I follow their gaze and watch the “Breaking News” banner run across the bottom of the screen.
Someone turns up the volume, but I can’t hear a thing over the rushing of blood through my ears and the shattering of my heart.
Tragedy in the Middle East: Helicopter carrying musician Nate Crane and others shot down in Afghanistan.
I catch snippets. Crane and three other musicians were in military transport to a performance. Authorities haven’t released any further information at this point. Waiting for military to report if there are any survivors. Then they have some military weapons expert explaining the precision of surface-to-air missiles.
I don’t know when I collapsed. I don’t remember sitting or falling. But suddenly Lizzy is behind me, putting a glass of ice water to my lips. “Drink, Hanna.”
I part my lips instinctively, taking the smallest sip past my lips, but I shake my head when she offers it up again.
“We need to get her out of here.” Nix’s voice.
Then hands lifting me, leading me. My feet are working. Moving. But I feel disconnected from my body. Above it and beside it all at once.
Time passes in still frames. Lizzy helping me off the floor. Maggie’s tear-soaked face as she helps me into her car. Lizzy brushing my hair behind my ears, tears in her eyes as I look up at her from her lap.
There’s a bed and blankets, and I don’t understand why they’re bundling me up, but then I realize I’m shivering. Violent, body-racking shivers that are so exaggerated it almost seems like I must be faking it—no one shivers like this—but I can’t stop.
Then Lizzy climbs in bed behind me, pulling me into her arms, whispering reassurances in my ear.
Time passes and freezes. Minutes slide by without notice and hang suspended in the air, punishing me with their brutal stillness. Someone offers me a pill, and I shake me head.
“Nix said it was okay. The baby needs you to sleep.” Lizzy’s voice. And Maggie is next to her, holding a glass of water.
I swallow it down, and later—minutes, hours, seconds, it doesn’t matter—sleep comes and releases me from the torment of consciousness.
Ten Weeks Before Hanna’s Accident
THE BOX is wrapped in ribbon and was delivered by courier. A freaking courier delivery in New Hope. I didn’t even know that was a thing.
Inside, I find a black slip and panties in the finest black lace nestled under a thin envelope.
“Courier deliveries of expensive panties?” Liz says, startling me. She comes and stands next to me in the dining room, and I shove the envelope into my pocket before she can see it. “Did you finally let Max get to third base and just not tell me? Damn. I want a man who will send me expensive lingerie.” She picks up the slip and fingers the whisper-soft lace. “Lucky bitch.”
I force a smile and shrug.
She frowns at me. “What’s up with you lately? You’re acting weird.”
“Nothing. I’m just busy.” I’ve been keeping my distance from Liz since I found out that it was her idea for Max to ask me out. I can’t let her know about the breakup anyway. I can’t risk that information getting back to my mom.
“Well, next time I see Max, I’ll tell him he needs to hook me up with a friend who has as good of taste in lingerie as he does. Because damn.”
I open my mouth to ask her not to, then close it again. First of all, asking her not to say anything to Max is practically admitting that the gift is from another man. Second, some small, shallow part of me likes the idea of Max knowing I got a gift like this from someone else. And yes, I know this makes me small and terrible, and all-around unworthy of both of these guys, but maybe after all these years living in the same town as Meredith, some of her bitchiness is rubbing off on me.
I take the slip back from Liz and return it to the box. “I think I’ll take these to my room.”
“Okay,” she mumbles behind me. Crap. I’ve hurt her, and she has no idea that she hurt me first.
After padding to my room, I close the door behind me and pull the envelope from my pocket, my nerves buzzing. I don’t need a tag to know this box isn’t from Max. And maybe it’s crazy for a girl like me to believe that a rocker I spent a wickedly sexy night with would send me a gift…but I know. I just know this is from Nate even before I open the envelope.
But even as sure as I am, when I pull out the paper inside and see a handwritten note, I gasp a little. His writing is tall and narrow, the words scratched with a black felt-tip pen.
Angel,
A pair to replace the one I ruined—I regret nothing—and the slip that goes with it because I spent five minutes in the store staring at it and imagining how it would look on you. After that, I either had to buy it dinner or send it to you.
Maybe you’re back with the ex by now, but I have a concert in Chicago this weekend, and when I imagined you waiting in my room after… Well, let’s just say I liked the idea a hell of a lot.