“Oh, baby,” I murmur, brushing Luke’s hair away from his forehead as he fights back tears.

He’s still my “baby,” even if he is almost fifteen years old.

“I can’t believe I’m going to be holed up for the rest of the summer,” he says in a choked voice. “And I’m going to miss Angie’s party,” he realizes.

I suspect this fact hurts him even more than his broken ankle.

“She’ll probably get off with Jake and that’ll be that, then,” he adds bitterly.

I lean in and squeeze his shoulder. “Angela Rakesmith looks at you like the light shines out of your backside,” I say pointedly. “You have nothing to worry about there.”

Despite himself, my son grins, but it’s quickly followed by a grimace.

“Do you need more painkillers?” I ask with concern, my hand halfway toward the button to call the nurse.

He shakes his head. “They make me feel sick.”

“I’m sorry you’ll miss the party.” I am genuinely sympathetic. Luke has been looking forward to it so much. “That sucks. But think of all of the attention you’ll get when you go back to school. The girls will be clambering over themselves to sign your cast. Angie will be jealous as hell.”

His bottom lip wobbles and he swallows rapidly, but there’s no holding back his tears of misery and frustration.

“I had so many plans for this summer! How did I do this surfing?” He slaps his hand on the bed.

“It could’ve been worse.” I shudder at the thought.