He got in the ambulance.
He stayed at the hospital.
He let me kiss him.
No matter how many times I replay it, that part glows.
Maybe not like fireworks.
Maybe not like the kind of kiss girls write songs about.
But warm.
Steady.
Careful.
Real.
And right now, in the dark with my leg throbbing and my season hanging by a thread, steady feels like something I could build a whole fantasy on.
Maybe I already am.
I hear the door swing open and start to sit up too fast.
Pain lances through my hamstring so hard I suck in a breath and drop back against the pillows.
Becca comes in backward first, shoulder pushing the door wider.
“Oh my God.”
I blink at her.
“What?”
Then she turns.
And behind her is a delivery guy carrying enough flowers to suggest either I’m dying or someone in my life has completely lost all sense.
I stare.
Roses.
Every color.
Red.
White.
Blush.
Peach.
Soft yellow.
Even those deep wine-colored ones that look almost black at the center.
There are two teddy bears.
