“That’s brilliant.”

“And so she came with me. We took out loans, found a facility, worked out a business plan, printed up Tshirts, and sank everything we had into it.”

He gave me a look. “I poached all the best people from the hospital and talked them into coming with me. I filled their heads with ideas about the fun we could have and the path we could forge. We could change people’s lives. We could change the face of recovery.”

“And Myles?” I asked.

“He wasn’t invited.”

“Because he’s a wanker.”

Ian nodded. “He’s toxic, really, in so many ways. Narrow and vindictive and peevish. Not the kind of guy you want around. I didn’t want to work with him. I kept the whole plan a secret from him—but he got wind of it somehow, and he started asking to join. I rejected him over and over. I was cocky about it. When he demanded to know why I didn’t want him, I laid it all out in no uncertain terms.”

“Like, you said he wasn’t right for the job?”

“I told him he was an idiot and everybody hated him.”

“Okay. That’s laying it out.”

“After we all quit, there was almost nobody left. So they promoted him.”

“And now Myles is the boss.”

“Which was fine with me, until—”

I looked over. “Until what?”

“Until the business crashed and burned. And then I found myself with no savings and no job. Then a spot opened up here. Somehow, in some circle of hell, I wound up working for him.”

“The business crashed?”

Ian nodded.

“How? Why? You had all those great people! And such a great idea.”

He shook his head, and I could tell we weren’t going to travel far on that topic. “Lots of reasons.”

I watched him a long time, but he didn’t offer anything more.

Finally, he went back to Myles. “He’s had it out for me since the day I came back—just a few weeks before you showed up. He’s actively looking to get me fired.”

“And it’s torture for you to work with him.”

He gave a nod. “He goes out of his way to make everything harder. If I don’t play things exactly by the book, I’m out. But I’ve never been very good at playing by the book.”

“Could you go work somewhere else?”

He shrugged. “Nowhere else is hiring.”

“Maybe in some other city?” I suggested, hating the idea even as I said it.

“I haven’t wanted to look in other cities. But I might have to start.”

Suddenly, I became aware that my shoulder was leaning against his shoulder. I leaned away—but that felt abrupt. Partly to cover, I said, “So you weren’t always so grouchy.”

A faint smile. “No.”

“Did you used to joke around?”

“Of course.”

“And listen to oldies rock?”

“That’s a job requirement.”

“I’ve decided it’s good that you’ve been mean to me.”

“I haven’t been nearly as mean as I intended to be.”

I looked over. “Why not?”

He looked away. “Something about your eyes, I think.”

I had to ask. “What about them?”

“Let’s just say being mean to Myles makes me feel better. Being mean to you made me feel worse.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, so I just let the wind blow.

“Thank you for telling me about your troubles,” I said after a while.

“It wasn’t very professional of me.”

“Professional is overrated.”

He turned to take in the sight of me, as if I’d just said something so true, it surprised him. Then he said, “We should get back.”

I shook my head.

But he nodded. “It’s late. You need rest.”

I suddenly felt tears in my eyes. I wiped them on his sweatshirt. “I don’t want to go back.”

Ian helped me get up on my knees so I could climb onto his back. “I’d offer you a cookie, but we ate them all.”

“Promise me we’ll come here again,” I said, as I climbed on.

“I promise.”

“Soon.”

“Soon,” he said, and as he stood us both up, the view—and the breeze, and the feel of his back against my chest, and the endlessness of the sky above us—made me so dizzy, I had to close my eyes.

Seventeen

I WENT THROUGH a period of—shall we say—disillusionment after Chip’s confession. Once I returned from the roof to my inpatient cell, I had nothing to distract me from the realities of my life—every awful one of them—and I kind of lost sight of the meaning of everything.

To sum up: My motivation for physical therapy, and everything else, was rather low.

There was no way to deny, at this point, that everything I cared about was destroyed, or broken, or had self-destructed. Even my own personal goals. Because that one inspiring fantasy of walking to Chip that I’d used to push back the fog had disintegrated the minute I found out about Tara and her soup.

I would never walk to Chip again.

I would never walk again, period.

In some ways, if I’m honest, giving up felt good. It certainly took the pressure off. Staying hopeful was exhausting.

In life, I’d always had tangible goals. I made good grades so I could get into a good college. I worked hard in college so I could get into a good business school. I worked hard in B-school so that I could get a great job, make great money, be a leader in the business world, break a few glass ceilings, and make my parents proud. Those weren’t the only things I wanted, of course. I wasn’t totally shallow. I wanted love and friends and babies and laughter. I wanted to be a good person and help take care of the world. But I’d spent my life working toward specific goals.

What was I suffering for now? What was I working toward now? To get a little more movement in my legs? To not get an infection in my skin graft? To approach some vague approximation of the person I used to be? To make it through the day without freaking the hell out? I couldn’t motivate for goals like that.

Somehow, the presence of Chip in that recovery fantasy had been the lynchpin holding it all together. Without him, the whole thing fell apart.

My mother had fed me false hope, and I’d swallowed it whole like a baby bird with an open beak. I hadn’t questioned it enough because I hadn’t wanted to—but there was a fine line between determination and delusion.

Some things really were impossible.

My grandfather had been shot in the eye with a BB gun as a kid. He lost the eye and spent the rest of his life with a glass one, taking it out every night and—I swear this is true—putting it in a glass of water on the bedside table. Kitty and I used to sneak in before he was awake sometimes and steal it out of the cup—and then, totally game, he’d stumble down in his robe and PJs at breakfast time, a hand clapped over his face, saying, “Somebody stole my eye!” We’d cackle until he found it—and he never complained. But no amount of wishing or determination or denial could have grown that eye back.

I hadn’t let myself think about that until now.

Now, all I did was just keep breathing, and even that felt like a lot. One breath after another. Easier on some days than others. But let’s be clear: I had nothing—nothing—to look forward to.

The day after our lovely night on the roof, for example, Ian showed up for PT, and I just refused to move.

He was all business, of course. None of the warmth from the night before. He walked in as brusque and formal as if he had never carried me piggyback through the hallways, never made me wear his sweatshirt, never told me about his mistakes. From the expression on his face, I could have been anybody—one face in a parade of wheelchairs. Which was how I felt about myself, as well.

He got the transfer board ready, but I didn’t sit up. I just stared out the window.

“All right. Let’s go,” he urged.

I didn’t say anything. Didn’t look over.

He came around to peer at my face and double-check I wasn’t sleeping. “Maggie,” he said. “It’s time.”

I wasn’t trying to be rude. Responding just seemed like it would take too much energy.

“Let’s go,” he urged again.

But I just kept breathing.

“Are you not coming, then? Is this what I get for busting you out of jail?”

I was locked in a stare out the window, but I heard my voice. “I just don’t see the point.”

“You don’t have to see the point. You just have to come with me.”

“Not today.”

“Maggie,” he said, lowering his voice. “Can you look at me?”

I couldn’t. I was stuck in that stare, and everything else seemed far away.

Ian leaned his face down in front of mine, but my eyes didn’t refocus. He was just a blurry head. “You have to take care of yourself. You can’t let him win.”

“Who?” I asked, still unfocused.

“The prick who broke your heart.”

But I wasn’t sure I had a heart anymore. It felt like maybe it had burned away in the crash. I just lay limp. One breath in, then out. Then another in, then out.

“Are you refusing physical therapy?”

It hadn’t occurred to me that I could refuse. I kept my eyes on the window. “Yes. I guess I am.”