Page 23 of Every Chance After

My hand rolls over my stubbled head. “Mom, can I get this to go?”

Before she answers, Gil strolls in, his headset slightly askew over his ears. He nods toward me and heads to the fridge.

“You should stay here for a few days,” Mom says. “It’d be good for you to be with family.”

“Oooh,Call of Duty?” Gil says, lighting up as he flicks open a soda.

“No, I’m spent.”

“You’ve been asleep for twelve hours,” he says.

He’s right, but I still feel exhausted. “The body must what the body must, Gil.”

He shrugs and disappears down the hall.

Mom’s phone rings, and glancing at the caller on her screen, her smile fails her, and she hesitates. It’s probably someone angling for details about yesterday from her book club, her pickleball team, or the Women’s Club. Mom has her hand in nearly every organization in this town, as awful as that sounds.

Seagrove’s gossip game is Olympic-level—the town is full of bored busybodies who’ve trained their whole lives for news like this, not that I can blame them. The prince of Sunny’s Beach Market left at the altar because his sweetheart bride was stabbed in a car accident caused by the town’s asshole vet with zero bedside manner? TMZ has wet dreams about headlines like that. Or, at least,The Seagrove Groovedoes.

“Let it go to voicemail,” I breathe out. “That’s what it’s for.”

Her cheeks puff in a sigh before she answers. “Hey… oh, yes… he’s fine, thanks for—oh, I don’t know the details. I wasn’t there.” She moves her call into the living room.

I glance at Dad, suddenly worried that Mom knows the extent of Marina’s injuries through Dad and my weepy confession yesterday. “Did you tell her about the, um… the whole story?”

“No, son. That’s between us, and it’s Marnie’s business, anyway.”

“Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

Marigold doesn’t bother questioning us. She doesn’t enjoy intrigue.

“Sorry, I didn’t help this morning,” I tell him.

“Glad you didn’t. I’m hiring more farmhands. You’re doing too much, Grady. It stops. Now.”

“I appreciate that, butnow, I need to work. To think of anything else. Tell me about that colicky baby calf.”

Dad launches into his morning activities, tidbits about the calf and diarrhea-stricken chickens, news that sends Marigold to her room. I advise him accordingly, grateful for the distraction. I almost wish it were Monday with a waiting room full of patients to keep me occupied.

The back door opens after a light knock, and Uncle Jim enters, looking official in his suit, tie, and the gold badge hooked to his belt.

“Mack. Grady.” He nods.

“Jim,” Dad says, motioning to another barstool. “Have a seat. Want a BLAT?”

“Um, no thanks. I’m on duty.” His stone-like expression turns to me. “Grady, I’ve spoken with everyone, and we’ve concluded our investigation. You’re being cited for reckless driving. You’ll be fined and?—”

“What? That’s it? Reckless fucking driving?”

“Grady, calm?—”

“Ihurtthat woman, Jim. She’s… she’ll never be the same again.”

He looks confused but continues, “Grady, yes, she’s hurt, but not in a way that justifies criminal charges. Miss Strange didn’t want charges brought against you at all. Everyone agrees—this was an accident. Wrong place, wrong time. You should accept that, too.”

“He’s right, son. Accidents happen.”

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