RE YOU MAD AT ME?”

“I’m not mad at you,” Ethan says wearily. It’s one o’clock in the morning, and we’re waiting for me to be discharged from the Emergency Room.

The good news is, I’m fine. Also, I’ve seen the inside of an ambulance, which was a learning experience. The bad news…I’ve also puked on the inside of an ambulance. And on Ethan. And on Mikey Devers, whom I once babysat and had to tie to a chair so he wouldn’t bite me. He’s a paramedic now. Oh, and half the town has now seen me on some bad, acidlike trip as I chatted merrily about my Phelps fingers and asked people to take off my shoes so I could see if my feet were webbed.

I’m not sure what happened to Corbin; Ethan rode in the ambulance with me as I puked on him and Mikey and told them all about Aunt Boggy between gags.

The E.R. doctors took my history, mostly from Ethan since apparently I tried to give out the recipe for my Lazarus scones, figuring the good doctors should know there’s a new cure for comas. A nurse called Anne to get my prescription, and someone else had Ash go to my place and count the pills left in the bottle, as if I’d tried to overdose. This rankled, and I punished the slanderous staff by refusing to open my mouth for the thermometer until Ethan told me to stop being such an ass and do it. Which I did.

Since I’d already puked up whatever was left in my stomach, my only treatment was time and humiliation. My fingers returned to normal size, my eyes once again warmed to body temperature.

Which brings us to now.

“I’m really sorry about all this,” I say for perhaps the one hundred and forty-third time.

“Nothing to be sorry about,” Ethan says, not looking at me. His leg jiggles, his arms are folded over his chest.

“Okay!” the E.R. doc asks, breezing into the room. He looks to be about twelve and exudes all the loving sincerity of Paris Hilton. “How’s she feeling?”

“Much better,” I say. The doctor ignores me, as he seems to hate me—I believe I threw up on him also—and waits for Ethan’s confirmation.

“Much better,” Ethan agrees.

“Does she have someone to stay with her overnight?” the doctor asks, scribbling on the chart. Clearly he doesn’t think I can answer for myself.

Ethan glances at me. “Yes,” he answers, dropping his gaze to check the time. The message is clear. I’ll do it because I have to, even though you completely screwed up my night.

My throat grows tight. If Corinne weren’t nursing her baby every twenty minutes, I’d ask her to stay with me. If Parker didn’t have a four-year-old child with a tendency to wake up before dawn, I’d ask her. If it wasn’t one in the morning, I’d ask my mom. Hell, I’ll ask my mom anyway. Better than forcing Ethan to babysit me.

“I’ll call my mom,” I say, smiling at the doctor. He doesn’t deign to look at me.

“Don’t be silly,” Ethan says. “I’ll stay with you.” He glances at me, his gaze bouncing almost immediately back to the doctor. He’s not being mean—Ethan just doesn’t do mean—but he’s not being nice, either.

Now if Jimmy were here—which would negate my need for dating, antianxiety medications and a nursemaid—if Jimmy were here, we’d be laughing about this. We’d laugh our heads off. He’d make jokes and lie on the gurney with me and cuddle me and play with my hair, ignoring the fact that I smelled like vomit. There would be no guilt or feelings of being a burden or pain in the ass or anything. Times like this, I miss Jimmy so much my heart actually hurts.

“She’s good to go, then. Here are her instructions.” Dr. Hateswomen turns to me. “Obviously, miss,” he says slowly, as if talking to a befuddled child, “you need to throw away that medication. All of it. Don’t keep any. Don’t take it ever again. You’re very allergic to this medication, and that should go into your medical file. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I—”

He interrupts, turning again to Ethan. “Call me if you can’t wake her or if she starts to hallucinate again.”

“Will do. Thank you.” They shake hands, then the good doctor turns and leaves without a glance at me.

“Let’s go, then,” Ethan says, offering me a hand as I scootch off the gurney. I ignore the hand and stand, mostly steadily.

Out in the parking lot, Ethan walks me over to his Audi and opens the passenger door. Someone—Doral-Anne, maybe, or Tommy Malloy or Lenny himself—must have driven Ethan’s car over to the hospital. He waits for me to get in, closes the door, then gets in the driver’s side and starts up the car.

“Do you still have your motorcycle?” I ask, just to be chatty and friendly.

“Yep.” Then, realizing he’s being less than kind to the poor patient, turns to look at me. “How are you feeling?”

“Um, not bad,” I answer. “Just tired.”

“Okay, well, let’s get you home to bed, then.”

We drive through the quiet, darkened streets of our little town, and I’m grateful that Anne had advised Ethan to take me to the local hospital and not anything farther from home. It’s only a few minutes to the Boatworks. Ethan parks in his spot, then hops out and slides over the hood of the car à la Starsky of Starsky and Hutch fame to open my door. A ghost of a grin appears on his face, and once again, my throat, raw from the evening’s adventure, tightens. I miss that smile.

He walks a pace behind me, ready, I’m sure, to take my arm if I wobble. I don’t.

We don’t speak in the elevator, though he catches me looking and gives me a quick smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

Ethan’s face has rather perfect and unremarkable features. His nose is straight, his eyes are evenly spaced and of average size. His mouth is well proportioned, his cheekbones symmetrical. Nothing special…not until he smiles, and those lips curve up in that unusual, unexpectedly charming grin. I’ve never seen a face that’s so transformed by a smile. Or that’s so carefully blank without one.

After a small eternity, we arrive on the fourth floor. Ethan precedes me down the hall and unlocks my door—he’s had a key since I moved in. Ash pokes her head out.

“Hey! You okay?” she asks. She looks shockingly young without her black makeup. “I waited up to see you.”

“I’m fine, honey. Allergic reaction. Lots of puking.”

“Hi, Ash,” Ethan says, smiling at her. She blushes.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say.

“Okay,” she says. “Feel better. Night, Ethan.”

“Good night, kiddo,” he says. He opens my door, then steps aside as Fat Mikey greets us.

“Are you hungry?” Ethan asks, following me in. He goes into the kitchen and opens the door to the fridge to assess the contents.

“No,” I say. Fat Mikey rubs himself against my calf and gives a rusty meow. I bend over and pick him up, grunting at the effort of it, and rub my cheek against his. He gives me a fond head butt and pricks his claws into my shoulder and as ever, I’m grateful for his curmudgeonly affection.

Ethan walks down the hall to my bedroom, opens the door as if to check something—I haven’t made my bed today, since I usually save that task for after my nap, and today—an eternity ago—was the amazing recovery of Aunt Boggy. My head buzzes from fatigue and whatever leftover drug is still in my system. I close my eyes, ready to fall asleep right here.

“You want to wash up, then, Lucy?” Ethan asks. Opening my eyes, I see that his arms are folded over his chest, the fabric of his shirt taut at his biceps. I’ve known him long enough to see that he’s itchy to be done with me. Can’t say that I blame him.

“Good idea,” I answer, setting my cat down.

The bathroom mirror reveals that I look about as you’d expect a woman to look after she’s been hallucinating and vomiting all night…that is to say, not my best. My face is pale, my hair matted on one side and my mascara is just a messy smudge under my eyes. Trashy pop star after a bender. With a sigh, I turn on the shower, pull off my clothes and get in.

When I’m done, I smell a lot better, but I’m so tired I can barely stand. I pull on the pjs that hang on the back of the door and brush my teeth.

As soon as I open the door, Ethan gets up from the couch, where Fat Mikey has him pinned, and comes down the hall. “I changed your sheets,” he says, “and I left a glass of water on the night table there. I’ll have to wake you up a couple times, make sure you’re all right. Okay?”

“Okay.” He’ll be sleeping on the couch, of course. Or in the guest room. The truth is, I wouldn’t mind him sleeping with me, arms around me, warm and reassuring, but I’m not so out of it that I actually request this.

He watches me climb into bed, not smiling, not even when Fat Mikey jumps up next to me and starts his kneading ritual, something that used to make Ethan laugh. Back when we were sleeping together, that is.

“Anything else you need, Lucy?” he asks.

“I’m sorry you had to take care of me tonight, Ethan,” I say, swallowing hard. I try to keep my voice casual, but my eyes sting with the warning of tears.

“It’s no problem.”

“It sure seems to be.” I pause. “Ethan, aren’t we friends anymore?”

Ethan opens his mouth to say something, then reconsiders and looks down, pushing his hands into his pockets. “Lucy,” he says, and his voice is tired, “I don’t know what you expect from me. You tell me you’re ready to move on, but you leave treats outside my door. You ask me to hang out and watch movies. You warn me away from Doral-Anne—”

“She’s so mean, Ethan!”

“—and all the while, you’re scraping the bottom of the barrel of the dating world right in front of me. And now you’re on medication for panic attacks and you wind up in the hospital.” He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “I just don’t know what you’re trying to do, Lucy.”

I scratch Fat Mikey’s head so I won’t have to look at Ethan, who stands next to my bed like a disappointed parent. “I’m just…trying to put a life together, Ethan. The kind of life I can handle.” I swallow, then swallow again.

“What does that mean, a life you can handle?” His voice is soft.

“I don’t know.” It comes out as a whisper. A tear plops onto Fat Mikey’s ragged ear, and he shakes his big head in response.

Ethan sighs. A second later, the bed sags under his weight as he sits. “You must be whipped,” he says. I nod, still not looking at him.

“Go to sleep, then, honey,” he says, and I obey, closing my eyes so I won’t have to see his face. He pulls up the covers to my chin and leans over to turn off the light. Then he kisses my forehead, just the gentle scrape of his beard and the soft press of his lips. “I’ll be in to check on you in a couple hours,” he says quietly. And with that, he stands up and walks out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Which is good, because another second, and I’d have begged him to stay.