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it from people who have.” Evie couldn’t get mushy and compliment Blythe on her obvious courage to put herself in harm’s way. Something made her certain Blythe would recoil at such praise, even if it was true.
    “Well. I suppose.” Looking ill at ease, Blythe took a deep breath. “I usually don’t talk about this. I try to let my photos speak for themselves.”
    “I can understand that. I think you’re as private as me. I’ve always hated giving interviews to those motorsport reporters who eventually end up asking me stupid, chauvinist questions. I thought that was the worst. Now I know different. It’s much worse when they want to know how I felt when I regained consciousness. How I felt when I learned of the deaths. How I felt when I knew I’d be scarred for life.” Evie lost her breath. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t take that out on you.”
    “You didn’t. I promise I won’t ask chauvinistic questions. And I was there. I don’t have to ask about the crash, or your injuries. I want to document your comeback, which in turn will be a story of how a young woman finds the strength to overcome adversity and work through pain, fear, and survivor guilt.” Blythe raised an eyebrow. “Right?”
    “I—I guess so.” Evie was taken aback by Blythe’s sudden eloquence and her vision for the photo book. “I’ve seen a lot of your work. I know you can portray just about anything you want. Just don’t make me out to be some damn hero, okay? I’m not. I was lucky to live to drive another day. Several others weren’t.”
    “I meant to ask your opinion about that.” Blythe scooted closer. “I thought it might be a good idea to either begin or end the book with pictures of the guys who didn’t make it. I already have permission from their families, but they also know that I need your input on this.”
    Evie was stunned. Not a day went by that she didn’t think of the young men who lost their lives when hers changed forever. “I…I like that idea. I count on you to do it tastefully.”
    “That’s up to you as well. I was thinking you should write the text for their pictures.”
    “Me?”
    “You knew them.” Blythe spoke firmly.
    “I’m no writer. I’ll need you, or someone, to help me. Please?” A little panicky, Evie took Blythe’s hand and squeezed it hard. “All right?”
    “Of course. I’ll help you. The editors will go over it with us as well, don’t worry.”
    “That’s important. It’s my only chance to do them justice. You see?” Evie hadn’t been able to attend any of the funerals. Even if her team had represented her, it had bothered her that she was still unconscious and completely oblivious to what had happened. As much as the thought of expressing herself in writing intimidated her, this might be her chance to make up for her absence. Evie knew her reasoning was illogical. The crash wasn’t her fault. Being hurt and unconscious wasn’t her fault either, yet still she experienced this immense guilt. The therapist had explained it more than once. This was something she would need to work through in time. Perhaps by writing a tribute to the guys she could do that?
    “I can see where you’re coming from,” Blythe now said. “You feel you owe them. You’re here and they’re not.”
    “Yes.” Evie wiped furiously at some treacherous tears. “Yes.”
    “I get it.” Blythe moved closer, strengthening her grasp of Evie’s hand. “I really do. If it wasn’t so trite, I’d say ‘been there, done that.’”
    “Yeah?” Evie focused on the warmth of Blythe’s hand and the spot where their legs touched. This close, she could see fine lines around Blythe’s eyes, really the only evidence of her age. A band of freckles across her short, straight nose, the soft, pink, curvy lips, and the curly blond hair framing it all made Blythe seem at least fifteen years younger. Still, those fine lines kept Blythe from looking too…cute. Evie hadn’t realized that she clung to