Page 87 of Rory Rides Her Fake Fiancé
“Where was she going?” the police officer asks.
Mrs. Patterson points at me. “His bar.”
I sit up.
They ask Mrs. Patterson a few more questions and then turn to me.
“What is your relation to Ms. Fox?”
“She’s—she was—my fiancée.”
They ask me about our breakup and the whole stupid story comes out—word vomit, really, way more than they were bargaining for. They ignore most of it.
“Where were you at the time of the accident?”
Oh god. They don’t think . . .
“I was at my bar.”
“Can anyone corroborate?”
“Yes,” I say, with more bite than it warrants, probably. I know they’re just doing their job, checking to make sure I have an alibi. “My manager was there with me, there were three customers there when I left, and we have security cameras.”
They take down Hunter’s information, but the whole thing leaves me feeling sick to my stomach.
But not as sick as their next question.
“Do you know anyone who would want to hurt her?”
After the cops leave, a nurse comes out to find us. “She’s waking up,” they say. Mrs. Patterson and I creep into the room. Rory’s blinking awake, her leg suspended in a cast. “Grandma?” she asks, her voice hoarse. Her hair is a little tidier, like someone’s combed through it, her road rash cleaned up, and her nose is in a splint. I notice other things I didn’t see before: her right eye is swelling, the eyebrow is split; her lips are dry and slack, like maybe she’s gotten a shot of Novocain.
Her eyes focus on me, and she says my name, and my heart breaks more for her when I see that something’s missing—her right front tooth. Does she even know yet?
I school my face to erase the shock, but I can’t stop the tears from filling my eyes. I’m so glad Mrs. Patterson called me.
Mrs. Patterson stops at Rory’s bedside and gently sets a hand on her granddaughter’s hair. I stand beside her and hover my hand above hers, half unsure if it would be welcome, half unsure if I can touch her without causing pain.
Rory rolls her hand palm-up, her fingers uncurling, and I slip my hand into hers. I drop my head down and close my eyes, kissing the back of her hand. It stays there when I hear Rory’s sobs, and her grandmother softly comforting her.
Rory
* * *
Morgan and Grandma take turns at my bedside and I sleep away most of the day fitfully. Sometimes I wake up and Grandma’s in the chair by the bed, dozing, her hands on her cane. Sometimes I wake up and it’s Morgan in here with me, his head resting on our entwined fingers, while he sleeps.
I obsessively touch the hole in my gum where the tooth has gone missing. It doesn’t hurt—I’m on painkillers that take care of that—but I can’t stop, my tongue wanting to fill the gap in my teeth.
I have to have a consultation for a dental implant. I guess I could use this as an excuse to fix my teeth, like the dentist suggested so long ago. Maybe, when I get the implant, they can do something about the other tooth too, and I won’t have this smile anymore.
Do I want that?
Morgan’s soft breaths blow down the length of my forearm and I gaze down at him. I fade in and out of sleep thinking about every time Morgan called me gorgeous.
I know exactly what my ex would say, if I cared about her opinion. But I do care about Morgan’s, and my heart knows that he would want whatever I want.
The police come back and talking to them wakes me up fully. I tell them about the hand brake going missing, the panic I felt when I could barely slow down in time to make the corner. Morgan squeezes my hand.
“Oh, the dashcam!” I remember.
