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

Releasing a happy sigh, I sit on a blanket under the barren, drooping branches of the weeping beech tree in the quiet courtyard of Ravenswood Library.

It’s the Saturday before Thanksgiving, and things are slowing down at work.

Not wanting to be cooped up inside my apartment and needing to finish an assignment from my Creative Poetry class, I decided coming here would be perfect.

Ever since I discovered this beautiful place, I’ve been drawn to it—whether it be wandering the quiet floor of The Wing of Eternal Dreams or hanging out in this private courtyard I came across recently.

There’s a peace here I can’t describe.

Birds chirp overhead and I look up, finding ravens soaring high in the cloudy skies.

We’re lucky this year—the weather isn’t too cold yet, and the grounds are still dry enough for me to enjoy my lunch in my special slice of heaven.

My haven.

My mind flashes to the way Ethan looked at me last week during the interview—when he told me he hoped The Strata could be a haven for its visitors.

The depth in his gaze and the thickness in his voice.

My chest niggles, the phantom ache reappearing, and my phone rings.

I quickly answer .

“Liam, you’re up!”

“Lexy, it’s noon. I might work in cybersecurity, but I follow normal hours, you know.”

I grin.

“Sorry, the twenty-year-old you is still fresh in my mind. Punk hair, wild parties, living like a vampire.”

“I’m thirty-three.”

“Trust me, I know. What’s up?” My stomach grumbles.

I rummage through a bag I brought with me—the one with the food.

Feed the body, feed the mind.

“Did you get the box? The staff were cleaning your old room at the mansion. Said you forgot some things—might be important. I left the box with your doorman yesterday.”

I take a sip of the honey lavender iced tea—because iced tea is better than hot tea, even if it’s fifty degrees right now—and reach into my other bag to pull out the small box he’s referring to.

“Got it. Thanks for bringing it by.” Opening the box, I eye the contents—a few old photos of me in my leotard, some Post-it notes with scribbles on them, several pens and markers, two small notebooks, and a wallet I don’t recognize.

“You’re coming to Thanksgiving dinner on Thursday, right? Charles and Tay are going to be there.”

“Wow, the Andersons let Tay off the hook?”

He chuckles.

“Charles might as well be married now. They’re doing the alternating holiday thing.”

Silence falls and a question perches at the tip of my tongue, but I don’t want to ask because I know what the answer will be.

Liam figures out and answers anyway, “And no. Our parents aren’t coming back.”

A knot lodges in my chest. I’ve made peace with it, but the old wound still flares up from time to time.

How can someone forget their own kids?

I’ll never understand that.

“I figured. Liam…I miss Grandma and Uncle Ian. Remember how Grandma would make her turkey just right? Crispy on the outside an d tender inside? Then Uncle Ian would eat most of it and complain how his students would make fun of his belly later?” Uncle Ian was a world-renowned ballet choreographer.

I fell in love with the dance because of him.

It’s one of my biggest regrets to this day—not being able to say goodbye to them.

A ragged exhale comes across the line.

“Firefly…a lot of shit happened while you were asleep. Some people weren’t who they seemed to be. I want to tell you more, because I know you have questions. But I can’t, unless you drop out of your medical trial. I’ll tell you this, we have the most important people in the world with us right now, and I miss Grandma too.”

He doesn’t mention Uncle Ian.

It seems significant.

My gut clenches and the hairs rise on the back of my neck.

Why do I feel like I know the answer?

Why is it—

A piercing pain stabs the base of my skull.

I cry out, my phone clattering to the floor.

Dark room. Hip-hop music.

Moaning and screaming.

Headlights in front of me.

So much rain.

My heart palpitating, my lungs not drawing enough air.

Fear. So much fear.

I need to escape.

I need to find—

As abruptly as the visions began, they suddenly stop.

“Lexy? You there? Are you okay? Lexy!”

I clutch my head, the world swirling around me.

Breathe in and out. Again.

I can do this. These have to be memories.

The meds are working.

This is good.

Panting heavily, I quickly pick up the phone before Liam goes ballistic.

“S-Sorry. Dropped my phone. A squirrel darted in front of me.”

“Shit! You scared me, Firefly. Fuck.”

The aftershocks rock my body, and I close my eyes.

“You worry too much, Liam. I’m an adult now and I’m healthy. I got to go. I’ll see you on Thursday. ”

I don’t wait for his response before ending the call.

A brisk breeze sweeps across the courtyard, dragging up crusty leaves and ruffling the evergreen foliage of the vines on the walls.

I shiver, my forehead damp with perspiration.

Slowly, I open my eyes and focus my attention on the intricate hummingbird stained glass window.

Why are my memories so painful?

What is my brain hiding from me?

Is it worth it? I think back to Dr. Riordan’s advice and Polaris’s words.

Should I leave the past in the past?

But the heavy sense of loss that suffocates me whenever I want to give up.

I growl and take another sip of tea.

I have two paths forward—to withdraw from the trial or to face my problems head on.

I want to live my life with no regrets, and something in those missing four years tethers me to the past. I don’t know if that something is horrific, and that’s why my mind is working against me, but I know, deep in my gut, I can’t move on until I figure it out.

After swiping to the email app on my phone, I check to see if Polaris has replied to my email.

He’ll understand me.

Inbox zero.

I gnaw my lip and reread my response to him for the thousandth time, wondering if it scared him away.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Do you ever want to meet?

Polaris,

I don’t want this to end.

And if you know me at all, you’ll know I don’t lie to myself.

There are enough unanswered questions in my life.

I refuse to add one more .

So here goes.

I feel something in our emails.

Maybe this makes me foolish or reckless, but I need to know—am I imagining it?

Am I just a lonely woman reading too much into words that are nothing more than a kindness?

Excuse me while I throw up.

Alexis

P.S. Regardless of your answer, thank you.

You don’t know how much your words mean to me.

The world is a lonely place without someone who truly understands you.

And I’m thankful because I have that person in you.

P.P.S. If this feeling isn’t all in my head, would you be open to meeting in person?

“Ugh, Lexy. He was asking if you wanted to continue emailing him and you pretty much asked him out. You’re such an idiot!” I mutter under my breath.

Just then, I hear steady footsteps coming my direction, but I can’t see who it is, since the low-hanging tree branches hide the view from me.

Before I can brush the branches aside and look, a pair of black boots appear in my vision.

Followed by dark jeans, a navy sweater hiding muscles I know are strong because I’ve felt them up close and personal before.

Five o’clock shadow, a sharp jawline.

The most addictive scent of leather and amber.

Ethan stands a few feet away, his feet coming to an abrupt halt, his startling eyes flaring.

“Nova,” he whispers. “You’re here.”