I sink into my chair while my heart hammers against my ribs.
"She must be doing really well for herself," Uncle Pete mumbles, scratching his head. "Those things cost thousands of dollars an hour."
I try to calculate the timeline, to make sense of what just happened. Blair got that first phone call twenty minutes ago? Thirty at the most? And within that timeframe, she arranged for a helicopter to pick her up in rural Maryland? Who is this woman?
I thought I knew parts of her—the struggling personal trainer, the woman who was sweet and funny and seemed genuinely interested in me. The woman who kissed me like it meant something. But personal trainers don't have helicopters on speed dial. And her last name isn’t Miller.
I start to catalogue all the small inconsistencies I ignored—her expensive-looking clothes, her knowledge of wine, the way she handled the cake situation so easily, her familiarity with property prices.
The betrayal hits me sharp and sudden, like a knife between my ribs. It reminds me of my wedding day. That sickening realization that everything I thought I knew was wrong. She's not who she said she was. She's someone else entirely.
Embarrassment creeps in alongside the betrayal. My family is going to find out I brought a complete stranger to Emma'swedding, that I've been lying to them about having a girlfriend. They're going to realize I don't know anything about this woman—not her job, not her background, not even her real name.
I look up and realize everyone in the restaurant is staring at me. My family, the other diners, the staff. And at their table by the window, Andy and Rachel are watching too.
I can't sit here and face their questions. I can't explain what's going on. A familiar urge hits me, the same one I felt standing in that wedding dress years ago—the desperate need to run.
"I'm sorry," I say, grabbing my purse. "I have to go."
32
BLAIR
The neurological ICU is a maze of beeping machines, hushed conversations, and the antiseptic smell that coats everything in hospitals. I've been sitting in this same uncomfortable chair for ten hours now, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of Danny's chest.
The doctors removed the breathing tube this morning—a good sign, they said. His brain swelling has gone down significantly, and all the monitors show stable vitals. But he hasn't woken up yet, and every hour that passes feels like an eternity.
Mom sits on the other side of Danny's bed, her hand wrapped around his like she's trying to anchor him to consciousness through sheer force of will. She hasn't slept since I arrived, despite John's gentle attempts to convince her to rest in the family lounge.
John himself dozed fitfully in the reclining chair by the window for a few hours, but he's awake now, making his third trip to the cafeteria to bring us coffee.
Danny looks smaller here, his face pale against the white pillowcase. There's a bandage covering half his head where theydrilled the burr holes to relieve the pressure, and the bruising around his eyes has deepened to a shade of purple-black. But he's breathing on his own, and Dr. Marshall assured us that's significant progress.
I keep thinking about our phone conversation, about how excited he was about baseball practice.
I've been so stupid. I spent months complaining about having nothing meaningful to do while Danny was here living each day with genuine joy and wanting me to be a part of it. He finds wonder in batting averages and grocery store efficiency protocols. He forms deep friendships and he's never questioned whether his life has meaning—he just lives it, fully and authentically.
"Blair," Mom says softly. "You should eat something. John brought back those sandwiches from the cafeteria earlier but you haven’t touched them."
I shake my head, not taking my eyes off Danny's face. "I'm not hungry."
"But you haven’t eaten anything since you arrived and –"
"I'm fine, Mom." I sigh. "I’m sorry. I should have been here more. I kept saying I'd visit, kept putting it off. What kind of sister does that make me?"
"It makes you human," Mom says. "You had things to do, a life in New York. And Danny never doubted that you love him. Not for a single second."
She’s wrong. I didn’t have a life. I became complacent, embarrassed about my lack of direction. Danny used to look up to me. I told him I fought cybercrime and he saw me as some superhero. I used to tell him about the online pirates we caught, saving our clients from imminent attacks. But after we sold the company, I had nothing to tell him about. Nothing to make him proud.
John returns with three fresh cups of coffee. He's a good man, my stepfather—steady and kind, the sort of person who shows up when needed. He married Mom when Danny was young, but he never tried to replace our father. Instead, he just quietly became the person we could depend on.
"Any changes?" he asks, settling back into his chair.
"Still nothing," I say, accepting the coffee with a grateful nod, then look up when Dr. Marshall appears in the doorway. She's maybe in her early thirties, with kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses and the sort of calm competence that's reassuring in a crisis.
"Good morning," she says, approaching Danny's bed with a tablet in hand. "How are we all holding up?"
"Tired," Mom admits. "Please tell me he’s going to wake up."
