly suspect Hayes is the sort who likes things a little untamed.

“Rise and shine, pumpkin!” I call as I venture into the living room. “It’s time for Starbucks!”

He wanders out in shorts and a T-shirt, hair rumpled and deeply in need of a shave, sweetly sleepy-eyed. He yawns, stretching his arms over his head, and I picture waking up to him just the way he looks now, though in my imagination both the shorts and shirt are entirely absent.

Great. It’s not even nine AM and I already need another shower. As cold as possible, this time.

“I was sort of hoping you’d surprise me by getting the coffee before I woke,” he says, taking a seat at the counter. “I really hope Starbucks isn’t the extent of today’s plans.”

I roll my eyes. “You know this is supposed to be my weekend off. Maybe I figured you’d entertain yourself.”

“I did that last night in the shower. Now I want you to entertain me.”

I laugh, unwillingly, but not before I picture it in all its hard, wet, soapy detail.

Whoa. Down, brain.

Hayes jerking off in the shower is not where I need my thoughts focused today. “Fine. We’re going surfing. I know you’ll claim you’re not interested, but Matt and I went a few times and I think you’ll like it.”