Page 23

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

My legs bounce on the floor as I review my program readmission letter from UNYC.

My brothers pulled some strings for me to get me readmitted because my enrollment lapsed a long time ago.

My heart pinches at needing the help of my brothers again.

The familiar frustration, anger—everything my therapist keeps telling me is normal—burns inside me.

A lot of “I shouldn’t needs” bounce around my mind, which is completely unproductive.

I snap my fingers—a new quirk I’ve picked up the last few months, the sound and movement reminding me I’m being too tough on myself.

A literal “snap out of it.”

“I got this. I got this,” I chant under my breath and review the student portal—they’ve recognized most of the general education classes I’ve taken before, so that’s good.

But you don’t remember shit.

What a clusterfuck. Do the credits count if I remember nothing?

Eh, who cares? People learn on the job, anyway.

Dr. Riordan told me I most likely kept my accumulated knowledge—as evidenced by how marketing concepts were familiar when I read old textbooks to re-familiarize myself.

I just don’t remember learning the concepts .

I snort and shake my head.

I’m a hustler. Whichever direction life blows me into, I’ll find my way.

If I take a full course load—most of which can be done online—and don’t take summers off, I can graduate in two years.

I’ll need to bust my ass, but I can do it.

Determined, I click to the next page and review my course selections.

BUS 30: Financial Accounting Post Sarbanes Oxley, ATH 301: Beginner’s Swimming Elective, because I need to do more than just float.

I need to fight my nightmares.

If I knew how to swim back then, maybe I wouldn’t have lost eight years, and I want to take up a physical activity—something that’s easier on my body.

I look at my twitchy right leg.

The limp has gotten much better, but it’ll always be there—a physical battle scar from my accident.

No more ballet for me.

There’s no way I can handle the rigors of dancing.

Another devastating loss.

My fingers knead the tense muscles on my thigh, my eyes prickling.

I used to live for ballet.

It doesn’t matter. One bad chapter doesn’t mean the rest of the book is horrible.

Snapping my fingers, I refocus on the screen.

There’s one tricky class—MKT 462: Corporate Marketing Immersion—which will require me to spend six months interning at a company of my choice.

This program is new to UNYC and allows students to get hands on experience in the real world.

More importantly, the number of course credits is three times that of a normal class, which means I can graduate sooner.

I’ll need to find a company to take me on as an intern, but I’ll cross that bridge when I get there.

But before I click submit, my mouse hovers over the last course—a general elective class—ENG 203: Creative Poetry.

My heart races and I’m suddenly winded, even though I haven’t so much as moved in my chair.

I’ve always been a reader—that much, I remember—but I don’t recall gravitating toward poetry.

Romance novels and historical fiction have been my jam.

But somehow, when it comes to selecting a general elective course, my mind won’t let me pick anything else.

A sudden wave of sadness sweeps inside me.

A hole in my heart. I’m forgetting something important.

Something I’m desperate for, but can’t reclaim.

My computer pings. A news update pops up.

I scan the headlines.

The stock market rallies over news of a potential merger between Fleur and another entertainment company.

I flag it for later.

A businessman was assassinated in prison and something about a shady organization known as The Association.

I frown—what in the conspiracy shit is this?

A wave of nausea hits me from nowhere and my head throbs.

Closing my eyes, I breathe through my nose as the worst of the churning passes.

Sweat beads on my forehead and I grip the side of my desk for support.

What on earth is wrong with me?

Is this one of those side effects Dr. Riordan mentioned?

My laptop pings again and after the weird spell passes, I open my eyes to find a new email on top of my inbox.

I exhale when I see the newest email from my Letters of Hope pen pal, Polaris.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: The Perfect Ending

Dear Alexis,

Sorry for the late reply.

Life and work have been chaotic, and frankly, your question inspired a lot of thinking.

“If you could rewrite the ending of a favorite story, how would it go? ”

I must admit, I was taken aback when I saw your question—this wasn’t something I’d been asked before.

But then I figured it out.

You must be asking because you’re feeling uncertain in this new world you woke up to.

Perhaps this stems from a desire to rewrite your ending.

But you see, there’s something fundamentally flawed about that.

While you’ve lost eight years and that is a very long time—I’m not minimizing that at all—your story has just begun.

You’ve far from reached the end.

So, I don’t think you need to rewrite anything, because you can create the ending you want.

Per the program requirements, I can’t tell you anything about myself, but I’ll tell you this.

I’ve been exchanging letters with patients for the last eight years and all of them—I repeat, every one of them—find their footing in the new world again.

New perspective. New hopes.

New dreams.

So I can say with certainty, you will too.

Warmth floods my veins as my fingers trace the words on the screen.

His email is the perfect balm to the nausea and uneasiness I felt earlier.

I wish I could give the email writer a hug for understanding me so well.

He’s right. Per program guidelines, my pen pal’s identity has to remain anonymous, but I’m free to disclose my personal details.

And I did.

I’m embracing this new Alexis Vaughn.

Flaws and all.

As for the answer to your question, if I could rewrite any story, I’d rewrite the love story of Eros and Psyche.

My heart races— The Secret Garden is my favorite book and Eros and Psyche’s love story is my favorite Greek myth.

The unwavering love between Eros, the son of Aphrodite, and Psyche, the mortal woman he was never supposed to be with.

I remember curling up in bed with a flashlight when I was little, imaging the handsome Greek god watching over the beautiful Psyche while she slept, because she wasn’t supposed to find out his identity.

I was breathless with anticipation, hoping Psyche would wake up and the lovebirds could finally see each other.

Then, I was heartbroken when they were kept apart.

Their beautiful story ultimately had a happily ever after, the lovers reunited after Zeus intervened.

But there was too much suffering to get there—Eros needing to hide his identity from the woman he loved, Psyche even coming close to death to prove her love to the other gods.

If I could rewrite the story, I’d wish for one thing only.

That Psyche wouldn’t have to endure so much to be reunited with her lover.

I’d wish her journey was gentler, because any man who truly loves a woman would rather bear the burden himself.

He’d want her to be happy and whole, even if it meant facing the darkness alone.

I hope this helps your journey.

As always, I’m here for you.

Yours,

Polaris

An ache pulses inside my rib cage.

Unlike minutes ago, I don’t feel sick.

Instead, I’m hit with an urge to cry.

The spot above my heart hurts, and I don’t know why.

There’s nothing wrong with me—countless scans, X-rays, MRIs have told me that.

Wetting my lips, I process his words—he’s never told me his gender, but I’m sure Polaris is a man and someone who’s endured loss.

Because that’s the only way he can write such insightful and thought-provoking responses.

A sense of déjà vu ripples through me.

It’s like fate has engineered it all—me in this hospital room, randomly assigned to Polaris.

Perhaps he needs this outlet as much as I do.

Maybe I can help him heal.

I click reply and a new window pops up.

As I mull over what to write, someone knocks on my door.

The door opens, and in walks someone I definitely don’t expect to see.

“Dayton?” I shake my head in disbelief.

Then warmth floods my body.

Dayton Holden—my high school boyfriend.

“Lexy.” His eyes crinkle at the corners—the wide, charming smile, the half tilt of his head—all familiar.

I know we broke up back then, but I don’t remember doing it.

And seeing the same smile on his face has me heaving a sigh of relief.

Some things remain the same.

He’s wearing business casual—a dark sweater with slacks, his golden hair swept up.

The last eight years have treated him well.

“I heard you woke up. Sorry for not visiting sooner. I figured you needed time to process everything.” He takes a seat next to me.

“Gosh, I, I mean, I don’t even know where—” I’m speechless.

Where do I start? How’s life?

Thanks for remembering me?

Have you seen Summer?

I’m so happy to see you?

He chuckles, his laugh still sounding the same.

“I know. It’s strange right? To you, probably no time has passed, but to me, high school was a long time ago.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I wanted to see if you’re doing okay.”

The Dayton in front of me seems calmer, more mature than the football captain I remember, the one who dragged me to parties, won beer pong contests, and gave me my first kiss .

“Thanks. So, how have you been?”

“Good. I run Holden Investments now. One of the top fifty firms in the country.” Pride glimmers in his eyes and I smile.

He looks down and smacks his forehead.

“Shit. I’m an idiot. These are for you.”

Dayton hands me the bouquet of lilies in his hand and a small flush creeps up his face.

“Ha. Thanks.” I bury my face in the fragrant flowers, inhaling the sweet scent.

“You didn’t have to.”

When I look back up, I find his eyes intent on me, his gaze piercing.

“Do I have something on my face?”

He reaches out and brushes the bridge of my nose with his finger.

The spot behind my rib cage pinches again.

An echo—very faint—but before I can dwell on it, the sensations vanish.

“Pollen. There. All gone.”

“Uh. Thanks.” I grab the glass of water next to me and take a few sips, wondering why it’s so hot suddenly.

“So, how are you feeling? Rumor is, you have trouble with your memory?”

My eyes snap to his face, finding his brows pinched with apparent concern.

But there’s something…

something I can’t grasp.

I shake myself. This entire day has been insane.

“Yeah, unfortunately, the last memory I have is when I was sixteen. But lucky you, I still remember when you stole my parents’ car, and the guys TP’d it to prank you.”

He laughs and shakes his head.

“Seriously? Out of all the things you can remember, you remember this?”

I grin and waggle my brows.

“You were so terrified because you just got your learner’s permit. It was hilar—”

Someone clears his throat, and I don’t need to look up to know who it is .

The temperature of the room drops ten degrees, but a sharp heat burns my back.

Swallowing, I look up, finding Ethan Anderson with his arms crossed over his chest, a dark storm brewing in those startling eyes.

“Am I interrupting something?” His jaw twitches and my pulse races.

Then he strides toward us.