“I have your pills,” she starts.

“Tylenol is enough.”

Before she can overreact, my father reminds her that they are PNR, patient requested. She’s mollified, but she set alarms in her phone for the Tylenol and the sedative they still want me to take. I’m not entirely sure how many days of her hovering at home I can handle. I’d much rather she go back to work with Dad at the winery.

After my father leaves and my mother wanders off to another part of the house, I stretch out to nap on the sofa until Robert gets here. It’s possibly the least comfortable place I’ve slept in years, but I still manage to doze. Unfortunately, I sleep fitfully, waking expectantly several times. There are no nurses to wake me, but I think I’ve become accustomed to the frequent interruptions and wake as if they are still happening.

When my mother checks in on me and discovers that I’m awake, she sits primly across from me in one of the stiff but pretty floral-patterned chairs and announces, “I think the thing to do is to get your ideas for hiring a companion.”

“Grace can be here some,” I suggest. “You’re here in the evenings.”

“Eva.” That’s all she says, just my name, but she also gets that look—the one that says she’s inflexible. I know resistance won’t help this time. A companion is inevitable.

“Fine.”

“Thank you.” She rewards me with the smile that usually works on people, but I’m wise to my mother’s seemingly innocuous ways. She’s never a bulldozer like Mrs. Yeung can be, but she is a well-bred Southern woman. That means that she’s been trained in making the world bend to her will since before she was born. Her aunts and the church ladies all stepped in to help the “poor motherless dear,” so she was extra indoctrinated into the rules of being a gently bred Southern lady.

“Does Robert have any plans for the summer? Or the Kennelly girl?”

“I’m not sure,” I hedge. “Robert is coming over this morning.”

“Good!” She beams at me and leaves again.

Right now, I sort of hate that my parents like him, deeming him “a sensible boy, just like his father and uncle.” He’s fine, I suppose, and being with him is nice. My family likes him, and we have fun when we go out. I owe it to the both of us to try to talk about whatever’s going on instead of just ignoring it.

Maybe he just feels guilty for not answering the night of the accident or maybe he’s afraid to see me when I’m injured—or maybe time apart has also made him realize that we’re really not much more than friends.

I call Mom back, and with her help, I brush my hair again, change into a nicer shirt, and even put on earrings. My lips are cracked from so long in the dry hospital air, so I’ve been using a lot of lip balm, but for this, I use gloss with a little color. I can’t put on foundation or concealer, but I could do my eyes—if I was willing to look into a mirror. I’m not.

When he arrives, I notice that my hand is shaking. I hear his voice as my mother greets him, and I watch him saunter into the room. He’s looking at me with the startling blue eyes I’ve missed, but the slow smile he usually gets when he sees me is missing. Instead, he’s staring at me in a sort of shock, and I know that I must look worse than he expected.

“Damn, Eva!” He presses his lips closed as soon as the words are out, and I know he regrets saying it. He tries again, saying only, “How are you?”

“Better.” I try not to notice that he’s looking down rather than at my face. I tell myself that it’s hard to blame him: I still don’t like to see what I look like right now, and this is the first time he’s seen my injuries. “How are exams?”

“Not horrible.” He squirms in his chair. “What’s up?”

There’s an awkwardness that makes me want to give up and forget we tried to talk, but I need answers so I ask, “Where were you the night of the accident?”

“Eva . . .” He looks up then, meets my eyes, and immediately looks away.

That’s when I realize there’s another reason he won’t look at me. It’s not just my battered face; it’s guilt. I’m ready for answers now though; I need to know, so I continue, “You didn’t answer my calls or texts after you stood me up.”

After a quiet moment, he asks, “Do you really want to do this now?”

“What don’t you want me to know?”

He sighs. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?” When I shake my head, he says, “I was with Amy.”

“Crowne?” My voice is steady although my chest hurts. I want to scream at him, but I won’t. I can’t. I am Eva Elizabeth Tilling, I remind myself. I don’t scream or yell. The voice in my mind sounds a lot like my mother’s right now. Apparently, her lectures on propriety did sink in.

Calmly, I ask, “You were with Amy Crowne and that’s why you left me waiting?”

He nods silently.

It’s not that cheating hadn’t occurred to me as a possibility, but really? With her? The girl who told everyone I was a skank, who lied and said that I wasn’t a virgin when I slept with Robert, the girl who told everyone that I slept with him in the first place?

When I don’t say anything, he adds, “It wasn’t like I knew that not showing would lead to . . .” He lifts a hand and gestures.

“Almost dying? Being unconscious? Getting sliced up and having a broken leg?” Maybe I’m not screaming, but I’ve raised my voice. I sound like someone else. I’m not sure who. I am polite and even tempered: reasonable Eva, responsible Eva . . . but right now, I’m also cheated-on Eva.