Page 35 of You Fall First

“No way. Never gonna happen.”

“Men love hooking up with bridesmaids. They’re like catnip.”

“I don’t think Noah’s a hookup kind of guy,” I say. “And I’m allergic to cats.”

“That was a metaphor, Jo.”

“Simile.”

“Whatever, nerd.” She grins. “It’s been months since Oliver. Time for my friend to have a little casual fun.”

“We both know I’m not built for casual, Mare.” I swallow past a lump in my throat. “My heart gets ahead of me, too far, too fast, and I end up hurt.”

“One time.”

“The only time,” I say. “I gave him my whole heart, and he chose someone else.” My gaze drops. “I never want to feel like that again.”

Maren blows out a breath. “I’m sorry, Jo.”

“Believe me. I am, too.”

“I know that was painful,” she says, “but you can’t protect yourself forever.”

“Oh, yeah?” I lift my eyes. “Watch me.”

Chapter Nine

Noah

“Wow. You look terrible.”

Paige croaks this at me over FaceTime, and I bark out a laugh of relief. My sister’s in a literal hospital bed, her hair is a rat’s nest, dark circles cradle her eyes, and her lips are cracked from dehydration. But she can still crack me up. We always did have the same warped sense of humor.

And limited patience for sadness.

“That’s funny, because you’ve never looked more gorgeous,” I say.

“One of us has to stay beautiful.”

“Well, you win.” My eyes sting with relief, and I blink a couple of times.

“Hey, now.” Her mouth slips sideways. “We’ve been talking for less than ten seconds. Don’t start with the waterworks, or you’re gonna make me cry. So please knock it off.”

Paige is right. I can see with my own eyes that she’s alive and well. Well-ish. Or at the very least on the mend and in good hands. But I don’t think I realized how much fear I’d had bottled up since I heard her say the word surgery.

Routine or not, my little sister spent hours on an operating table. My only sibling, under the knife. And no matter how easy things are supposed to be, we learned the hard way—twice—that there are no guarantees in life. First, when our mom didn’t wake up from elective back surgery. Then, when our father’s heart gave out afterward. From failure or grief or some combination of the two.

And I was a thousand miles away both times.

“Guess the room’s a little dusty,” I sniff. “But I’ll get a grip. I’m just glad to see you’re all right.”

“I’m all right,” she says. “Unless you count the wee bit of internal infection.”

“And by wee bit you mean a lot.”

“Nothing a slew of hardcore intravenous drugs can’t handle.” She adjusts her body against the pillows propped behind her, and winces. But only for a second. Then she presses her mouth back into a halting smile. “I guess Annie left you a message.”

“She did.”