Page 16

Present: Nine Years After the Accident—Twenty-Nine Years Old

“Happy birthday, Alexis!” Taylor crushes me in her embrace as her siblings and my brothers clap after singing “Happy Birthday” in an off-key, chaotic way.

Everyone huddles inside my suite at the rehab center.

The room is spacious for a hospital—large enough to fit a full-sized bed with silk sheets, two dressers, and a flatscreen TV with the fancy apps and insane picture quality, which still shocks me every time I turn on the TV.

Technology has definitely improved in the last nine years.

Balloons decorate the room, along with bouquets of roses, peonies, daisies—I’m sure I could moonlight as a florist at this point.

I should be excited.

Laughing and joking with everyone.

I’m grateful for my family and friends.

I’m thankful I have a second chance at life when others in my position typically don’t.

I’ve even successfully gotten into the rehab pool the last three times.

I still can’t swim, but I can float on my stomach.

It’s a big milestone and I should celebrate it.

But a boulder sits atop my chest, and my lungs can’t rake in a full breath.

My smile remains plastered on my face, but my mind is chaotic—a compass failing to calibrate, its needle unable to find north.

I’ve been in the hospital for over a year.

I’m almost thirty. I’m so behind in life.

I should be climbing the corporate ladder at Bank of Columbia or some other large corporation, financially independent, dating a wonderful man who’s thinking about proposing to me at the end of a romantic candlelit dinner after I’ve demolished a molten chocolate lava cake for dessert.

We should be planning what house to buy, when we’re going to have two point five kids, and maybe get a dog or two.

I’m behind. Behind. Behind.

Behind. My smile twitches and I blink, trying to refocus on the merry group before me.

“Twenty-nine, baby sis. One more year and you’ll be ancient!”

Ancient .

I’ll be ancient.

Liam’s smirk is promptly wiped away when Taylor elbows his ribs.

“Shut your trap before I shut it for you, Liam,” Taylor growls.

“Don’t listen to him, Alexis. Thirties are the new twenties, so technically, you’re still a teenager. And smokin’ hot too.”

“Charles, can you leash down your pit bull of a girlfriend?” Liam grumbles.

Rex, the flirt of the Anderson brood, whistles, his eyes widening.

“I need a chair, and someone bring me popcorn. A Vaughn showdown. Can’t miss this.”

“The only thing that’ll show down is when I kick your ass, Rex.” Liam hurls an accusing glare at him.

“Single bros are supposed to stick together!”

Charles grins and curls his arm around Taylor’s waist. “Definitely not taming my minx. If she were to chew your head off, it’d be because you deserved it, Liam.”

“Whipped. Abso-fuckin-lutely whipped. Charles Vaughn, I never thought I’d see the day.” Steven Kingsley, the current chief operating officer of Fleur Entertainment and Taylor’s brother-in-law, whacks his friend on the back.

“God, how the mighty have fallen.”

“What are you talking about? I’ve always wanted to settle down,” Charles mutters.

“Yeah, but you swore to all of us you hated a certain ballerina’s guts. What did you say? ‘Feral cat?’”

Taylor whips her head toward my oldest brother.

“You didn’t!”

Charles flushes.

“It’s completely out of context.” He shoots Steven a death glare.

“Minx, that was before—”

“I’d quit before you dig yourself into an early grave.” Maxwell, the eldest Anderson sibling, says from his spot in the armchair by the windows.

His wife, Belle, perches on his lap, cuddling their infant son, Levi.

The broodiest Anderson, aside from a certain Anderson who unnerves me, is wearing a smile of contentment as he kisses Belle’s forehead.

The room erupts into more chaos when Grace links arms with her sister, Taylor, against Charles, who’s trying to defuse the situation, while the rest of the Anderson gang is laughing and fanning the flames in the background.

Their voices merge into a thunderous roar in my ears and the room spins.

I grip the bed rail, my arms shaking.

Calm down. This is a panic attack.

Your therapist mentioned this might happen.

It’s normal. You’re normal.

You’re improving at your own pace.

Think about the present and not the future.

My breathing quickens and cold sweat beads on the back of my neck.

I can’t breathe. Dammit.

Breathe.

I need to breathe—

“Quiet! Can’t you tell she’s not feeling well?” Ethan’s sharp words slice through the excitement, plunging the room into silence.

How did he know I was panicking inside?

Closing my eyes, I rake in a deep inhale, followed by a long exhale.

Acid sloshes in my gut and I fight the urge to dry heave.

I’m fine. I’m okay. I’m tough as nails.

“Sorry,” I whisper. “Can you guys give me a minute?”

I keep my eyes closed, because if I open them, I’ll find pity in their gazes, and I don’t want anyone feeling sorry for me.

Dammit. Get a grip, Lexy.

“Sure thing, we’ll be back, okay?” Grace whispers.

“I’ll go kill the idiots. They were too loud. It’s their fault.” Taylor squeezes my arm .

I nod, still unable to look at them, and I hear the scraping of chairs against the floor and the scuffling of footsteps followed by the soft click of the door.

My lungs expel a deep breath as my heart rate slows.

Without everyone’s scrutiny, I can finally breathe.

Opening my eyes, I look around the room, taking in all the beautiful gifts and cards, before opening the drawer on my nightstand.

In it are clues to my past, things I’ve examined multiple times, wishing something would click, that somehow I’d recognize them.

They were supposed to be birthday gifts Charles and Liam bought me over the years, and the things I had on me that day of the accident.

My wallet and IDs. A bracelet Taylor told me was a friendship bangle and she had its twin.

A beautiful set of gold-tipped hummingbird earrings, so exquisitely made, my breath stalls in my throat whenever I look at it.

Then there’s a small wooden box with random trinkets inside—an antique Spanish gold coin, a small tin of ghost pepper spices, three pieces of glass shards, each a unique shade of red, blue, and green, a small bottle of what looks to be sand, and an intricately tied tassel with jade beads on it.

Tears prickle my eyes.

My chest aches whenever I look at the items—things I swear mean nothing to me, and yet, I can’t bring myself to throw them away.

I’ve asked my brothers and Taylor, and they all don’t recognize them.

They said I was found with a messenger bag strapped across my chest. So they assumed these items were in that bag.

I swallow, and hold up the earrings to the sunlight, watching the golden rays glint off the ruby bellies of the birds.

Did I buy them? Why does it feel like I have the answers at the tip of my tongue?

“Do you know that in many cultures, hummingbirds are a symbol of joy, positivity, resilience, and love?”

My heart skips a beat at the gravelly voice, and every inch of me goes on alert.

Ethan closes the door quietly behind him, a Styrofoam cup in his hand.

My mouth dries. The same coiled tension, searing intensity, and raw masculinity clad in a crisp blue shirt with the collar unbutton, revealing an expanse of tanned skin.

A man. Not like the high school boys in my memories.

“Here. Be careful. It’s hot.” He hands me a cup of tea, but a unique scent wafts to my nose and I take a sniff.

“It’s lavender chamomile tea from the nurses’ station. They don’t have lavender tea by itself and I thought hot tea would be better than iced when you just had a panic attack,” he murmurs, answering my unasked question.

“Go on. Drink. You’ll feel better.”

Bewildered, I take a sip, surprised at the hint of honey he must’ve added to it.

Warmth suffuses me and my tensed muscles slowly relax.

“You’re bossy,” I mutter.

“But thank you.”

He smirks, then pulls up a chair and sits down.

The familiar scent of amber and leather reaches my nose.

“Someone should boss you around and make sure you take care of yourself.”

And just like that, all the warmth I’ve been feeling dissipates in a flash.

Biting my tongue, I turn my attention back to the earrings in my free hand and the room falls into silence again.

Ethan Anderson is a quiet man.

If he doesn’t speak, he’ll fade into the background.

But his presence is loud.

And oddly reassuring.

“I heard from Charles you’re busy at work. An investigation of some sorts?”

He shifts in his seat.

“Embezzlement. It’s unfortunate.”

I snap my head up and take in his appearance again, particularly the dark under-eye circles which are more apparent up close.

He does look tired. Maybe Charles was right—I was too harsh on Ethan.

“I’m sorry to hear that. Did you catch the bad guy yet?”

“No. But we’ll get him.”

Silence falls again.

Glancing away, I fiddle with the earrings.

His gaze is on me, and my face heats, but I don’t look at him.

I’m afraid he’ll see through me .

“They’re beautiful earrings. Do you know who got them for you?” His voice is soft, barely above a whisper.

I shake my head. “They found them on me during the accident.” A thought occurs to me and I face him, finding those intense eyes of his trained on me.

Assessing. Calculating.

“Why did you think someone gave them to me? Couldn’t I have bought them for myself?”

His throat ripples as he swallows and he shrugs.

“Just making conversation.”

I narrow my eyes and he arches his brow as if daring me.

To do what?

Knock.

Knock.

Dr. Riordan enters the room, a clipboard in hand.

“Is this a good time, Ms. Vaughn?”

I look at Ethan, finding him already standing.

“Is everything okay, Doctor?” He sounds concerned.

Dr. Riordan looks at Ethan, his eyes widening in obvious recognition.

“Mr. Anderson.” He returns his attention to me.

“I’d like to discuss some things with you privately.”

Unease churns in my gut.

“Sure, Doctor. But my family…” I glance at Ethan again.

“I’ll take care of them. They’ve overstayed their welcome already, and I’m sure there’s a limit to Manhattan Memorial’s hospitality, even for the Vaughns and the Andersons.” A smirk appears on his lips.

Dr. Riordan chuckles.

“You’d be right. We rarely allow groups bigger than four in a patient’s room.”

“I’ll be fine, Ethan. Tell everyone thank you for celebrating with me.”

He furrows his brows, his eyes roving over my face, like he’s searching for tells.

I strain another smile.

“Really. I’m fine. Thanks for the tea.”

Ethan nods, his gaze searing.

He leans in before I can react and murmurs, “Happy birthday, Alexis. You might feel overwhelmed with everything, but…I…we’re glad you’re here with us…because you’re unforgettable. ”

Unforgettable.

A sharp pain pierces my chest and my hand automatically fists my shirt.

Why does it hurt so damn much?

I hear his ragged exhale, his hot breath brushing over my ear, his unique scent wrapping me in an embrace.

Awareness seizes me.

My body stills, and once again I’m hit with the urge to pull him closer.

The moment splinters and he steps back.

My heart thrashes as I take in his strained smile before he turns away and leaves the room.

I stare at the closed door.

What the hell just happened?

Why does it feel like we just had an entire conversation, even though it was nothing more than a sentence or two?

Dr. Riordan clears his throat, and belatedly, I realize he’s still standing there.

“Yes, Doctor?”

He sits down.

“So, we’ve been working on your memory for over a year now and it’s not going as well as we’ve hoped.”

The boulder appears back on my chest. At least he’s not beating around the bush.

“Only random snippets of those four years.”

He nods.

“Normally, I’d recommend patients move on. After all, you still have a long life ahead of you. You can create many more beautiful memories in the years to come.”

“But I—”

He holds up his hand.

“Let me finish. I’d like to think I know you by now, Ms. Vaughn. You want your memories back. One could even say you’re desperate for them. I’ve reviewed your charts with your therapist and understand how much they tie into your identity.”

Dr. Riordan’s eyes sharpen.

“This is why I want to discuss something with you. I’m running an experimental drug trial that appears promising for patients who’ve lost their memories because of traumatic brain injuries. Now, we’re only at the trial stage, and there may be side effects—”

“I’ll do it. Sign me up.” Wings beat inside my chest and suddenly the room appears brighter and sharper.

This is what hope does to you .

“Ms. Vaughn. Please think this through. Your body has been through a lot already. Being in an experimental trial means more hospital visits, exams, and tests. Not to mention, some participants have had severe side effects—nausea, insomnia—”

“Please, Dr. Riordan. I want to try everything and have no regrets. I want to do it.”

If I believe in it, who’s to say it isn’t true?

And don’t I always say don’t wait to live life because the clock is always ticking?

Dr. Riordan stares at me for a beat before nodding.

“Very well. I’ll be back with paperwork and the trial administrator, and we’ll go through the details with you. In order to preserve the integrity of the trials, no one in your life may tell you anything additional that transpired in those four years of missing memories. This is critical. So, please think through this. If you change your mind, you can always call my direct line.”

He hands me a business card and stands.

“Oh, and I wanted to give you this.” He hands me a sheet of paper from his clipboard.

“I think this might be helpful.” He smiles and leaves the room.

I stare at the document.

Letters of Hope. A program that matches patients recovering from long-term stays to anonymous letter writers.

A pen pal program.

My fingers tingle and a rush of energy flows through me.

Words, thoughts, and emotions barrel through my mind.

I have so many things I want to say, but can’t because I don’t want the people I love to worry about me.

But dammit. I’m lonely.

I don’t think anyone truly understands what I’m going through.

After all, how can they unless they’ve been in my shoes?

A pen pal may be the perfect answer.

Someone to talk to, sight unseen.

Excited, I grab my cell phone from my nightstand and open the email app.

To: Coordinator@LOH.

manhattanmemorial.org

From: [email protected]

Subject: Pen Pal Assignment

Hello,

I’d like to participate in the Letters of Hope program.

Will you assign me a pen pal?

My name is Alexis Vaughn, patient ID 35267.

Please advise on the next steps.

Thank you.

Regards,

Alexis

I press send and release a sigh of relief.

Finally, I can have someone to talk to.

Someone to be completely honest with.

Smiling at the thought of the future, I grab the cup of tea and take another sip, when suddenly, another thought occurs to me.

How did Ethan Anderson know I like honey lavender iced tea?

And why didn’t my head hurt this time in his presence?