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“Mom, why is the coroner at Grandma’s play with you?” I had a sneaking suspicion why but I wanted confirmation.

“We’re dating. He came with me.”

“That was really nice of you,” I told Dave, the coroner. I was impressed.

He shrugged, looking a little sheepish. “It seemed important to your mother so sure, why not? But we need to get you off for an X-ray and some stitches.”

“Thanks, Dave.” I looked at Jake and said, “Clifford has my phone.”

“You kids, always so worried about your darn phones,” Grandma said.

“Can you get it and tell the audience the play will resume in five minutes?”

“We’re finishing the play?” Grandma asked.

“The show must go on,” I told her, channeling my inner actress. “I don’t want to disappoint anyone.”

“This show has been really entertaining so far,” Jake said, giving me a smile.

It didn’t reach his eyes though. He looked worried about me.

I was a little worried about me too. The pain was making it difficult to think. But he did go and retrieve my phone from Clifford, who didn’t appear to be an accomplice in my attempted murder. Or his own.

But there was honestly no telling at this point.

My father appeared and he looked worried as well. “You okay, Ginger?”

I hated that nickname but because he looked genuinely concerned it actually dredged up nostalgia for me. It reminded me of being a little girl and crawling into his lap.

“Dave says I’m going to live,” I told him.

“Who the hell is Dave?”

“Me,” the coroner said.

“He’s dating Mom.”

My father’s cheeks turned redder than usual. My mother looked smug.

Jake smoothed my hair back and kissed my forehead before leaning up and picking me up in the most incredible display of strength and sexiness yet.

The whole auditorium suddenly started clapping.

“This could be romantic.” I flung my arms around his neck. “Except I’m trying not to throw up.”

I also didn’t know where the hell Sara had gone but I felt safe with Jake.

“I wouldn’t even care if you did,” he said.

And I believed him.

Five hourslater I was comfortably ensconced on our sofa in our newly redone and serene living room. Jake had propped my ankle on pillows and gently placed an ice pack on it. I had refused the painkillers but I was given four ibuprofen at the hospital, which had dulled the pain. I had six stitches from the laceration and the verdict was a sprain.

Considering it was the same ankle I had sprained when I got hit (intentionally) by a car in the fall, it wasn’t surprising that I’d reinjured it in my fall. The light had caused the cut, not the sprain, according to the general consensus of Dave, the ER doctor, Jake, and my opinionated mother.

My father had no opinion, had just offered me a drink when he had driven Grandma home after the play.

She was sitting across from me now in an easy chair watchingThe Bachelorwith me.