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

“Your cubicle is all set up, and this packet contains your initial login information. Restrooms are down the hallway by the elevators to your right and the kitchen is to your left. Don’t heat smelly foods. Please…” Felicity from HR blabs a mile a minute, strutting toward the marketing bullpen, as she calls it.

Quickening my pace, I hurry after her.

The woman walks like she’s running.

What would she look like if she were actually on the run?

I stifle a giggle and rub my damp palms on my black skirt—a simple white blouse with a pencil skirt can’t go wrong—when what she says stops me in my tracks.

“Mr. Anderson will meet with you in half an hour.”

“What?”

My mind flashes to a certain dark-haired man with banked fire in his eyes who looks like he’s one wrong move away from detonating.

The mysterious, self-righteous asshole.

Felicity stops and cocks her brow at me.

“Why do you look so surprised? He’s your boss—the head of the marketing department? He likes to greet new hires—interns and employees alike. You’re lucky. He’s the most easygoing Anderson out of the bunch—we all like him. Well, Lana’s wonderful too, but the others?” She mimes slitting her throat with a knife.

Oh. Rex. Chief Marketing Officer.

Of course .

My chest deflates, crushing relief mixing with…

disappointment?

Why the hell would I be disappointed?

I should be ecstatic I’m not meeting with the storm cloud of the Anderson family.

I don’t need to endure another “you should take care of yourself better” cryptic comment from him.

I don’t even know why the man shows up all the time like a relentless shadow.

Two weeks ago, he appeared when Liam helped me move into a small apartment in the Flatiron District.

My brothers weren’t happy about me getting my own place.

But I need them to treat me like an adult—someone who can handle whatever life throws my way.

I’m not a child; not a teenager.

And certainly not a patient.

“Don’t push yourself, Alexis. Grabbing life by the balls is great, but you need to let yourself fully recover,” Ethan had muttered, his voice low and clipped.

“I’m not a fragile flower. I know my limits, Ethan.” My words wobbled as a sharp pain sizzled down my bad leg and I faltered.

He noticed. Of course, he noticed.

The cold in his eyes shifted—ice crackling under pressure—but it hardened again.

“Doesn’t look like it from where I stand.”

Before I could respond, he stepped in and took the box from my hands.

Carefully, like he knew how much its contents meant to me—like he had done this before.

“Hey—” I started, a flare of irritation rising.

I didn’t want the movers to handle this box.

These were things I’d never let strangers touch.

Something I’d never let strangers touch.

Ethan paused, those intense eyes of his dimming as he stared at my journals.

He swallowed and rasped, “You shouldn’t carry things that matter if you’re going to risk dropping them.”

Something in his tone made my heart twist. Like he wasn’t talking about the box at all.

A sharp headache splinters my skull, and I focus on my breathing until the agony passes .

“Hey, Alexis! You listening?” Felicity waves her hand.

I force out a grin as the pain fades and refocus my attention on the present.

Felicity stops and points to an open cubicle a few feet away.

“There’s your workstation. If you have questions, ask Sandra. She’s one of the senior marketing managers here. Mr. Anderson likes open floor plans, so only directors and above have offices.” She motions to the cubicle next to mine, where a smidgen of blonde hair peeks out from the top.

“Got it.”

“My door’s always open. Well, fake ‘door,’ but you know what I mean.” She pivots and speed walks in the direction we came from.

“I wish I had her energy. Maybe if I didn’t have three kids sucking the soul out of me, I’d be like her,” a wry, sarcastic voice murmurs.

“I’m Sandra but call me Sandy. You must be the new intern.”

I freeze—the timbre of her voice—the slight rasp, the dry wit.

I can imagine the beaming smile on her face and the twinkle in her eye.

It can’t be.

Slowly, I turn around and watch her eyes widen, her mouth dropping open as recognition flickers in her gaze.

“Lexy? What the fuck?”

“Summer?” I blink a few times, not sure if I’m hallucinating.

Nope, she’s still there.

Taylor offered to hire a PI to find my friend for me, but I told her no.

I figured I could do it myself once I got my bearings on life.

Summer—no, Sandra—grins before rushing forward and crushing me in her arms. “What the fuck? You dropped off the face of the earth and you’re here now?”

“Oh my God.” I grin, unable to believe my luck.

Summer, my Broadbent bestie, here in front of me.

The past me would say this is good mojo.

Serendipity.

The adult me is incredulous.

“So, how have you been? Where did you go? Why are you an intern? ”

I pull away and take her in—what used to be wild, curly hair is now tamed in a short ponytail.

Dark circles rim her eyes and there are a few wrinkles appearing when she smiles, showing a life well lived.

“I was in the hospital.”

“What?”

“You didn’t know?” Clumsily, I walk to my desk, hating myself when I stumble on my bad leg.

“I got into a car accident and was in a coma for eight years. Lucky to have woken up, to be honest.”

“Shit.” She follows me.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t know. You stopped responding to messages one day, and I thought we just grew apart since we were in different states. I was so mad at you too.”

Really, Summer?

That’s what you thought of me?

The strange anger brewing in my gut ever since I woke up flares and I quickly quash it down.

You probably would’ve thought the same thing if you were her.

“Yeah. Didn’t ghost you.” Booting up my computer, I watch the screen flicker on as she props herself against my desk.

“I woke up a year ago, and it has been nonstop rehab, and checkups, but I’m strong enough to resume life now.”

“Wow,” she murmurs.

“That’s terrible. Now I feel bad for not trying harder to look you up. So, you’re interning? Does that mean you’re still in college—do you have to redo everything?”

“Not all the classes, but a good chunk of them. Trying to catch up.” A lump forms in my throat when I notice the pity in her eyes.

What is she thinking?

And why does our conversation feel so…

off now?

You know why.

Eight years have passed by while you were asleep.

Nothing is the same.

You’re a stranger to her now.

A fresh wave of sadness hits me.

We feel different now.

Snapping my fingers, I bury those useless thoughts.

No one tells you about the grief you’ll endure when you wake up from a coma—and the guilt you’ll feel about the grief.

The world as I knew it is gone .

And I never got to say goodbye.

Shrugging, I put on a brave face.

“So, what’s been going on with you? You go by Sandra now? And you have kids ?”

She gives me a tired smile.

“Yeah. Two boys and a girl. A whole white picket fence and a dog too. Adam and I met in grad school and I guess…with the right guy, kids made sense, you know? It’s chaos, but I wouldn’t give it up for anything. As for Sandra…Summer didn’t cut it when you run in the rich circles. Sandra is more distinguished. Got to grow up sometime.”

My chest pinches.

She used to be the one who said kids were not for her and couldn’t imagine settling down.

I was the one who dreamed of finding my purpose, my man, getting married by thirty, then two kids by thirty-five.

Sandra must have seen something on my face because she leans in and gently squeezes my arm.

“You’ll get there too. I’ll have to live vicariously through you. You get to be free and enjoy your twenties, right?”

I flinch and she chuckles awkwardly, as if noticing her horrible choice of words.

Straining a grin, I reply, “Damn right. Going to party it up. Second chance at life—who knows where the wind will take me?”

She flushes and eyes her cubicle.

“You haven’t changed one bit—still the same free-spirited Lexy.”

We’ve both changed.

It’s so clear but we don’t say that to each other.

She winks and smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Come to me for anything. I’ll leave you be.”

After she disappears back to her side, I release a crestfallen sigh and tuck in a few strands of hair that have fallen out of my low bun.

It’s still damp from my weekly attempt at swimming in my apartment pool.

No dice this time. I couldn’t swim without my floaties.

You know the technique—your instructor said so.

You just need to get out of your head, Lexy.

But fear still grips me whenever I try—my mind seizes and suddenly, I’m hit with a barrage of still images—dark waters, loud roars, screams .

Then my head would hurt again.

But I’m not giving up.

I’m going to get over this phobia if it’s the last thing I do.

My cell phone buzzes and I pick it up.

A text message and a new email.

Taylor

Kick some ass, girlfriend.

And tell Rex I’ll kill him if he doesn’t treat you well.

I smirk and reply.

Alexis

I’ll whoop his ass myself.

Don’t worry…and thanks.

Swiping to my emails, my heart flips at a new message from Polaris.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Good Luck

Alexis,

Good luck on your first day of work, not that you need it.

You got this.

Impostor syndrome happens to all of us—there are days when I wonder what the heck I’m doing.

But remember—you are your own worst critic.

When you’re down, think about all the impossible hurdles you’ve overcome, the astronomical odds you’ve beaten to even be here.

I have faith in you.

Always in your corner,

Polaris

The pressure in my chest loosens.

We’ve been corresponding a few times a month.

I sense he’s a busy man—he always seems apologetic whenever he’s late in his replies.

I wonder what his story is and why he’s taking the time to write to patients.

Whatever the reason, I’m grateful.

His words give me peace.

With him, I’m my true self—insecurities, flaws and all—and he doesn’t judge me for it.

Sometimes, I wonder if he’s lonely and if I’m providing any peace to him.

Quickly, I type back a response.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: RE: Good Luck

Oh Polaris,

Are you projecting your insecurities on me?

Who said I had impostor syndrome?

*wink*

Just kidding.

I definitely do. If impostor syndrome is a sport, I’m the quarterback in the major league, playing in the seventh inning.

Completely beating the offense with my keen EQ.

Thank you for your email.

Honestly, reading it has put a smile on my face.

Always,

Alexis

P.S.

What’s something you’ve created you are most proud of?

Currently seeking ideas for myself.

His reply comes almost instantly, and I jolt in surprise.

A sweet bonus for my first day…

good mojo.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: RE: RE: Good Luck

I need to think more about your question before answering you, but I can’t, for the life of me, let you walk around being completely clueless about sports.

Innings are baseball.

Quarterback is football.

Lord help me. Whatever you do, don’t talk about sports with your coworkers.

Please.

Polaris

I snicker at the incredulous and sarcastic tone in his email.

I don’t get to see this side of him often.

Grinning, I pull up a reply, intending to write something more outrageous.

Because I’m sure it’ll put a smile on his face.

And something tells me Polaris doesn’t smile a lot.

“I didn’t know marketing was this much fun.”

I freeze, recognizing the deep voice before I feel his heated presence behind me. Ethan Anderson.