Page 31

The club pulses to the sultry beats of a hip-hop mix during my second girls’ night out with Taylor and her friends at a nightclub inside The Orchid.

Taylor’s OG gang—her sister, Grace, and best friends, Millie and Belle—couldn’t make it tonight.

Pursing my lips, I reread Polaris’s email to me last week, answering the question I posed to him.

We write frequently now—once a week, at least. Sometimes, they’re short.

Other times, they’re full-on philosophical discussions about life.

The same familiar tingle appears behind my rib cage whenever his name pops up in my inbox.

There’s an invisible kinship I feel with him, and also a sense of safety.

Fear doesn’t grip me when I read his emails.

It’s like magic.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Rebuilding

I never answered your question from before—what’s something I’ve created that I’m most proud of.

To be honest, it was hard for me to come up with an answer that didn’t sound perfunctory or fake.

I could say I’m most proud of my work achievements—developing and growing a strong team at my company, growing profits exponentially—all the things you might expect someone in corporate America to say.

But they ring false.

And since Letters of Hope is a program founded to help patients get back on their feet, honesty is something I should embrace.

I want to be true to you, Alexis, without compromising the rules of this program.

While I can’t give you specifics, I’ll tell you this.

My achievements are born from a path of pain and loss—a devastating loss I wish I could turn back time and erase.

There were days when I wondered what the point of it all was—to wake up every morning and keep going, to pretend everything was fine when I was dying inside.

I wanted to fade away.

I wanted to stay asleep and keep dreaming of a past I couldn’t reclaim.

My heart twists at the visceral grief in his words.

So palpable, I wish I could find him and hug him with all my might.

But I knew I had people who relied on me, people who loved me.

I couldn’t disappoint them.

And so, I’d drag myself out of dreamland each morning into the harsh reality of the day.

I’d put one foot in front of the other, to live and build my life because I knew the person who mattered most would want me to be strong and continue on.

Slowly, I built an impenetrable armor for myself, and I created a life after tragedy.

A successful one. One I knew she’d be proud of if she were here, even though she wouldn’t recognize the person I am now.

I don’t recognize the person I’ve become.

The armor is melded into my skin, and maybe I can’t feel the breeze on my face or the warmth of the sun.

Maybe I’m afraid of shedding it because I might step too close to the flames and get burned again, but I’m alive and surviving.

And that’s enough.

So, I guess, I’m proud of that.

Always,

Polaris

P.S.

Don’t be sorry for me.

I’m very thankful even if life didn’t turn out the way I wanted.

I’m grateful as well.

While I’m standing on the sidelines, I get to watch a second chance blossom in front of my eyes.

And that’s enough for me.

P.P.S. Describe your perfect night out.

Let me live vicariously through you.

The aching grief so perfectly described.

My Polaris is a poet—he has magic in his words.

Your Polaris? Come on, get a grip, Lexy.

I blow out a breath.

Nevertheless, I wish I could give him my second chance.

Not that it’ll make a difference since I’m still figuring out my place in the new world now.

Polaris didn’t tell me anything specific I could identify him from, but the letter feels like something a lover would whisper in your ear in bed.

I don’t remember if I’ve had sex before.

I was still a virgin when I was sixteen.

But I’d imagine conversations like this would be something that might happen after you made love.

Sharing secrets, vulnerable confessions.

It’s intimate. Raw. Tugging at my heartstrings.

I wonder if someday I could hold him in my arms. Not as a patient to a confidant in a pen pal program, but as…

friends.

Or perhaps something more?

My heart palpitates as the idea takes root .

“Why are you frowning at your phone? Is everything okay?” Taylor nudges me.

“Huh?” I click reply and start typing my response.

To: [email protected]

From: A.

[email protected]

Subject: RE: Rebuilding

Thank you for confiding in me and being truthful in your response.

Someone once told me my ending wasn’t written yet, and I’d like to return that sentiment to that person.

Maybe someday, you’ll get everything you desire.

I have a motto—if you believe it, who’s to say it isn’t true?

And perhaps you don’t believe it, but I’ll believe it for you.

“What are you typing over there?” Taylor leans over and tries to peer at my phone.

“Is it Dayton?”

“Tay, privacy please.”

“It’s him, isn’t it? Your ex-boyfriend who’s been checking in on you in the hospital? I tell you, the man is interested in you.”

“It’s not him, Tay.” Although she’s right, Dayton has been texting me on and off.

I chalked it up as him being a good friend, but maybe he does want something more.

Nope. Not thinking about that right now.

I refocus on my email.

“Hm. Something fishy is going on. This reminds me of the time when you were texting with your—”

She stops herself mid-sentence, causing me to look up to find her clasping her palm over her mouth.

“What? What did I used to do?” My fingers still on my phone.

Taylor shakes herself and grimaces.

“Dude, just pretend you didn’t hear that. I’m not supposed to tell you anything about those four years, remember?”

Ah, dammit, the medical trial .

There are days when I want to say screw it all and just tell me everything already, because from the looks of it, this trial is failing and I still don’t remember shit.

“To answer your nosy ass questions, I’m in a hospital pen pal program. I’m typing a response to a serious question.”

“Hm. Interesting.”

I arch my brow at her, finding her gaze pensive, reminding me of another Anderson I don’t want to think about.

Waving her off, I murmur, “Give me a minute. I just want to finish this first.”

It’s funny how you asked me what my perfect night out would look like.

The past me would probably say going to a party with my friends.

Well, I’m here to report the present me doesn’t find that as appealing.

I’m at a nightclub with my friends, and I wish I was back home.

Maybe sitting in front of a fireplace and journaling or reading.

Peace and quiet with someone you love.

I think that sounds like a perfect night.

Always,

Alexis

P.S.

I’m sorry to hear about your loss.

I’m sure if she were here, she wouldn’t want to see you in your armor, hiding yourself from the world.

Whoever she was, she was a lucky person to have had you love her.

One day, I could only hope to find someone who’ll feel the same way about me.

My chest pinches, and I hit send, then put my phone away .

“Here’s to the future as badass single ladies!” Lana cheers as she walks up to the table with a tray of drinks.

She hands out flutes of a mystery cocktail to the girls, her silver sequined mini dress glinting in the dim lighting.

“Hey. I’m here, you know,” Taylor grumbles.

“Hopelessly in love with my brother.” I mock shudder.

“Why anyone would love workaholic Charles is a mystery.”

A paper napkin hits me square on my face.

“Hey! That’s my man you’re talking about.” Taylor narrows her eyes.

The fake anger would be more convincing if her lips weren’t twitching.

“Charles is misunderstood. He just wants what’s best for you and holds his cards to his chest, but he really—”

“Stop right there before I puke. To think of Lil’ Tay growing up and—”

“Banging your brother?” Lana grins and wiggles her brows.

She might as well be Rex’s twin at this point.

I mime throwing up. “Disgusting.”

“What is this?” Olivia Lin, one of my new friends, courtesy of Taylor and Lana, holds the drink up in the air, examining the contents.

“Do I even want to know? It’s got the colors of the rainbow in it.”

I take a tentative sip.

Sweet, tangy, and citrusy, ending with a berry aftertaste.

Taylor sips her water and shrugs.

“Not drinking, Tay?” I ask.

Her jaw works, her eyes not meeting mine.

“I don’t drink alcohol. Ever .”

I frown at her vehement response, and the girls exchange a look.

But it’s dark in here, so maybe I’m just seeing things.

Lana claps. “Pretty awesome, right? It’s called the Jungle Mirage. It’s Mystique’s new signature cocktail after their revamp.” She motions to the spacious club, which is spectacularly designed to resemble an exotic rainforest .

Acrobats and aerial performers swing from ropes attached to the tall ceilings.

Dancers show off their moves in bird cages suspended mid-air.

There are plenty of trees, green foliage, and beautiful blooms, giving a sweet fragrance to the air.

“Do you guys do this a lot? Changing up the nightclubs?” I take another sip of the fruity drink.

Lana nods. “Our patrons expect novelty. I don’t come to the clubs often. The last time I was here, I think, was…Ethan’s promotion? Yeah, it was his promo to a senior analyst when he was undercover at Fleur. It’s been years.”

“Undercover?” I sit up taller.

The mention of his name chases away some of the alcohol fuzziness.

In the last month since I started at Fleur, I’ve seen him a handful of times—usually from a distance as we crossed paths in the grand lobby or in the corridors when he comes down to talk to Rex.

I’d feel his presence each time before I see him—a searing heat prickling my senses or the goosebumps pebbling on my arms for no reason.

When I’d look around, I’d always find him in the vicinity, his gaze trained on me even if he was talking to someone else.

Butterflies would swarm in my gut.

But when our eyes locked, he’d look away and pretend I wasn’t there.

This strange connection between us.

It feels deep—bottomless, even.

And I don’t know how to explain it.

“Yea. My brother doesn’t talk a lot, but he thinks a lot. Back then, he got it in mind that he wasn’t smart enough to be an Anderson.” She sighs and shakes her head.

“He thought he needed to prove himself, so he worked from the bottom up. Took on a fake name and everything. Naturally, he kicked ass. The idiot.”

“Really? Interesting.” The person she painted—a person trying to prove himself to the world—is someone I can empathize with, and yet, it definitely doesn’t resemble the ice monster who radiates so much confidence and arrogance, he can bottle them up and add to his billions selling the concoctions .

Then I remember what I insinuated in rehab when he offered me a place at Fleur.

I implied he got his job because of his last name.

Shit. I wince. No wonder he looked upset that day.

“It’s sad though. He works too much. I’m not sure what happened, but after he revealed his identity to the company, he spent all of his waking hours in the office. Almost like he was possessed. You’d think he’d let go a bit. After all, he was climbing the ranks fine on his own when people didn’t know who he was. They called him the Deliminator because he was so good with numbers. He didn’t need to prove himself anymore.” Lana smiles sadly at her drink.

“He withdrew into this dark hole no one could reach, and he wouldn’t talk to anyone. Became a loner. Barely smiled. Turned into a block of ice. I worry about him.” She downs the entire drink and when she sets her glass down, her eyes shine with moisture.

“Sometimes, I think he’s just going through the motions in life and not really living.” Lana sniffles.

“Anyway, ignore me. It’s the alcohol talking.”

My heart spasms like someone punched it, and I rub the area, but the ache doesn’t go away.

My mind flits back to Ethan’s handsome and stern face, the way he looms and lurks in shadows as if he’s hiding his presence, which is ridiculous because there’s no way the god of war could hide his fury—

A gasp tumbles out of me but is swallowed by the club music.

God of war.

Something about that phrase sent my pulse soaring and my fingers trembling.

Then, the searing headache hits again, and I groan and brace myself for the painful wave to pass.

“You okay?” Olivia takes my glass away.

“Not feeling well?”

I hold up my hand and let out a ragged exhale, sweat beading on my forehead as the headache intensifies before slowly receding .

The frequency of these spells seems to be increasing.

Originally, the doctors said this could be side effects from the meds for the trial.

But it’s still odd—these random flashes come from nowhere, usually accompanied by other strange physiological symptoms, like random thoughts literally stopping me in my tracks.

Do these thoughts mean anything?

Is my mind trying to tell me something?

“Lexy?” Olivia turns me to face her, her eyes roving over my face.

“I’m fine. Just a sudden headache. Gone now.”

“Okay. Well, tell us if this is too much for you.” She motions at the flashing strobe lights, the loud music, and crowds.

“One step at a time. Pushing yourself to the brink doesn’t help anyone, and you know that.”

Her voice is soft as she squeezes my hand.

She’s a psychiatrist who introduced me to my therapist because she thought it’d be better if I talked to someone who wasn’t in my social circles.

“Yes, Dr. Lin. Don’t worry, I’m a hard nut to crack.” I wink and she chuckles.

“Well, there’s no shame in seeking help when you need it—it’s not a weakness, okay?”

I nod.

“Okay ladies, if we don’t want to be single, we have to mingle. Well, except for you, Tay. Because if you mingle, I’ll have to call Charles, who made me swear on Mom’s grave to make sure no red-blooded male goes within five feet of you.” Lana holds up her phone and shows a scowling Taylor what must be a text message from my brother.

“Oh, I’m so having a word with him,” Taylor growls, grabs her phone, and stomps off as the rest of us dissolve in laughter.

“Hit up the dance floor, ladies!” Lana waves her hands in the air and practically runs to the crowd with Olivia laughing behind her.

I grin, following them into the throng and close my eyes, letting the music wash over me.

My body moves to the beats, my left leg carrying most of the effort, but my right side is cooperating tonight .

I’m in a spaghetti strapped black minidress with two sexy triangle cutouts on the sides, my updo perfect, my makeup on point, and I’m wearing sensible flats so I’m not straining my feet and legs.

I feel pretty damn good.

Olivia squeals and I open my eyes, finding her and Lana laughing with a few guys, clearly making friends in the crowd, and I go back to my dancing.

With each passing minute, my muscles slowly relax.

I didn’t realize how much tension I was carrying.

I gyrate my hips harder, glee churning inside me when my muscles didn’t protest in pain.

I’m enjoying myself.

Yes. This is the old me.

I’m older, more mature, but a part of the old me is still alive.

Reaching back, I grab the hair clip pinning up my tresses and shake out my waves, relishing in the freedom—the high of the music, my body in one with the beats again.

I’m thrown back to my ballet recitals when I was younger—the weightlessness of my body as I twirl around the stage.

Determined, I hurl myself into a pirouette, my muscles never forgetting the proper technique.

But dammit, I forgot to use my left leg as anchor instead of my right.

A painful spasm ricochets up my calf, and my knees give out.

I claw at the air, struggling to regain my balance when a very familiar pair of arms clasp my waist and complete my rotation before tugging me flush against solid muscle.

“How many times do I need to catch you?”