I stared at Hannah, understanding at last. She hadn’t been frightened by my wheelchair; she’d recognized the man she’d once comforted in a hospital bed and panicked because of her guilt. I told her Rachel had made her own choice. Then I remembered a woman’s hand holding mine during those first terrifying hours. I’d always believed it belonged to Rachel. “Before she arrived, who was holding my hand?” I asked. Hannah’s eyes filled. “I was,” she whispered. “You begged me not to leave, and I promised I wouldn’t.”

We sat together, finally speaking without secrets. I admitted I’d hidden my wheelchair because I feared rejection. Hannah said she’d fallen for the man behind the burned cakes, ridiculous jokes, and late-night conversations—and then fallen for me again without knowing we were the same person. I reminded her she’d technically broken her promise. She laughed through her tears. I reached for her hand, and she held it as she had three years earlier. The accident had changed my body and ended a relationship, but it hadn’t taken away my chance to be loved. The woman I thought had abandoned me had never held my hand. Hannah had. I kissed her, and this time, neither of us ran.