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Someone touches my arm. “What’s your name?” It’s my dad. When I meet his eyes, there’s fear in them. The color in his face drains. At first I think it’s because of Margo, but he isn’t looking at Margo. He’s looking at me, studying my face like he’s searching for a sign.

“Daniel,” I say.

“What’s your last name?”

“Hansen.”

“You’re not Ashley’s—”

“I’m your son,” I say in a moment of courage.

His eyes widen in horror, and he staggers back. I wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t. Slowly, he shakes his head and leaves without another word.

Pain shoots through me, but I don’t have time to feel betrayed.

The sound of sirens steal my attention, and I rush out the door.

Even though I knew she was sick, I wasn’t prepared to see her lying in a hospital bed with oxygen tubes in her nose and an IV in her arm. Her hair is still curled, and her eyes are glittery, but she isn’t in her dress anymore. She wears a hospital gown. It’s white with blue spots all over it.

Her room is small, especially with all of us in here. Margo’s parents and Annie showed up right away, and we’ve all been here since.

I sit by her side, holding her hand. Her mom paces and her dad sits on the opposite side from me. Annie sits in the chair by the window with a book, but I know she isn’t really reading.

Margo’s eyes flutter.

“Bug?” her dad says.

“Papa?” she says. Her voice is rusty and weak. “What happened?”

“You’re in the hospital,” he says. His eyes are red and puffy, just like everyone else in the room.

Her eyes dart around the room, then her brow dips and she frowns. She stirs, trying to sit up.

“Just relax,” her mother says. She’s standing next to her now, brushing her hair back so it’s not in her eyes.

Margo squeezes my hand. “The wedding. Your dad. I ruined it all.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“But you didn’t get a chance to talk to him.”

I shake my head. “I did.”

She smiles. “You did?”

I soak in the softness on her face. The hope in her stare. I don’t want to take it away by telling her about his reaction. I refuse to tell her about the fear in his eyes or the way he immediately distanced himself. Instead, I smile back feebly, and say, “Yeah.”

“Oh,” she says. “Was he nice?”

I nod.

She closes her eyes and smiles. “That’s good.”

She doesn’t need to know I’m lying. She needs to think I’m okay because I want her to focus on herself. I just want her to be happy.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

MARGO