The nurse grins. “Nope. It’s grape. The best flavor we’ve got.”
She hands Evie the little cup of Children’s Motrin, and Evie drinks it in one heroic gulp.
“Good job,” the nurse says. “This will kick in soon. It’ll help a whole lot.”
Kate watches the exchange with a trembling breath, like the simple act of someone else easing her daughter’s pain knocks loose whatever strength she’s been clinging to. I touch her back—lightly—and she leans into it without thinking.
The nurse stands and hands Kate a discharge sheet. “She’ll be sore tonight, but she should feel much better by morning. Motrin every six hours, Tylenol in between if she needs it. And have her keep the arm elevated tonight.”
“Thank you,” Kate whispers, voice thin with relief.
By the time we’re walking out of the room, Evie is already showing off her cast to everyone we pass.
“Coach Wells, will you sign it?” she asks the second we reach the car.
“Of course! I’ll sign it as soon as we get you home,” I say.
Kate laughs softly, brushing a curl off Evie’s forehead. “You’re going to milk this for weeks, aren’t you?”
Evie thinks for a moment, then nods seriously. “Can it be chocolate milk?”
We both laugh, the sound soft, a breath of fresh air after the chaos. We walk out to the front desk to get everything settled. Evie runs her fingers over her cast while Kate talks with the receptionist.
“Thank you,” she says quietly, tucking the insurance papers into her bag. “For your help. I’m sorry I got a little snippy”
“You don’t have to thank me,” I tell her. “I’m on your team. Both of you.”
Her eyes soften, and I think she might reach for me. But then she glances at Evie, who’s proudly showing off her cast to the nurse at the front desk.
Her voice softens. “We’ll talk later, okay?”
“Yeah,” I say, heart still pounding for both of them. “Later.”
As we walk toward the car, Evie slips her good hand into mine, her little fingers warm against my palm.
We survived our first traumatic experience.
Chapter thirty-two
Kate
Evie’s in the back seat, dozing against her seatbelt with her new purple cast propped on a folded blanket and my stomach twists all over again.
She’s okay. She’s okay. She’s okay.
I’ve said it to myself a dozen times since we left the hospital, but it still feels like the world’s shaking under my hands on the steering wheel. Cam sits beside her in the back seat, quiet, one arm braced along the window, watching the trees blur past. He hasn’t said much since we left, he just keeps glancing at Evie.
The silence hums thick between us until I can’t take it anymore.
“I can’t believe I let that happen.”
His head turns toward me. “Kate—”
“She was right there in front of me,” I say, my voice too tight. “I should’ve seen it. I should’ve—”
“You couldn’t have stopped that fall.” His tone is calm, too calm. “You know that.”
I grip the wheel harder. “I’m her mother. It’s my job to keep her safe.”
