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57

Eva

When Jonathan comes in, I’m on the hospital bed, attached to a morphine drip that works at the press of a button. I haven’t pressed it once. At this point I know better than to take my hands off the wheel.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

“Alive. You?”

“Slightly less than that,” he says. I’m actually a little pissed that he’s relatively unscathed. He probably has a nice buzz. I have stitches.

“Thanks for not taking out a nerve,” I say.

“Right back at you.” He rubs his bruising neck.

I sigh, scanning the trendy hospital room. “No offense to your brother, but I have to get out of here.”

I hate hospitals. I mean, everyone does, but a hospital is the first place I landed after my parents died. I had medical treatment while the police waited outside to interview me. After that, my life was never the same.

“I have a room at the Ritz,” he says carefully. “I can book another. I’m sure you don’t want to share a room after what I did.”

“It’s fine,” I say. I can practically see his heart catch in his throat. “I might need you. I might pop a stitch or something.”

“I have a fully stocked first aid kit.”

“Of course you do. Your brother said no sex.” He didn’t, but it’s funny.

“We’ll have to get a second opinion.”

I laugh. I shake my head, and then suddenly I’m overwhelmed with sadness. It’s like the sadness that has been chasing me my whole life catches up with me all at once. Dying will do that to a person. Because I did actually die.

Mas was there when I woke up. He walked me through everything.

“I didn’t tell Ethan this—God knows he’s dramatic enough—but you flatlined,” Mas said. “You were dead. I brought you back.”

“Did you have to?” I joked.

He made a face. “Oh my God. You’re perfect for each other.”

It was bravado; I’m sure Mas knew that. I didn’t have a near-death experience. I didn’t see the light. Not that I should be surprised. Odds are, Heaven is not where I’ll land. But all this time—through every reckless, silly, stupid thing I’ve done—I’ve never really believed I could die. Death is scary. Even scarier than living, it turns out.

Jonathan gets down on his knees beside the bed. He clasps my hand. “I want you to know that I meant what I said. I love you. I promise I will never hurt you again.” Even if he’s not still trying to kill me, that seems pretty unlikely.

I’m so sad that I can’t even laugh. I can’t even force a smile. “This is never going to work, is it?”

“I think both of us just need to stop,” he says. “Stop jumping to conclusions. Stop thinking three steps ahead.”

“Easier said than done.”

“I know.” He kisses my knuckle. Then my palm. “But I trust you.”

“You better. Mas told me your real name.”

“What’s yours?”

“Annika.”

He kisses my pinkie knuckle. “It’s so pretty.”

“I know. Never say it again.”

“Right back at you,” he says to me.