I return to the VIP lounge and head for the back where the showers are. After toweling dry, I put my old clothes back on and make my way to Seb’s room. As quietly as possible, I depress the latch and walk in.

Sawyer’s slumped over the end of the bed. He’s been in here since Seb came out of surgery. I don’t think the kid has eaten or slept. He’s going to join his brother if he doesn’t take better care of himself. Knowing the twins, I wouldn’t be surprised if that was Sawyer’s goal. The two are inseparable. They even date the same girl.

I cross the room and place a hand on my brother’s shoulder.

Sawyer jerks up. “Is he awake?”

“No, but I’ll watch him. Go get some sleep in a bed.”

Sawyer shrugs my hand off and glares. “Piss off. We don’t want you here. It was your girlfriend that did this.” He jerks his thumb toward the bed.

“Seb was driving seventy around that corner,” I snap.

“Fuck you,” he spits out. “Fuck you and your girlfriend. If it wasn’t for her, he wouldn’t be here. We’ve driven that route a million times and never once had an accident.”

“You guys almost ran me over the first time I went there,” I argue without thinking.

“Are you saying this is Seb’s fault?” Sawyer’s suddenly on his feet and in my face. “You saying he put himself in that coma? It was that bitch. That bitch!” he repeats, red-faced and furious. “I hope she fucking dies.”

I spin on my heel and walk out. It’s either that or deck my grieving brother.

Outside the room, I slump against the wall. This is a horrible fucking mess. Hartley wasn’t playing back there. She legit didn’t remember me for a moment, and when she did recall my name, it made her sick enough to vomit. My youngest brother is lying in a coma and his twin is praying for my girl’s death.

I don’t need anything from you. You’ve caused me nothing but trouble from the moment I met you. All you do is break things.

Hart’s words, the ones she said right before the accident, haunt me. This is my fault. Drunk off my ass, I thought I could solve everyone’s problems, but instead I made them worse. I drop my head into my hands. If anyone deserves to be in a hospital bed, it’s me.

Chapter 7

Hartley

“Is there a medical diagnosis for not remembering things that happen right now?” I ask Nurse Susan as she helps me back onto the bed with its freshly changed sheets.

Her cheeks plump up as she smiles. “It’s called anterograde amnesia.”

“Can I self-induce that? Like sticking my finger down my throat to throw up, only this time I poke myself in the eye?” I want to crawl underneath the bed and hide in embarrassment. I just threw up on the lap of the most beautiful boy to walk the face of this earth. “Alternatively, do you have a special machine where I can make everyone lose their memory?”

“There, there, Ms. Wright. You got a little sick to your stomach. That happens to everyone. It’s a very normal occurrence. Lightheadedness, dizziness, loss of balance are all things that you might suffer from as a result of hitting your head.”

“Wow, it’s a basket of horribles.” I throw my arm over my forehead to block out the light.

“You’re doing very well,” she assures me, hooking me up to my tubes and monitors. “In fact, so well that Doctor Joshi believes you’ll be able to go home tomorrow. Won’t that be nice?” She pats me on the arm and shuffles out.

I don’t know if it will be nice. Whenever Mom and Dad have shown up to the hospital, there’s been a faint air of disapproval, as if they’re mad that I got injured. I wish someone would tell me exactly how the accident occurred—or some version of how it went down. I wonder how that other person is. What does it mean to be in critical condition? What condition am I in? I should’ve asked Nurse Susan that. Maybe Felicity or Kyle knew. Why didn’t I press them for that information instead of the irrelevant crap like who I did or did not sleep with—although having seen Easton Royal, I figure both of them are full of shit.

There’s no way Easton Royal ever took an interest in me. I’m plain. I have plain black hair and plain gray eyes. I have a plain face with a small nose, a nonexistent bridge, and the occasional zit. I’m average height and wear a very average bra size: 34B.

Easton Royal has hair so dark and rich, it could be on the cover of a hair dye box. His eyes are so blue I swear I could hear the ocean waves crashing against the beach when he blinked. He’s the one suffering from memory loss, wandering into my room, pressing his kissable lips against my fingers.

I lift my fingers to my own lips. The smell of the hospital’s medicinal soap fills my nostrils and I fling my hand down in disgust.

Kyle was right about one thing. I definitely liked Easton Royal. And that’s depressing, because first, that means Kyle might be right about other things, and second, me liking a boy of Easton Royal’s stature is as dumb as anything I could do.

Where could I have possibly met Easton? Or Felicity, for that matter? Kyle, on the other hand, he looks like a North kid. If I had to guess, Kyle and I somehow snuck into an Astor Park party and we got into a fight. Easton was feeling charitable and decided to let me maul him?