Clearly, the universe has decided my adventure into bad-boy land has lasted long enough, and offered me a solid reason to stay away from him. And I’m grateful for that. I tell myself I’m grateful for it as I watch him stride into the big, steel elevator on the first floor of El Paso’s University Hospital.

I’m trying to think of it like…I don’t know…a muffin. A really good blueberry muffin—my favorite kind of muffin. Except this muffin got dropped in dirt. Or kitty litter! Yep. You wouldn’t want a blueberry muffin dropped in kitty litter, no matter how good a muffin it was. No matter how delicious it looked from far away. Because eating a muffin dropped in kitty litter would be like asking to get sick.

So as my eyes dart over his handsome face and his impressive body—a body just as scrumptious as any blueberry muffin—I remind myself that he’s a drunk. At least I think he might be. It’s a definite possibility.

Also possible: He got drunk because he’s scared of planes. Because his parents died on a plane. I wish I knew more about that. I wish I could ask Lizzy about it.

Since she and Hunter came out of the bedroom, right before we landed, I haven’t been able to get her to look me in the eye. I’m not sure what’s with her sketchy behavior, but the bitchy prude inside me  says she knows something happened between Marchant and I, and she respects me less for it.

I keep my gaze on my feet again as the elevator lifts us to the third floor. I think of Cross. I think of how I wasn’t thinking of Cross on the plane ride over. I’m a pretty shitty friend.

I think, again, of putting the moves on Cross. What was that all about? I’ve tried hard to self-analyze, but I’m honestly not sure. Not completely. I’m not in love with Cross. I know that. I love him the same way I love Lizzy, except he’s also an attractive and charming guy.

I guess…I don’t know. I hate to be one of those people who excuse themselves by saying things like, “I just wasn’t in a good place,” but that’s what it comes down to, I guess. That and I was just dumb dumb dumb.

The elevator door opens, cutting off my thoughts, and putting us off inside a wide, white hallway. Anxiety spreads through me, because I remember this from last time—from Cross’s motorcycle accident back in November—and I really don’t want to remember that.

A lump tightens in my throat as I wonder if this will be like that. Memories toss themselves into my consciousness like a stack of Polaroids thrown into the air: Cross, bleeding, swollen, bandaged. That horrible breathing tube. The catheter bag. I remember talking to Adam on my cell phone from the waiting room while Cross endured his first long surgery, just a few hours after the crash, and my stomach twists.

I’m in the back of the group, so I allow a tear to slip out of my eye as I breathe the acrid scent of rubbing alcohol, lemon disinfectant, and rubber. We walk a few dozen more feet to a big, half-circle desk., “OR Waiting Room” is written above the desk in stainless steel letters.

One of the people behind the desk—a slim, short man wearing light brown scrubs—glances up at us. “Can I help you?”

Lizzy pulls her wallet out of her purse and wiggles an ID out of one of its pockets. It’s a fake that says Elizabeth Carlson—one she had made so she could visit Cross in the ICU after his first accident. She slides it across the table. “We’re here for Cross Carlson.”

The man behind the desk looks into her face, a blend of curiosity and pity. “Are you the wife?”

“Sister,” she says softly, and Hunter takes her hand.

The man’s blue eyes meet Lizzy’s. “Maybe you can help us. We haven’t been able to find Ms. Carlson.”

“Ms. Carlson?”

The man nods, frowning. “Meredith Carlson?”

I clutch my purse as the room tilts around me, and the man in scrubs explains that Cross arrived with his wife. I tell myself he must be wrong—the man is obviously wrong.

“She was very upset,” he tells us.

Lizzy straightens her shoulders, and explains, in her most gathered, Lizzy voice: “I think there’s a misunderstanding. My brother isn’t married.”

The man behind the desk shrugs. “Could have fooled me.”

I stare at Lizzy’s shoulders, and Hunter starts asking questions like how long until we’ll get an update, and is Cross still in surgery, and the man in brown scrubs tells us yes; the surgeon will be out to speak to us soon.

“Is he okay?” I hear myself ask as the others head for little plastic seats.

“He’s in surgery, ma’am.”

“But he’s…okay? Like…when they brought him in, he was doing pretty well?”

“They took him back to surgery,” the man says. “That’s all I know.”

“Did you see him?” The man’s neutral expression begins to slip, and I add, “I’m just trying to find out all the information I can.”

“Well, he can’t tell you.”

I turn to find Marchant Radcliffe standing right behind me. He has one eyebrow arched and both arms crossed. For some reason, the stern, knowing look on his handsome face pisses me off.

“This is none of your business.” I look into his blood-shot eyes. Eyes that are blood-shot because he’s drunk.

He blinks. “You want to tell me my business?”

Heat crawls over my skin at the challenging tone. The same kind of challenge Adam used to issue when he’d been drinking. I hold my head up higher. “I’m not doing that. I’m telling you what your business is not. My concern for my friend is not your business. Not unless you have something helpful to say.” I nod at the chairs behind him. “You can go and sit back down now.”

His eyes, on mine, feel hot. “You want me to leave?”

“Did I say that?”

“Do you?”

“I don’t care if you leave or not.” My voice wavers, because I’m upset about being in a hospital again, and now Marchant Radcliffe has turned Adam on me. I whirl away from him, headed toward where Lizzy and Hunter are sitting, when another set of wide steel doors opens and a man wearing pale blue scrubs, a little blue hat, and black sneakers strides out.

He looks around the room, gaze swinging first to me and then to Lizzy. “Meredith Carlson?”

I close the distance between he and I, my stomach twisting into a sick knot as I note a few blood smears on his scrubs. My heart is beating so hard I can barely speak, and when I do, my voice sounds low and thick. “Is he okay?”

The doctor—a man about my father’s age—blinks his pale brown eyes. “Are you Meredith Carlson?”

“I’m— no. I’m not. He doesn’t have a wife.”

The surgeon’s thin brows notch, his eyes darting around the room as if he’s already dismissed me. “I was told he has a wife.” His eyes search the space behind me, and Lizzy steps into my peripheral vision with her hand extended. “I’m Lizzy. I’m his sister.”

“I’m Dr. Hilcox.” The doctor’s hand clasps hers, and he gives her a little nod. “Your brother came through the surgery just fine. He had a bullet wound to the shoulder and a fractured ankle. I also cleaned an older wound—his hand.” The man’s lips draw up, like he’s about to tell us something unpleasant, and my pulse skyrockets. “During the procedure, he asked repeatedly for Meredith. I understand he’s had some injuries recently. Perhaps some emotional trauma, from being back inside a hospital. In the recovery room after his surgery, he got quite worked up. We had to increase his sedation.”

“He was asking for someone named Meredith?” Lizzy frowns.

The surgeon nods, looking from me to Lizzy, like he simply can’t believe neither of us is named ‘Meredith’. He shrugs, looking around the waiting room once more before telling us Cross should be settled in the ICU in twenty or thirty minutes, and we’ll be able to visit him one at a time. “Wait here or in the ICU waiting room. A nurse will let you know when it’s time.”

“The ICU?” I speak before I think about it, and the surgeon’s eyes snap onto mine.