And maybe it’s also because this moment—with the warm light from the tree and the nearness of this handsome stranger—feels a little bit like magic, and I’m not ready to break the spell. I turn to him now with a guarded smile.
“I’m glad you’re feeling better,” Connor says. “So, when will you know for sure? When will you see the specialist, I mean?”
“My appointment is the day after Christmas.” The answer is automatic—my focus is on his eyes, locked so intently on mine.
“Well, good luck.” He smiles, and my attention can’t help but shift to his lips.
I smile back, leaning forward ever so slightly. “Thank you,” I whisper.
We’re silent then, cocooned by the glow of the Christmas tree, and suddenly I’m nervous. He is so handsome. I fiddle with the collar of my dress.
Connor leans forward. “Ella was right about your dress. I like it, too.”
I shrug awkwardly, and a lock of hair falls across my eyes. Slowly, he reaches toward me, his warm hand brushing my hair back, and his touch draws me toward him like a gravitational force. We’re so close now—his lips are so near to mine that his breath warms my face. I close my eyes.
The basement stairs creak—a two-second warning that the door is about to open. Connor quickly pulls away from me and drapes his arm lazily along the back of the couch, and I sit stock straight, vibrating with discomfort. Emmett steps out of the basement, his eyes flitting from me to Connor and back again, and snorts. “Don’t mind me. Just looking for some cookies.”
I glare at my brother and point to the kitchen. When he’s gone, I take a deep breath, not sure what to say. But when I turn to face Connor, he drops his gaze. “I, uh . . . I should let you get some sleep.”
Ah, of course. I force a smile as I stand, wish him good night, then continue down my path. I don’t know where it’s leading, but it’s sure to be long, uncertain.
It’s sure to lead me away from him.
CHAPTER SIX
There’s a certain melancholy in the days after Christmas, all the anticipation and promise leading up to the holiday now gone. It’s a time of loss—like yesterday, when I awoke Christmas morning to find Santa had left me new books and comfy socks but had taken away the handsome stranger I’d nearly kissed the night before. Mean old bastard.
Of course, it wasn’t Santa’s sleigh, but the tow truck driver, who had arrived super early and whisked Connor away.
Either way he’s gone forever, and I’m sitting here now staring out at the bleak gray Minneapolis skyline, dread lodged in my stomach. Around me, the stark gray exam room feels heavy, with its muted walls and posters of celebrities, their jarring smiles out of place as they endorse the newest medication for their disease.
Our disease.
No one has said the words yet—so far I’ve told my story to the nurse who ushered us in and the medical resident who examined me. But I feel it, like another being in the room with us, heavy and dormant, lying in wait for me to accept it at last.
This is my path.
Mom reaches across from her chair, squeezes my knee, and I manage a thin smile. Dad keeps his eyes out the window, working his jaw. I want to say something—I should thank them for being here, for always showing up, whether it was a school play or a piano recital, moving me to college or to my first job in Sioux Falls. I should thank them for the gift of knowing I will never be alone. But when I open my mouth, no words come.
The door clicks open, and the resident is back, leading an older man into the room, like a court jester announcing the king. “Good afternoon.” His large hand shakes each of ours; then he settles into his chair and crosses his arms. “I’m Dr. Montgomery. How was your drive here?”
My dad is quick to respond; this is his territory. “Not bad. Highway 12 was nice and clear. Couple of rough spots, but nothin’ too bad.”
Dr. Montgomery nods politely but soon shifts his gaze to zero in on me. Small talk is over. “Simone, I’ve had the chance to review your files, and I concur with the suspected diagnosis of multiple sclerosis.”
I blink in surprise—it’s so quick, after all these months of doubt and uncertainty—then lean slowly back in my chair. My eyes stay focused on the doctor as he continues to speak, but I don’t hear his words, like I’ve turned down the volume on the TV because I know how the story ends.
It’s done. I have my answer.
I wait for tears but none come, like my body has reached its limit—my mind, too, and suddenly I’m so tired.
“Monie?” Mom asks, and I force myself to focus on her. “Do you have any questions?”
My mind is blank, and I shrug in helpless frustration. “I don’t even know where to begin.”
Dr. Montgomery clears his throat. “Have you given any thought to treatment?”
I shake my head, drop my eyes like I’m back in middle school, busted for not getting my homework done. But I couldn’t bring myself to linger on the website my doctor in Sioux Falls provided, the medicines with names like Greek goddesses that I couldn’t pronounce.
Dr. Montgomery nods. “That’s understandable. There’s a lot to think about, including not starting treatment at all, considering your past medical history.”
I narrow my eyes in confusion as he clicks at his computer keyboard, but I’m sinking into utter exhaustion now. Luckily, my mom speaks up. “Ah, after college.” She turns to me. “Your eyes. The headaches.”
God, a lifetime ago—a bad reaction following a severe sinus infection, but I’d relied on my parents to deal with the scary, confusing words like autoimmune and neurological. Kind of like now.
“They did mention MS back then,” Mom says. She continues to pepper Dr. Montgomery with questions, but it all fades to background noise as my eyes float to the door. I close them and picture myself walking out of here—a quiet coffee shop, a dimly lit bar—somewhere I don’t have to think about this anymore, because it’s all just too much.
“But it’s your call, Simone.”
My eyes fly open, and when I turn, everyone is watching me. I clear my throat. “Uh, what?”
Dr. Montgomery smiles, patient but detached. “I was saying that because you’ve been doing well since the initial onset and your mobility has returned, I feel comfortable recommending we monitor your condition with MRIs once a year, as long as no new attacks occur.” He leans toward me. “But it’s your call. There’s no crystal ball, so I can’t say with certainty how your disease will progress long term.”
I barely register the disclaimer on this contract I didn’t sign. I glance at my parents, both watching me expectantly, then look longingly at the doorway again. I just want this over. I want to go back to normal, as long as I can.
I meet Dr. Montgomery’s gaze. “No treatment.”
We’re quiet as our car rolls back across the highway, city traffic thinning when we reach the open road of the wide prairie. Dad’s old country music hums softly from the radio as he drives. From the passenger seat, Mom darts nervous eyes back at me every so often.
My phone buzzes. Nikki again—How did it go?—but I set my phone down. I’ll call her once we’re home. I lean my head against the cool window as snow-covered grass and trees rush by. For a moment, I catch my own reflection in the window, like a pale, sad ghost staring back at me, and it’s like I’m roused awake, my shock giving way at last.
This is it for me. This is my path now.
I can’t say with certainty how your disease will progress long term.
It hits me in a wave, a future I can no longer picture, a fear I can no longer contain. My face crumples, and Mom reaches a hand back, patting my leg.
“I’m scared,” I say.
“I know, honey. But we’re here, okay? Everything will be okay.”
I’m not sure about that—not sure of anything anymore—but I nod, latching on to her calm reassurance as if it’s my life raft through this storm.
Out the window, a truck rumbles past us. It looks vaguely like Connor’s, and it
disappears as quickly as he did. I lean back and let myself mourn one more loss, even though I know now that it was nothing more than a fairy tale. And there’s no room in my life for fairy tales anymore.
PART TWO
FEAR
Monday, December 6, 9:37 a.m.
I hold my breath, cramped inside the cabinet like a caged animal, afraid to make a sound. But the footsteps recede, and I no longer hear the stranger’s breathing. Relief washes over me like a wave of nausea.
The door clicks shut. My body shudders as I release my breath in one long rush. I push the cabinet door open a crack and scan the bathroom, but I can’t make out any shapes in the inky blackness.
The shooter’s gone. I’m sure of it.
And yet I’m trembling as I step out of the cabinet, blinking until my eyes adjust. Sink. Toilet. Mirror.
I am alone.
Still, my body remains tensed, ready to fight or flee. I stare at the door—he could be right outside, waiting. And I’m sure it is a he; it’s almost always a man when you hear about terrifying stories like this—stories I never thought I’d be a part of. But now, one step out and he might shoot me—like in horror movies, when everyone knows the character should not go where the killer is, but they do anyway.
Not me—I will stand here as long as it takes. I shake my head in defiance, but the fear lingers, its oppressive tentacles tightly coiled within me.
Minutes roll by on a river of molasses, an eternity passing as I stand silently in the dark, calm enough to recite real prayers in my mind: Our father who art in heaven hallowed be thy name thy kingdom come thy will be done . . .
Thy will be done.
I ball my fists, the prayers in my head replaced with the sounds of violence I heard moments ago, on the other side of the thick wooden bathroom door. The terrifying crack of the first gunshot. Then the second. A woman’s scream in the distance.
My hands fly to my mouth.
Nikki.
The prayers vanish now, and I fall back on my desperate plea.
Please God no please God no please God no.
That scream had to have been hers. That means she is out there now, alone. Injured. Or worse.
Panic consumes me—I can’t do it. I can’t handle this—and I curl down onto the cool tiled floor, hands wrapped around my legs.
My legs. I stare at them, at these limbs that have defied me, shaky and unreliable. I scratch my nails, listen to them rasp against my jeans. These legs work now—they can do this.
Nikki needs me. And I can get to her.
CHAPTER SEVEN
New Year’s Eve, one year before
I need more sleep—or at least more coffee, since half of my first cup already splattered on my pants as I scrambled to make it to work on time. I open my office door, ready to cry or scream—I’m not sure. But when I step into the room, Nikki rushes toward me, wrapping me in a hug, and I sag into her.
I just need my best friend.
She pulls back but holds on to my hand. “I thought you were taking today off?”
I drop my purse onto my desk with a growl. “Stan texted last night to say they had to bump up the tour of the residence hall—scheduling conflicts or something. He promised the president we’d have updated photos to donors soon. I think he also told Admissions we’d promote it on social media.”
“Sounds like he needs to stop making so many promises,” Nikki says.
I nod, rubbing my face as if that’ll slough off the exhaustion. I didn’t get back to my apartment till almost midnight last night, so it’s been a dry-shampoo, wear-whatever-is-clean type of morning. God, I wish I were back in bed.
But New Year’s Eve is a quiet day on campus, which means it’s perfect for getting things done—like posting updated photos of the fancy new residence hall we’re building on campus, the first in twenty years. Social media is part of my job as the communications specialist, along with writing, editing, and media relations. And I do love my job . . . almost as much as I love a stable income and health insurance.
That means my reply to Stan’s text was, of course: You bet, complete with a smiley-face emoji.
Nikki clears her throat. “Look, this is my gentle reminder that I’m waiting for you to talk first, okay?”
That was her vow after our post-appointment phone call, and a wave of gratitude hits me. “Okay,” I say. “Maybe I’ll just get a few things done first.”
She retreats to her desk, and I plop down into my chair, eyeing the papers scattered about my desk from last week’s unfinished projects—preholiday me deciding I could leave it for my postholiday self. God, preholiday me is a jerk on so many levels.
I sigh. Preholiday me had a lot on her mind.
A stack of mail balances precariously atop one pile of papers. I scan the first couple of envelopes—invitation to a local women’s business empowerment conference, holiday postcard from the local blood bank that really misses me—but as I grab one, the pile topples, sending papers fluttering to the floor. I stare at the mess, which seems utterly insurmountable right now, then slowly lean my head down on my desk.
From Nikki’s corner, I hear a snort, then soon her confident stride crossing the room. I peek one eye open as she stoops down, swoops up the pile, and returns it to my desk.
“Sorry,” I mumble. “I think I just need more coffee before I can be fully functioning. At least I don’t need to talk to any—”
“Happy New Year, bitches!”
The shrill greeting cuts me off, and an involuntary shiver rolls through my body. I turn toward the door with what I meant to be a smile but is surely a grimace that would put old Mr. Grinch himself to shame. “Hi, Hayley.”
“God, girl, you look like hell.” Hayley flips her sleekly straightened, expensively highlighted golden-blonde hair off her shoulder and smirks.
“Ease up, it’s not even nine,” Nikki scoffs.
A deep chuckle rings out from behind Hayley, and Raj’s tall frame steps through the doorway. “Hey, guys.” He flops his dark hair out of his eyes. “Have a good holiday?”
Should’ve known he was nearby—the two admissions counselors are inseparable. Nikki and I both want them to date already, but one of them always seems to be with someone else. They’re both great work friends, but when it comes to early mornings, Raj is a lot easier to stomach—one of those laid-back, genuine guys. He’s asked about our Christmases, for crying out loud, and he doesn’t even celebrate it—his family is from India, and he’s told us a lot about their Hindu customs.
I smile. “It was fine.”
Nikki rakes her hand through her edgy platinum bob—her panicking-at-turning-thirty look, completely unnecessary because her big blue eyes and freckles make her look forever young. She looks at me, and my eyes plead with her. Save me from them.
She reads me and nods, a silent bestie exchange. “So, guys.” She leans against the bookshelf that lines the wall by the door. “You won’t believe how hungover my uncle was at church Christmas morning.”
But Hayley’s eyes don’t leave my face—dammit, she’s more perceptive than I give her credit for. “Are you sure Santa didn’t leave you a hangover for Christmas?”
I squeeze my eyes shut, start a count to ten so I don’t lash out. Nikki saves me again. “Nah, she just got back really late last night. Three gallons of coffee on an IV drip and she’ll be just fine.”
Raj laughs and I open my eyes, shooting another grateful glance at Nikki.
Hayley nods, eyes wide. “Ugh, I know exactly what you mean. My stupid cousin brought the stomach flu into our house at Christmas, and we all got sick. Then, right when we were getting better, my mom twisted her ankle, so of course I have to go help her out every night.”
Raj clucks in sympathy, and I ball my fists until my nails dig into my palms, bile rising in my throat. At least you don’t have a devastating neurological disease for the rest of your life.
I bite the words back, dropping my eyes when I feel Nikki’s shrewd gaze on me.
<
br /> “Anyway, sorry to bother you guys, but Chet asked us to drop off this flash drive for Stan.” Raj peeks back down the hallway. “But his door is closed, so . . . is he out today?”
Nikki rolls her eyes. “We know he’s coming in; we just don’t know when.”
“Chet is the same way,” Raj says. “On his own schedule, but always on our asses if lunch goes five seconds over. Tries to pull that ‘budgets are tight—you should all be proving yourselves every day’ bullshit.”
Hayley rolls her eyes. “It’s totally a scare tactic. It’s not like he’d ever actually fire anyone.”
We all laugh, but it doesn’t sit right with me even after they set off on their way. I look at Nikki, still leaning against the bookshelf by the door. She holds up a finger, then crosses the room back to her desk—specifically, her shelf behind it, which includes, among books and picture frames, a Keurig machine. I close my eyes, listening to the distinct gurgles and rush of the coffee maker, the heady scent of french roast wafting over me. Within minutes I hear a soft clink as she sets the steaming cup on my desk.
I open my eyes, force my body up. “You’re a goddamned angel.”
“I know.” She plops down in the cushy green chair in front of my desk, directly in the path of the sunlight filtering in through the office window. “So, you gonna tell me, or what?”
I bristle. “But you just said you wouldn’t bring it up.”
“Right, but I want to know what happened on Christmas Eve.” She leans forward, eyebrows raised. “Did you get your turkey stuffed or what?”
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