Page 32 of Dear Future Husband

What if she never woke up?

What if this was my only chance to get to know her?

I peered back down at the book, only hesitating amoment before I opened to page two.

Dear Future Husband,

The reason I married you is because you respect me and encourage me to be the best me. You are my best friend. This journal is for you to know me, understand me more than anyone else ever could…

I paused and raked a hand through my hair.

Holy shit.

This was a book dedicated to the man she would one day marry. What kind of fourteen-year-old child thinks about that, talks like that? I really needed to put the book down now. It became so much more intimate, private, knowing that the journal was written for…for…. I stopped, a smile pulling at my lips as I stared at the book.

This journal was meant for me.

Leaning back in my seat, I tilted a bewildered laugh to the ceiling. I had officially lost it. What kind of bastard thinks something like that? Unconsciously, my fingers rubbed over the worn paper of the book filled with all the knowledge I was craving to ingest.

I didn’t know Maybelle.

I wanted to know her but—peering down at the book again, I gnawed on the inside of my cheek. Perhaps it was the lack of sleep, the lack of hope in my life that slowly had me flipping to the next page, but I slanted Maybelle one last apologetic look, and I read on.

13 You Are Not Alone

Maybelle

Darkness. Tumbling, never-ending darkness.

A rhythmic pounding—each beat painful.

Everywhere ached, felt wrong.

The dark smelled clean, chemically sterile.

The air was chilled. There were sounds. Echoes, tittering, chattering, voices.

A dull glow punctured the blackness. There was a light past the void. Was there a way out? Was there a way to escape the engulfing emptiness?

No feelings besides the ache, the pounding, my person or being non-existent in the space. But that glow, that light, was starting to shove its way through, brighter and more piercing. It started to burn; it was too much. There was no way to call out. I was stuck, stuck, stuck in bright, helpless pain.

“Oh. My. God.”

Thuds, thumps heavy and quick approached. A shadow above me dimmed the all-consuming light.

“Oh my God, turn those lights off and get me Chelsea Turner!”

The bright world stung—until it didn’t.

Shapes, images, pictures focused and took root.

“Wakey, wakey, baby,” the shadow spoke in a liltingvoice. Suddenly there was a warmth outside the fog, a solid embrace around a limb… My limb.

“My name is Betsy, baby. I’m gonna take care of you.”

I willed my world to become clearer, fighting against the pain and forcing the world to intensify and centralize around me.

A beautiful round woman with plump cheeks, dark skin, and big eyes looked down at me. The woman, Betsy, pursed her mauve-colored lips as she held to that limb—my wrist—placing two fingers on the inside. “Good morning, Maybelle, or should I say good middle of the night.”