After a chat about broken rib care, concussions, and all the reasons I shouldn't spontaneously combust, the hospital sends me along my merry way with a prescription of Percocet and an order to see my primary care physician at my earliest convenience. The joke's on me though, because broken body parts aren't convenient, and I'm curious to know why Doctor Cole made a second visit when he had no obligation to bother.

I lean the passenger side seat back in the car as Dad drives me home in the Toyota and try to be as still as possible as he speaks. "So what happened this time?"

"Pick a scenario, any scenario," I jest, not in the mood to humor him. I love Dad, and he tries to be there for me, but I already know where this is going.

"I feel like I should have named you Gracie."

I snort, remembering a story on Wattpad about an accident-prone girl named Grace who fell in love with a young, fit Santa Claus. It's one of my favorite books on the platform, and the childish part of me wishes real life could be so whimsical.

Instead, I'm more like Miss Congeniality, destined to trip over my heels and have Benjamin Bratt's character dump me immediately in the sequel. Of course, I'm not a bad-ass in the FBI, undercover at a beauty pageant with a gun strapped to my thigh, but I make up for that in spunk and sass.

"Better than Wankum," I say with an eye roll, cringing at all the horrible taunts over the years. "You should have taken Mom's last name."

Dad shakes his head with a sigh as he focuses on the road. "Men didn't take women's last names in my generation. Besides, there are worse names out there like Mitch Mitchell or John Johnson or..."

"Talula Does the Hula?"

"What parent hated that child?" he asks with a laugh.

"Some couple in Hawaii. Judge made them change it because it was deemed cruel and unusual punishment." I won't say it, but Wankum isn't nearly as bad as a lot of other names out there. Maybe one day, I'll learn to appreciate it.

We have a good laugh for a moment before Dad comes back to the subject at hand. "The doctor said the break went all the way through. They also said the X-ray technician in the urgent care knocked you over. What were you doing by the door?"

"I went to close it," I hedge, leaving out the bit about eavesdropping on inappropriate work conversations.

"You know," he says thoughtfully, "you could file a lawsuit for negligence. They're supposed to knock before coming in."

And this is what's wrong with America. Everyone wants to take advantage of the system to make easy money. "No, Dad. They're paying the bill, and that's enough for me."

"And what about later? Say you develop complications from hitting your head or they kill someone next. You're already going to be out of work even longer, and you can't live off your unemployment forever. It was irresponsible."

I squeeze my eyes shut, wishing Dad wouldn't start this topic again. He works from home, running a full-time eBay business, so it pays the bills, but we aren't exactly living in the Foothills. As a former vet, the military covered his degree, but his bad heart doesn't allow him to work on his feet, and with his late wife's income gone, he relies solely on people spending money on unusual collectables. With so many people unemployed from the pandemic, all I can say is some months are better than others.

"Can we not have this conversation? I'm not suing the hospital."

"Then at least try to get one of your books published. You won't make any money from a free platform, and you're wasting your talent."

Ugh. That's another sore spot with me. I write because I enjoy it, and I hope to be published someday, but I'm not sure if I'm good enough to go traditional. "The market is competitive, so I'm not holding my breath to be the next Stephanie Meyer or J. K. Rowling."

Dad rakes his hand through his hair, exhaling a sharp breath. "I don't understand you, Kelly. You don't stick with anything—you can't keep a job longer than six months, you quit music, and you're content to do nothing with your writing. It won't hurt to try."

I don't have the energy for this. I know he means well, but I just can't with him. "Please stop. I know I'm one big disappointment to you—I don't need you to keep bringing it up."

Dad's lips tighten, and I can tell he wants to keep pressing it, but he lets it drop. We fall into an uncomfortable silence as he drives and I keep my eyes closed against the sun shining in my face. When he pulls into the driveway, I exit the car, painfully making my way inside the house and toward my room. He calls to me, and I ignore him because I'm too insecure to face his barbs and my shortcomings.

With a whimper, I slide onto my bed as I adjust my pillows beneath my back. When that's done, I plug in my phone and stare at the ceiling, breathing in and out as tears roll from the corners of my eyes.

Dad knocks, cracking open the door when I don't answer. "Kelly, can I come in?"

"It's your house, Dad. You can do whatever you want."

He sighs and comes inside, sitting on the bed with my giraffe in his hands. Brushing a loose strand of hair from my face, he mumbles, "I'm sorry for upsetting you. All I want is to see you succeed. You know I'm not good with words."

He wasn't always the greatest dad either, but I know how hard he's trying to make up for it, especially with my mom out of the picture and my stepmom gone. It's just us, and we're still adjusting to being around each other.

I shrug, blinking rapidly to stop the emotions. He hates it when I cry, just like Mom and everyone else I ever knew. No one likes a crybaby, and I've never been good at burying my emotions.

"Don't worry about it," I croak. "It's not like what you said isn't true."

Dad plants a kiss on my head and places Gerry in my arms. It's childish, but I hug the giraffe tight anyway. When I was thirteen, no one showed up to my birthday party, so Dad took me to Disneyland for the weekend instead even though he couldn't afford it. I didn't ask him for anything, but he insisted on a gift, and I when I saw Gerry in a bin at a Walmart, I decided it was something I could cherish without putting a strain on his bank account. Even at a young age, I knew I was a burden, no matter how much my parents told me not to worry.

"Try to get some rest. I'll pick up your meds in a bit and then we can order dinner. Maybe you can write if you're feeling up to it."

If I could curl into a ball, I would. I just nod and whisper, "Okay." The truth is I don't feel like writing or querying, and I'll probably pull all my work anyway. It's time to take my head out of my fantasy worlds and got a real job like a normal person.

He gives my shoulder a final squeeze and walks out, leaving me miserable and alone.

The phone vibrating against my dresser wakes me, and it's dark when I open my eyes. My back aches from lying still for so long, and I'm afraid to move in case it suddenly decides to act up again. I grope for my phone until my hand closes over it, and I open the screen.

Several notifications stare back at me, mostly junk email and automated texts from the hospital, but there is one in particular that jumps out at me:

'Hi, Kelly. This is Blake from the Urgent Care. I'm emailing you a link so you can fill out your portion of the accident report. I hope you're taking care of yourself and not reaching for any yarn."

I snort, grinning wide at the text. I don't know if he's allowed to message me, but it's nice to hear from him. I want to reply, but what would I say? Messaging anyone gives me anxiety, and already, my chest tightens. The form definitely needs my attention, but there's no way I can respond. I'd probably say something stupid or ask personal questions that I have no business asking.

He's just following up with the accident, I remind myself. He doesn't want you asking about him or that tattoo you're dying to know more about.

Rose said he didn't commit, and every girl in the UC looked at me like I was way out of his league. There's nothing attractive about squealing in pain on a date unless it's to beg for him to go deeper, which I definitely wasn't thinking about. Nope, na-uh. I wasn't fantasizing his hands on my legs, pushing down my panties, or his tongue all over me. I wasn't imagining his fingers inside of me or him removing his clothes. All of that would be inappropriate and a recipe for heartbreak.

That doesn't mean I can't anonymously spy on his social media though. I mean, just to see if he's normal. Against my better judgement, I pull up Instagram and type in his name. A hundred results pop up, and I finally catch a glimpse him in a picture with his nautical tattoo. How I find him among a sea of Blake Coles is beyond me, but who am I to question the cliche rules of the universe?

His most recent image is of his tattoo, front and center. Not only is it a golden spyglass, but there's a compass behind it and the North Star just above it. Another picture shows a sleeve he's beginning on his shoulder, and there are several shirtless pictures of him working out at the gym.

"Oh, come to Mama!"

I shift up in my bed, zooming in on his abs and Adonis Belt peeking out of his shorts. This beautiful man is solid muscle, and I'm suddenly very horny.

I smack my head with the heel of my palm and immediately close out of the picture. This isn't right. Not that it would happen, but I'd probably feel strange if he pulled me up on social media and lusted after me. I glance through other posts; he goes kayaking, works on motorcycles (go figure), and seems to party like no other. Several posts show him raising a glass or solo cup, playing drinking games, or casually schmoozing with celebrity musicians.

Now that I'm not acting like a creeper, I notice two things: first, he has a gorgeous smile beneath his trimmed beard, and second, his arm is around the same girl's shoulders in a lot of these pictures. She has dark, styled hair that rolls down her shoulders in curly waves, sculpted cheekbones that would make Aphrodite jealous, and a diamond large enough to sink the Titanic on her left hand.

"Crap."

My heart sinks as shame washes over me for lusting after a married man. I didn't remember seeing a ring on his finger, but he might have taken it off for sanitary reasons at the hospital. She's so pretty — definitely in his league with her perfectly contoured makeup, straight teeth, and designer clothes. Looking at the tag beneath the photo, the caption reads, "Kickin' it with the lovely @Nikki.Cole. #party #MillAvenue"

There are other people in the picture with him, but these two are inseparable, and it's clear they care about each other. I'm just glad there's nothing with them kissing, or I really might gag.

Oh well. It was fun while it lasted. I'm about to exit the app when I sneeze, and two things happen: first, I squeal like a bitch from the sudden movement in my rib. Second, my thumb slips and clicks "Follow" on Blake's profile.

No, no, no, no, no! Shit, why do all the weird things happen to me? Hands shaking and heart dropping into my ass, I fumble to unfollow as quickly as possible and pray Blake somehow misses this. The only thing I can think of that's worse is sending a nude, but with my luck, that can always still happen.

Please don't see this. Please don't reach out, I chant to myself, exiting the app.

Shoving my phone under my pillow, I lie on my side and bury my face in my hands, unable to let go of something so little. People do awkward things all the time. It shouldn't be a big deal, and though I realize this, I can't stop shaking and kicking myself for being so stupid. His opinion doesn't matter, yet all I can wonder is if he thinks I'm crazy, because I've been conditioned my entire life to believe other people's idea of me matters. That my worth is nothing because everyone has told me this my entire life.

He's not important, I tell myself. You'll never see him again. Breathe. In. Out. Count to five. Hold. Release.

I repeat the process until my pulse resumes a healthy level and retrieve my phone. There are no notifications, easing the tightness in my chest. The notification might not have gone through. I might be okay.

Calmer, I go straight to the link Blake provided so I can forget about him. Once I finish that, I think I might take Dad's advice and look at the different agents out there and what I need to polish my writing. One thing I won't do is mope around or continue to think about a man who's not on the market.