“You’re not Callum Royal,” she points out.

“I’m his son and his proxy.” I should’ve asked Dad to put me on whatever form needed my name so I could come and go freely. This is the first time I’ve tried to get in without him, so I hadn’t realized how much influence his name held. I should’ve, though. This wing was built with his money.

Nurse Susan frowns again but moves aside. There are advantages to having your last name on the side of the building.

“Don’t wear her out,” the nurse says. With one last warning glare, she leaves.

I wait until she’s turned the corner before letting myself in. Yeah, I want her to rest, but she can sleep after I’ve seen her with my own two eyes and made sure she’s okay.

Quietly, I make my way around the sofa and chairs in the sitting area of the suite. Like Seb, she’s asleep. Unlike Seb, she’s had moments of consciousness. The doctor told my dad this morning before he left for work that she’d probably be fully awake today or tomorrow.

I drag one of the heavy side chairs over to the bed and pick up her hand, careful not to dislodge the finger monitor. Seeing her motionless on the bed with tubes and wires snaking their way from her slender arms up to IV bags and machines makes my stomach roil. I want to rewind the clock, spin the world backwards, until we’ve returned to her apartment where I’m feeding her burritos from the corner food truck after she’s worked a hard day at the restaurant.

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty.” I stroke her soft skin with my thumb. “If you wanted to get out of going to class so bad, you should’ve told me. We could’ve just skipped or forged a doctor’s note.”

She doesn’t stir. I peer up at the monitor above her head, not knowing quite what I’m looking for. The machine makes a steady beep. Her room is marginally less frightening than Seb’s. He’s got an oxygen mask, and the click of the machine as it winds up to breathe for him is scarier than the background music in a horror film.

I need Hart to wake up so she can hold my hand. I drag my free hand down my face and force myself to think of something positive.

“Before you showed up, I kinda wished I’d skipped my senior year, but now I’m glad I didn’t. We’re going to have fun. I’m thinking Saint-Tropez for Thanksgiving. It gets cold here and I’m tired of wearing coats and boots. And Christmas, we can go to Andermatt in the Alps. But if you ski, we could stay in Verbier. The high-altitude slopes are fucking awesome, but maybe you’d like St. Moritz better?” I vaguely remember some of the Astor girls not shutting up about the shopping there.

She doesn’t answer. Maybe she doesn’t like skiing at all. It occurs to me that, before the accident, we’d barely scratched the surface of getting to know each other. There’s so much I don’t know about Hartley.

“Or we could go to Rio. They have an awesome New Year’s party. Pash went there a couple years ago and said it was like a two-million-person rave.”

Actually. Maybe with her head injury, she won’t want to party. Fuck, East, you can be thick. “Or we stay here. We could fix up the apartment. Or maybe find a new place for you and your little sister, Dylan, if you can convince her to come stay with you. Do you like that?”

I don’t even get an eyelid twitch. Fear sweeps over me. I can’t take this, both Seb and Hartley unconscious. This isn’t fair. The hand that holds hers begins to shake. I feel like I’m on the edge of a cliff and the ground’s breaking away beneath my feet. The abyss is calling for me, promising me a dark peace after the free fall.

I drop my chin to my chest and bite the collar of my T-shirt as I try to get a hold of my emotions. I know exactly how desperate and lost Sawyer feels. Hartley showed up at a time when I was feeling my lowest. She made me laugh. She made me think that there was a future beyond drinking and partying and screwing. And now her light’s snuffed out.

She’s going to be okay. Nut up, boy. Sniveling into your T-shirt isn’t going to change shit.

I take a deep breath and bring her hand to my lips. “You’re going to be okay, babe.” I say it to comfort myself as much as anything. “You’re going to be okay, Hart.”

She has to be okay—for her sake and mine.

Chapter 4

Hartley

Heart. Heart. The word runs through my head. Something to do with my heart. No. Hart. Hartley! I pop open my eyes and croak. “Hartley. Hartley Wright’s my name.”

“Gold star for the pretty patient in blue,” a familiar voice says.

I roll my head to the side and see the doctor there. We smile at each other—me because he’s here like he said he’d be, and him because his patient woke up and said her name.

The cup of water and straw are shoved in front of me by Susan, per her nametag, a plump nurse who barely reaches the breast pocket of the doctor next to her.

“Thank you,” I say gratefully, and this time it’s not taken away, so I suck the paper cup dry. A whirring sound buzzes next to me as Susan raises the head of my bed into a seated position.

“Do you know where you are?” Doc asks, flicking a penlight at my eyes. His nametag says J. Joshi.

“Hospital.” This answer is a guess, but given the doctor, nurse, and ugly blue gown with pink flowers draped over my shoulders, I’m confident in my answer.