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Bare feet in the water. History book open. Index study cards scattered beside her. She’d been struggling to memorize history dates for a test. We decided then that the pond belonged to both of us. I didn’t know it, ‌but that quiet afternoon would become the beginning of everything. The visor dropped with a soft click. Two Polaroids slid into my hand. It was us at this exact pond. We were sixteen. One photo showed Cali’s freckled face thrown back in laughter. The second image was Cali kissing my cheek and me grinning like a fool. These moments were frozen in time. I wanted to believe the love I saw on her face had been real, but there had been countless nights when I’d almost thrown them away. When keeping them felt like holding on to something that no longer belonged to me. Then I’d remember the girl who made my teenage years bearable. Even if I hated how she’d left, it didn’t negate the memories we had shared. Something my dad said stuck with me. Was there a possibility Jace was mine? I didn’t think so, but it made me wonder whose he was and how it had been so easy to walk away from what we had so quickly.

My phone was already in my hand before I admitted what I was doing. An article popped up about a decorated firefighter who had rescued a woman and child from a house fire. The photo beside it stopped me cold.

Cali. Her smile was smaller than it used to be, but it was hers. My thumb dragged farther down the page. Decorated firefighter critically injured saving family. Rescued his romantic partner. Severely injured. The words blurred together as I read the paragraph again. So she’d loved someone else. Enough to build a life. Enough for him to risk his life for hers.

My gaze drifted to the Polaroids resting against the steering wheel. Fifteen years hadn’t been enough to throw them away. Tonight, for the first time, I wondered if I should have. My thumb returned to the article. There was no mention of him after the fire. No wedding. No engagement. No recent photos. Just old headlines of the story.

Had she left him too? The question burrowed somewhere ugly.

Denise Walton had always left. Husband after husband. House after house. Cali used to swear she’d never become like her mom.

I’m never going to be like her, Lane.

I’d believed her. Maybe she’d been wrong. The thought refused to let go. Somewhere between the article in one hand and the Polaroids I usually kept tucked behind the visor, something inside me shifted. Maybe leaving was all she’d ever known. Maybe she’d carried more of Denise with her than either of us had wanted to believe. I stared at sixteen-year-old Cali smiling back at me. I didn’t know which version of her had been real.

Fifteen

Cali

Lacy’s sleeve slid up as she reached for the chart, exposing a bruise that stopped me cold in my tracks. Purple against her pale, freckled skin, the bruise spread across her forearm in a pattern that caused something beneath my ribs to tighten. My pen stalled over the chart as I forced my expression to stay neutral, but I couldn’t look away.

“Lacy,” I said softly, careful not to startle her. “What happened here?” I had seen bruises like this before. Circular purple marks curved around her forearm, the skin slightly raised. She glanced down at her arm, then quickly away, tugging the sleeve back down. Her curls bounced slightly with the motion, a small, almost childlike shield.

“Oh,” she said, her tone casual, as if the bruise were nothing more than a smudge of ink. “I bumped it on a cart this morning. Didn’t notice until now that it left a mark.”

My pulse kicked. A slow inhale through my nose did little to settle it. Outside these walls, I knew almost nothing about her. Married. No kids she’d ever mentioned. One of the best nurses I’d ever worked with. That was about it.

“A cart?” I repeated quietly.

Her fingers curled tightly around the chart. Petite, all loose curls and startling ice-blue eyes, she looked like someone the world should have handled more gently. Something about her explanation didn’t settle right.

“Yeah,” she said, voice a notch higher, just enough to betray the slight tremor in her tone. “You know, the cabinets in Trauma 2—they stick out a little. Didn’t expect it to hurt that bad.” Hadn’t she said it was a cart?

I nodded, unconvinced.

“You’re sure?” I asked, softer this time. “It doesn’t hurt too much?”

She shook her head with a laugh. “No, it’s fine. Really. I’ve had worse scrapes.”

Her laugh caught halfway out.

“I just want to make sure,” I said carefully, trying to keep my tone easy. “Sometimes bruises can be worse than they look.”

Her eyes met mine for a heartbeat. Vulnerability flashed there, then disappeared behind another practiced smile. “I promise. I’m fine. Don’t worry about me,” she said, but the edge in her voice didn’t match her words.

I kept my face carefully unreadable. Every instinct urged me to do something.

“Alright,” I said finally, leaning back slightly. “If it’s hurting later, let me know. Okay?”

Her nod was quick, eager to reassure, but the way she tugged her arm back under the sleeve again, as if it wasn’t already hidden, made my chest tighten further.

The chart waited in front of me, but every glimpse of Lacy pulled my attention back to the sleeve hiding her forearm. I tried to focus on my patients—the procedures, the notes, the vitals—but my attention kept drifting.

At the end of the shift, I caught her by the supply closet, loading up gloves and gauze.

I let out a quiet sigh. “I don’t want to pry. I just want to make sure you’re safe.”

Her fingers caught the hem of her scrub top and tugged it lower. The motion was small, but it flashed through me like a flare.