Every Chance After

1. Grady

CHAPTER ONE

Grady

My truck hugs the curves along Lakeview Avenue, bringing me closer to the sanctity of my log cabin, where I’ll spend the next forty-eight hours sleeping, fishing, and talking to no one but my dogs. I long for the quiet and feel it penetrating me already. The light between the trees hits my eyes like tiny starbursts, its heat collecting through the windshield. The snake-like road surrounding Seagrove Lake is usually fun to drive, especially under clear skies and a playful sun.

Not today. I need to get home.

It’s Friday, early afternoon, and the roads are subdued, with most people at work. I should be at work. But the compromise I reached with my aunt and office manager, Elena, after our staff complained about our long days is every other Friday off.

“When you overwork, we all overwork,” she argued. “Every other Friday is the least you can do.”

My phone alights on its dashboard perch.

Can you pick up a bakery order from Sunny’s Beach Market & deliver it to Zoe’s class by 2:30? 24 Valentine’s cupcakes. Please, Grady. It’s an emergency.

I huff, watching the ellipsis wave under her text.

You’re off today, right?

Reasons to refuse Mom’s “emergency” bombard me, starting with the fact that I’ve been up for thirty-some hours and spent last night in a barn two counties over delivering a breech colt—a stillborn colt—leaving me in no mood for family errands.

Not that I’m ever in the mood. Why can’t my niece’s life-or-death cupcakes be handled by her parents or grandparents? Or another Tripp sibling? Or hell, a delivery service? Why does my day off become a family free-for-all of tasks when they all know I’d rather be home, alone, with the dogs?

They mean well—it’s a ploy to get me involved.

Mom’s last “emergency” trapped me at my nephew’s soccer match, with single moms fishing for dates at one ear and pet owners looking for free advice at the other. It creates an unwelcome predator-versus-prey vibe, making me the helpless, irritated bunny in such situations. As I explained to Mom in a huff before finally leaving, “I prefer involvement at a distance.”

Or not to get involved at all, if I’m honest. I love my family. I’m there for my family. But I need boundaries. If I’m the cupcake delivery boy today, what will that mean for tomorrow?

I groan, my grip on the steering wheel tightening as I imagine myself as Mom’s substitute pickleball partner or Zach’s soccer team’s gator-costumed mascot. In a small town like Seagrove, horrifying annoyances are limitless.

Still, my valid arguments fade behind lazy resignation. It’s easier not to argue.

I voice-answer with a terse

fine

But it’ll be a drop-off situation, done begrudgingly . No getting suckered into conversations about Fluffy’s mysterious drooling problem. Or talks with single teachers over Seagrove’s very absent nightlife. I’ll limit myself to four words: Here are Zoe’s cupcakes. And maybe a “Hey, Zoe,” if she notices I’m there.

The afternoon sun heats the interior of my truck’s cab, softening my irritation with quiet warmth, and my mind slips back to the colt.

Sometimes, nothing can be done. No matter how hard you try. No matter how much you hope, pray, bargain, work, or want a different outcome, certain things cannot be altered. Or made better. Hell, or even made sensical. Life is just shitty like that. It’s a universal truth that exhausts and angers me.

But I was in a shit mood before the colt. I’m always in a mood, like general irritation is my default response to every situation this town and my family offer me. Even after two years, I can’t shake it.

Afternoon light flickers through the trees, making me blink. The truck’s warning system alerts me as I drift over the middle lines.

I correct myself, sitting more upright and fisting the steering wheel. I crack the window, letting in the crisp chill of February. I turn the radio up, and Chappell Roan’s voice mixes with the wind. The upbeat melody of “Good Luck, Babe” fills the interior. “You’d have to stop the world just to stop the feeling.”

I huff—there seems to be no stop to my world. I have thirty minutes to get home, let the dogs out, and complete Mom’s errand. It’ll get done, and then I’ll retreat into a weekend-long solitary-confinement.

But damn, I’m tired. My thoughts drift to last weekend and my few hours fishing on the dock Sunday afternoon. I fell asleep in the Adirondack chair and woke to the sound of my rod slipping from my hands into the water. I spent the next hour debating whether to risk the lake’s alligator population for the rod or lose it forever.

Gators are less active in winter, I remembered, diving into the icy lake. Besides, I’d dealt with far more difficult things since returning to my hometown.

Losses no one understands, not that I ever talk about them.

Then, nearly losing my father.

Losing myself.

That same drowning sensation envelopes me. The quiet. The dark. Sinking into it. I go deeper, trying to find that damn rod.

Disaster only takes a second. One stupid, ridiculous, devastating second. Disaster can happen with one mistake. The heavy droop of my eyelids, my arms going slack, and tension evaporating with the gentle sinking of my head as my body overrules me. “Good luck, babe! Well, good luck, babe, you’ll have to….”

Have to get home… Have to stop the world just to stop the feeling … Whack! My head spins into a vicious pillow fight between my brothers and me. Colin’s pillow side-swipes my face, followed by Gil’s weaker attempt at my side and Luke’s attack from the other. Fucking assholes! Watch for Marigold!

Is that her? Screaming?

The music vanishes discordantly behind a deafening collision. I choke awake, my head snapping forward and then back. Not pillows. Airbags. The truck’s alarms blare under screeching tires as my boots slam against the brakes. I jerk the steering wheel behind the airbag, but it’s too late. No control. Sometimes, nothing can be done. The truck careens, zigzagging across the road and twisting to a perpendicular end mid-road, facing the wrong direction.

The world stops.

Shoving the bags away from me, I blink repeatedly. Fucking hell, what just happened?

I move my extremities and check myself over. I’m okay. I think I’m okay. But my first relieved breath is cut off in a devastating glance up. Through the shattered windshield and the steam jettisoning from the bent hood, I barely make out another car, a blue orb, shoved off the road like a discarded matchbox toy in the tree-lined ditch.

I’ve hit someone. I’ve fucking hit someone!

Disoriented but functioning, I wrench my door open and emerge on wobbly legs. Glass crunches under my rubber boots as I stumble toward the other car. Dizziness threatens to overwhelm me, making me slow. But soon, I refocus as my brain processes the sight yards away from me—a mangled car cupped by trees like a fallen nest.

I did this. This is my fault.

I move toward the wreckage, boots dragging over glass and my vision clearing. An airbag deflates. A door screeches open. A red-haired woman stumbles out. Heels. White lace. Blood.

Is that a wedding dress? Is that a… knife?

A debilitating second passes as I close the distance between us. It’s a fucking nightmare. It has to be. Any second, Colin will whack me with a pillow again. Or the dogs will bark. Anything to shake me from the senselessness of what I’m seeing—a bride stepping from a car wreck with a pearl-handled knife jutting from her lower gut.

It can’t be real.

She doesn’t think so, either. Frightened and stunned, her eyes go from mine to the knife plunged almost sideways into her abdomen. In eerie disbelief, she seems to assess the situation, grabs the handle, and yanks the knife out, dropping it with a shaking hand. Now, a step away from her, it clinks against the concrete between us, joining her chilling moan at the fresh pain.

It’s real.

Blood pours through her delicate fingers as she tries to stay upright. She wobbles on her white, blood-stained heels before they twist under her, and she falls.

I catch her, my arms reacting before I tell them to. We drift downward like feathers caught together in the wind.

Easing her against the glass-covered pavement, her red hair sprays fan-like behind her.

This is my fault. She’s bleeding because of me.

Bleeding heavily because of me. The red inkblot around her midsection spreads over her white dress alarmingly fast.

“I… I’m sorry,” I choke, head still spinning, “I’m sorry. What can I?—”

“He forgot the cake knife. It kept sliding across the seat, so I put it…” Her voice trails into a pained grunt, and she gulps for air.

“Breathe. Just breathe.” The words shuffle out from another memory—me calming Gil during a panic attack. “I’m here. I-I can help. I-I have to get my phone.”

“Stay with her,” a familiar voice orders gruffly behind me. “Ambulance is on its way.”

“How long?”

A beat passes. “Twelve to fourteen minutes.”

I spare a glance at the looming shadow—my fucking Uncle Wade. The universe is shitting all over me today. Even so, my head stops spinning, as if Wade’s presence jerked the needle off the skipping record.

“Do what needs to be done,” he barks, focusing me further.

“Okay. Get my med bag in the truck. Backseat. Paper towels. And stop blocking my light.”

Sunlight breaks through when he moves.

I grip her soft wrist—it feels light, like a rose in my palm. Her pulse is weak and thready.

Fuck. The knife impaled her on impact, driven in by the force. What happened comes into focus, not that it makes it any better—it’s still my fault.

“Tell us what you need, son.” The second voice is familiar from my childhood—Wade’s friend, Ed Christie, who always goes by Christie.

My brain resets. Treat the patient.

“Sanitizer or alcohol!” I say frantically.

“This do?” He hands me a flask from his pocket. “Vodka.”

I snatch it and liberally pour it over my hands before pressing tightly against her stomach wound. Her blood feels hot and sticky, slightly steaming in the cold air and matching her strained breath clouds. She gulps under my strength, but I must slow her bleeding.

“Elevate her feet,” I order Christie.

He stumbles over, plops to the pavement, and eases her legs into the lap of his stained jeans with surprising gentleness for a large man.

Finding the tear in her dress, I rip it open to eye the three-inch wound just below and to the side of her navel. Small, but gushing. She might go into hypovolemic shock and die from exsanguination.

Bottom line—she doesn’t have twelve to fourteen minutes.

I try to think. Chimpanzees are the closest to human anatomy—not that I studied exotics much in vet school. But I did study pigs, and they’re a close second. Judging from the bloody knife nearby, it penetrated a solid four inches, likely damaging her large and small intestines, at least. Her internal iliac artery must be punctured, perhaps uterine, too.

If I don’t stop the bleeding, she’ll die.

Right here. She’ll die because of me.

In my frenzied deliberation over how best to help her, her delicate hand weakly grips mine, and the world seems to stop again.

“Don’t look so glum, chum. You’re doing your best.”

For the first time, I see her, and her words, even her smile, feel like another devastating impact. She’s young. Beautiful. Her too-long, natural red hair stands out, but so do her intense features—freckles, full pink lips, and a determined chin. Her sapphire eyes catch mine, holding me prisoner. What the hell? Is she cheering me up?

“What’s your name?” I ask to get her talking.

“That’s Marnie,” Christie answers with a proud twang like this is a quiz he’s hoping to score well on. Idiot. “She works at Sunny’s.”

“Shut up, I’m asking her ,” I bark. “Are you aware of what’s happening?”

She sputters softly, “Car accident on my wedding day. Check.”

“Marnie. What’s that short for?”

“Marina.” Her voice is faint like she’s passing into another room.

“Full name?” I demand.

“Marina Ann Strange, age twenty-four. Nope, twenty-five. Today’s my birthday,” she manages between wincing. “I’m lucid.”

“Aw, a Valentine’s baby?” Christie coos.

She manages a weak smirk. “It’s unlucky.”

“Can’t argue with that,” he chuckles.

Though relieved at her lucidity, I know it won’t last. “Allergies? Medical conditions?”

“Nope. Neither.”

“Good,” I say as her eyelids flutter. “Don’t fall asleep. Keep your eyes on me. Um, I’m Tripp. Grady Tripp.”

“Can’t walk down the street around here without tripping over a Tripp,” she chuckles raggedly.

“My parents were… prolific.”

Uncle Wade groans with irritation as my leather satchel drops beside me, and he unwraps a new roll of paper towels salvaged from my truck.

Her lips edge into a wan smile. How is she smiling? She must be in shock. Time is getting away from me. Blood pools around her. I feel her weakening as if she’s liquifying and sinking into the earth, soon to be lost. A beached jellyfish, evaporating. My mind races. I’ve been in life-or-death situations like this thousands of times with animals, even once with a person. But my confidence puddles on the concrete with her blood. She’d already be sutured and in recovery if she were a dog.

Same rules apply. You’re a doctor. Stabilize the patient.

I apply pressure to the wound with wadded paper towels. I let this happen. Let myself get this tired.

Being the only farm vet for fifty miles in a rural area means I’m always on call. It’s not like I can turn down breech colts to have me-time. Mom’s said it for months. You’re working yourself to death, Grady.

But what else can I do?

“Marina, look at me,” I order. Her eyes peel open wide, and she nods.

“I won’t make it.” A slight divot between her furrowed brows for the first time reveals her distress.

I feel it, too. Fear for this woman, this stranger, multiplies with each passing second that help isn’t here, leaden weights against my chest. “Shut up. You’ll make it.”

“To the wedding,” she mumbles.

“Oh, hell no. You’re not making that. Sorry, darling.” Darling? There’s a word I never say.

“I’ll miss the wedding,” she breathes like she’s reporting the news back to herself.

“Stay with me, Marina. You’re all that matters now... Um, who’s the lucky guy, huh?”

“Ashe.”

“Sullivan?” The first thing that comes to mind is mama’s boy , but it’s unfair. I don’t know Ashe well. We weren’t in school together, but he probably shared a grade with one of my siblings. Even so, everyone knows Sunny’s Beach Market and the close-knit family that owns it, especially his intimidating mother, Cora, who heads the family and the business. “Well, I’d say you dodged a bullet, but it doesn’t exactly fit.”

Pain tarnishes her small laugh. She grimaces before tears slip from her eyes and run into her hair.

Wade extracts gloves from the bag beside me.

“Put these on,” he orders, taking over and applying pressure to the paper towel mound.

I do as he says, first sanitizing my hands and further assessing her.

The bleeding isn’t slowing enough. She goes ghost-pale, her eyelids fluttering. Her pulse grows weaker with each passing second.

I push the towels away and pour water over her wound. Then, taking a breath, I ease my fingers inside as gently as possible. She cries out, writhing but trying to stay still. I feel along her inner cavity, through skin and muscle, pushing through the damage until I source the main bleed. I pinch the wiry artery between my thumb and forefinger.

“Eyes open,” I snap when I see her slipping.

“Sorry,” she startles. “I’m trying.”

“I know. It’ll be okay,” I say, knowing she must be in incredible pain.

Her lips curl again slightly. “Really? I’ll be okay? Or is that just something people say?” She catches my eyes in hers, her brow creasing like she has experience with deceitful pleasantries. “Please, only the truth.”

“Truth only, huh?”

“Nothing but. That’s our policy,” she huffs out, tears slipping.

“Truth is, he doesn’t know,” Wade blurts in a strange show of familial support.

Christie shifts against Marina’s feet, gently adjusting her. “You’re just a young thing. Pretty, too. You’ll be fine.”

She stares at me, waiting for my answer, as if the other two aren’t there. Or she doesn’t see them. And it’s just us living this nightmare together.

“Fine. You have a nicked artery. I’m holding the bleed… but, truth is, I don’t know if you’ll be okay. Your life will teeter on ifs for the near future. If this is the only bleed. If the ambulance arrives in time. If we get to the hospital. If treatment is quick and successful… if there’s no infection, no adverse effects of medication or anesthesia, no traumatic brain injury. It’s all in the ifs.”

She snickers weakly. “Sounds like every day.”

“No. Worse than every day. We’re in trouble here. How long?” I shout at Wade.

He repeats my question with the phone still perched against his scruffy face. “Five minutes.”

A sigh pushes from me, taking hope with it. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Her hand falls weakly on my upper arm, and through labored breathing, she says, “Tripp. Grady Tripp. It’s okay. Truthfully. ”

“No. It isn’t.” With her blood pumping, barely, through my fingertips, I shake my head, alarmed with fear and other feelings I haven’t dared entertain for the longest time. I’m nearly overwhelmed with them, like a stampede takes a run at my heart, led strongly by guilt. “I fucked up, Marina. No matter what we do, every chance after this could go either way. But I promise I’ll be here as long as you need me, doing everything possible for you.”

With a shuddering breath, she says, “Okay, Grady.”

I clear my throat to fight my emotional surge and try to bring levity to our dire situation. “The dress is a goner, but it can’t be a white wedding with another man inside you, anyway.”

“Eep,” she blurts out in a pained laugh. “A dirty joke?”

Her sweet, bubbly laugh shocks me almost as much as the eep . Is that what the kids say these days? Twenty-somethings like her feel like an entirely different culture to me at thirty-six.

“Whatever gets you smiling.”

Her chest rises and falls in a sigh, and she smiles again at my words.

Putting her at ease clashes with my usual bedside manner. I don’t spout jokes (even bad ones) or offer comfort. I do my job, check off my obligations, and leave, desperate not to get involved. Aunt Elena calls me off-putting. My little sister Marigold fictionalized me as Shadow Man in her graphic novels.

But there’s truth in it. Two years ago, I left my life and have been living an out-of-body experience since. I work, deal with my family, and go home. The only things I look forward to are my dogs and my bed. Animals are much easier to tolerate than people.

But here, now, I don’t matter. There’s her. She needs me.

“You’re funny,” she breathes, her voice strained.

“No, I’m not.” Eyeing the blood still streaming through my fingers, I turn to Wade. “Find me a hemostat clamp—um, small scissors with flat tips that lock into place. I think there’s a second bleed.”

“You seem to know what you’re doing,” she mutters.

“Not really. I’m a vet.”

She smirks. “That explains the smell.”

I grimace, nose-blind to it. Still, in my overalls and t-shirt, it’s no wonder she notices I stink of horses. “Sorry. Long night.”

“No apologies. I like it. It’s gentle, earthy,” she whimpers. “I’m glad you’re here.”

The guy who ran you off the road and ruined your wedding day? The man who maybe killed you?

“Yeah, um, me, too,” I say because, weirdly, it’s true.

“Triscuit’s been scratching her ears lately,” she sputters faintly.

“What’s Triscuit… besides a cracker?”

“A cat. I have three.” Pain etches her face, and her eyes flicker again.

“Marina! Stay awake for me, and I’ll do a house call,” I say as if I can bribe her into staying alive. I don’t know what else to do.

“Keep talking to her, Tripp,” Christie says, still holding her legs in his lap.

“Here.” Wade slaps the clamp into my hand.

“Douse it in the vodka,” I order.

He spills what’s left of Christie’s flask onto the device and hands it over.

I say, “Marina, tell me more about your cats.”

Her mouth opens, but she doesn’t speak.

Hovering over her, her blood pumping lightly against my fingertips, I apply the clamp, wedging it tightly inside her as she yelps in agony. There’s no way I’ll be able to source the second bleed—not without causing her unbearable pain and probably more damage.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“I’m sorry, Marina. So sorry,” I cry out the words, though I know they don’t matter. With the clamp holding the bleed, I shift around to her head, easing her into my lap. “Wade, keep applying pressure.”

He does as instructed, gently pressing more paper towels against the area around the clamp.

Her eyes blink slowly as she watches me. She looks eerily peaceful, lying against my thigh—desperately peaceful—and I hate it.

“Stay with me, Marina.” I hold her against my chest and find her hand. It’s disturbingly clammy as I search for her pulse. Her skin drains of color. Even her freckles go pale. Her hand curls into mine, soft and cold. I hold it gently. “Please,” I beg. “Don’t leave me.”

“Tripp. Grady Tripp.” She smiles, blue eyes glassy and drooping like flower petals weighed down with rain. “You always seem so sad. Don’t be sad. It’s like you have a million thoughts but no one to tell them to.”

My throat closes like her words are allergens. “Um, not true.” My voice cracks with fear and sadness. If I lose her, I’ll lose me, too, even if I’m still here. “Um, my dogs are excellent listeners.”

She laughs, but it comes out garbled. I expect blood to trickle from her lips. She’s dying. She’s dying, and I killed her.

“Hang on for me,” I beg, as police cars position around the accident and the ambulance finally appears. “Marina, please.”

She gives me a look like she wants to stay, but her fingers go limp inside mine, and her eyes close, shutting me out.