Part 2The Day You Forgot Me to Death

“Garrett, be honest—is this neon bikini cute, or should I go with the white one-piece?”

In the beachside boutique, Brooke held both hangers against her chest, swaying slightly to the indie pop playing over the speakers.

Garrett kept his gaze trained on a rack of sunglasses, his jaw set. “Both look fine. You look good in whatever.”

Brooke’s lower lip jutted out. “Lazy answer.” She tossed the one-piece back onto the rack and marched toward the dressing room with the two-piece. “I’m trying it on.”

A few minutes later, the curtain pulled back.

Brooke stepped out, her cheeks flushed pink, tugging self-consciously at the thin string ties around her hips. “Is the cut too low? Does it look desperate?”

Garrett turned around. His gaze swept down her throat, across her toned stomach, and lingered on the curve of her thighs for two full seconds before he jerked his eyes back to her face.

His Adam’s apple bobbed. “It’s... a lot.”

“It’s a beach town, Garrett, everyone’s in practically nothing,” Brooke teased, stepping closer until her bare arm brushed his polo shirt. “We’re bros. Give me an objective male opinion.”

Garrett’s voice dropped an octave, gravelly and tight. “Buy it.”

They walked out with a branded tote bag, heading toward the shore. Floating above, I watched Brooke unscrew a bottle of sunscreen and press it into Garrett’s hands.

“I can’t reach my shoulder blades. Put some on for me?”

Garrett stared at the bottle. “Brooke, come on. People are going to get the wrong idea.”

“What wrong idea? You’re basically my sister. Hurry up, I burn in ten minutes.”

Garrett let out a breath that sounded like surrender. He squeezed a pool of white lotion into his palm and smoothed it over the warm, golden expanse of her back. His touch was slow, deliberate, his fingers splaying across her skin, tracing the line of her spine.

Brooke closed her eyes, letting out a soft, feline purr. “God, your hands are warm.”

Watching them, my mind was pulled backward to the week I was discharged from the hospital.

In those early days, they were frantic to keep their vows. They carried my luggage into the apartment like pallbearers carrying a casket. Garrett carried every meal to my bedside, blowing on the soup, guiding the spoon past my ruined lips. Brooke washed me with warm, lavender-scented washcloths, speaking in hushed, reverent whispers as if any loud sound might shatter me.

But contrition has a short half-life.

A month in, I woke up hungry around midnight. I crept into the living room on silent feet, looking for something to drink.

Laughter drifted from the kitchen, accompanied by the sizzle of butter in a cast-iron skillet.

“Garrett, you over-salted the ribs!”

“No way. Let me taste.”

Brooke had picked up a braised short rib with her bare fingers and shoved it playfully into Garrett’s mouth.

“Well?”

“It’s perfect. Your palate’s just boring.”

Garrett had chewed the meat and bumped his hip hard against hers, sending her stumbling against the counter in a fit of giggles. Brooke snatched the platter and darted out into the dining room.

“I’m eating the rest. You get nothing!”

“Give that back, you thief!”

Garrett chased her around the kitchen island. They were breathless, laughing like college sweethearts, tugging on opposite sides of the plate until sauce smeared Brooke’s collarbone.

I stood there in the shadow of the hallway, swathed from neck to brow in heavy white bandages, my breath whistling through my collapsed nasal passage.

Then Garrett turned, his eyes landing on me.

The laughter died instantly on his lips, curdling into something rigid and cold. “Nina... what are you doing out of bed?”

Brooke froze, the plate slipping slightly in her hands, her expression snapping from euphoria to a strained, guilty grimace. “Nina! Are you thirsty? I can warm up some almond milk.”

I shook my head slowly behind my mask. “I want a rib.”

Garrett looked down at the messy, sauce-streaked platter they had been tearing apart with their fingers, his brow furrowing in irritation. “The meat’s too tough, Neens. With your skin grafts, your jaw can’t handle the chew yet. Tomorrow I’ll slow-cook some until it falls apart, okay?”

His voice was so tender, so full of practiced patience.

He didn't make me a fresh plate.

Neither of them asked if I went to bed hungry that night.

I turned around and walked back into the dark room. After that, I stopped leaving it. And the laughter in the living room grew louder, freer, unburdened by the reminder of what they had built it upon.

“Garrett, stop daydreaming and get in here!”

Brooke’s shriek pulled me back to the present. She was standing waist-deep in the rolling surf, scooping up a handful of water and hurling it straight at his chest.

Garrett was drenched from head to toe.

He wiped the saltwater from his eyes, a grin spreading across his face as he charged into the waves. “Brooke, you’re dead!”

He lunged for her, their laughter tumbling over the waves, swallowed by the roar of the ocean.