Sanctuary Island by Lily Everett Page A

sympathy would be welcome.
    “So … your injury is all healed up now? Good as new?”
    A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Not exactly. But as close as it’s going to get.”
    There was definitely something he wasn’t saying, but Ella didn’t get a chance to dig deeper because he sat back in his chair with a determined glint in his straightforward green gaze.
    “Actually, I’m as healed as I am because of your mom. I owe her a lot.”
    This time, Ella was the one stiffening up. “Oh?”
    “Your mom, and Sanctuary Island. When I first moved here, right after I got out of the hospital, I was kind of a mess.” He lifted one shoulder in a dismissive jerk. “I mean, I had it better than … a lot of folks. At least I’m still alive and walking around, right? It was stupid to be so screwed up about it. But I was a mess, all the same.”
    “It’s not stupid,” Ella felt compelled to say. She couldn’t dial back the fierceness in her voice, so she settled for keeping it short. “Whatever happened to you, however you got hurt … Trauma is never stupid. Don’t play the game of comparing who had it worse and how much suffering earns you the right to be upset. No one wins.”
    “You sound like a shrink.”
    Ella lifted her chin. She hadn’t missed the way his open expression shut down. “That’s probably because I’ve been in and out of therapy since I was about fifteen.”
    Staring into his wide eyes, Ella could see the moment he realized why she’d needed therapy. But if he wanted more details, he was out of luck. She’d stripped herself bare enough already—sitting in her mother’s kitchen comparing painful histories, Ella felt like a single exposed nerve.
    “Anyway,” he went on, as if realizing that the topic of Ella’s therapy had been closed. “I think you’re right. I got there eventually on my own, with some help from Jo.”
    “Got where?”
    He shrugged, making a face like he was trying to do a complicated math problem in his head. “I guess … it is what it is, you feel how you feel, and you can’t control it. All you can really control is what you do about it—that’s what the island taught me.”
    “It sounds like Jo was here for you at a time when you really needed someone,” Ella said, with some difficulty. “And I’m glad, honestly. But you have to understand—she was never there for me. For us.”
    “But she wanted to be,” Grady protested, resting his elbows on the table and leaning in as if warming to his subject.
    “But she wasn’t .” Ella flinched a little at the sharpness of her own retort, but she wouldn’t take it back. Trying to moderate her tone, she said, “Look. I know you’re trying to help. But I can’t…”
    He shook his head, looking pissed at himself. “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to go there. What’s between you and Jo is your business. I’m not here to meddle in that.”
    It took a few tries to swallow down the lump in her throat, and even Ella wasn’t sure if it was tears or relief.
    Ever since they arrived on the island, she’d felt like all the stress fractures in her psyche were showing up. And Grady Wilkes seemed to have an uncanny ability to strike at them. “Then why are you here? Do you cook breakfast for my mother every morning?”
    “No. And I should tell you, I can’t take credit for these biscuits. Jo made them before she left.”
    “They’re pretty good,” Ella had to admit. Light, fluffy layers of buttery perfection, with the slightest hint of buttermilk tang inside to contrast with the salty richness of the golden toasty outside.
    “Pretty good? Your mama makes the best biscuits on Sanctuary.”
    “All right!” Ella had to laugh at Grady’s fervent declaration, grateful for the sudden lightening of tension in the air. “They’re amazing. She’d make a bundle serving these for breakfast at a B and B.”
    Grady’s jaw went granite hard, and Ella threw up her hands.
    Pushing back from the table and carrying her