Chapter 7 Morgan
MORGAN
On Christmas Eve, I don’t wake up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.
Instead, I’m bleary-eyed and creased from sleeping on my face.
I groan at my reflection, then blush when I remember what I did last night.
I couldn’t get Damien out of my head all week.
Images of him sweating and straining invaded my thoughts at every chance.
It should be illegal to be that handsome.
And it should be illegal to want someone you’ll never have with this much intensity.
I can’t believe I touched myself in my old bedroom like a high schooler discovering her first spicy books.
I splash my face with icy cold water, brush my teeth, then undo my bun, shaking out my curls.
There—I look almost human again. Though I’m pretty sure sleeping after thirty should come with hazard pay.
Or maybe it’s the sleeping alone that’s the problem.
I bet Damien would want to get some exercise in before bed every night.
Ugh, there I go again.
You’re just a patient to him, Morgan, that little voice that Marco created in my psyche says to me. It’s the voice that tells me I’m worthless, useless, too needy, too frigid.
“No!” I growl, slamming my fist down on the edge of the sink before grabbing onto it with both hands. Just because I returned to Madison for Christmas doesn’t mean I’m returning to the girl I was when I ran from here, bruised and scared to death.
“Sweetie?” Mom calls from outside my childhood bedroom. “Breakfast is ready!”
I take a deep breath before shouting back: “Coming, Mom!” The déjà vu makes me shake my head. How many times have we had this exchange? Sometimes I wish I could go back to my childhood, before… everything.
After changing into leggings and an oversized Christmas sweater, I plaster on a placid smile and walk into the kitchen.
Guided by that need for a mom’s comfort every child has, I duck under my mom’s hand for a side hug.
She smiles down at me, still stunning despite her short hair turning white and lines decorating her porcelain skin.
Dad looks up from his newspaper and smiles at us, the lines at the sides of his eyes deepening with the motion. “Sit down, child,” he says with his baritone voice. “Tell me about New York. Are you showing everyone they’re no match for the Cole work ethic?”
Blushing, I extricate myself and take my seat in the usual place: to my dad’s left, across from where my mom sits. She’s waving a spatula now as if shooing away Dad’s words.
“Forget about that,” she croons. “Tell us if you met anyone nice.”
My blush deepens as I fidget with my fork. I hate having these conversations. How do I tell them I’ve been terrified of letting anyone close since I left here broken? They have no idea what happened to me, something I still feel guilty over half a decade later.
“No one special, Mom,” I murmur, praying she’ll let it go.
“Mmm,” she muses with pursed lips.
“Leave the child alone, baby,” Dad chastises, coming to the rescue. “She’ll settle down when she’s good and ready.”
I give him a grateful smile, and he squeezes my hand in return.
“Well,” Mom says breezily, then clears her throat. “I need to go to town to do some last-minute grocery shopping.”
She slides a plate of pancakes and a mug of hot cocoa in front of me, making my mouth water. God, I missed my parents’ cooking.
“Why don’t you let me go?” I suggest without thinking. “I know you’ll want to get an early start on baking before church tonight.”
She clasps her hands and gives me a grateful look. “Are you sure, sweetie? I do have a lot to do here.”
“Absolutely,” I say more confidently than I feel. I haven’t braved the streets of Madison in years.
“Wonderful! Now, dig in, your pancakes are getting cold.”
My pancakes are, in fact, steaming, but that’s my mom for you. If it were up to her, my curves would have curves.
An hour later, I’m sweating under my heavy winter parka despite the cold.
It snowed last night, and the streets have a magical look.
It’s less flashy than New York, but a hundred times cozier.
Lights twinkle, bell-ringers dot the corners, and the shops teem with harried-looking customers trying to find that perfect present at the last moment.
I walk past a closed hardware store, the hammer in the display catching my attention, making dread slide down my back like ice.
It’s the same kind of hammer Marco used to threaten me with before he used his fists instead.
He must have loved feeling the impact directly.
My gorge rises, and I tear my eyes away, looking at my feet and reciting my mental shopping list. Cinnamon. Lemons. Wrapping paper.
I get the grocery store out of the way first, shoving the purchase into my backpack, before heading over to my favorite cozy present store. They always had the cutest wrapping paper for every season and occasion, and I know I won’t be disappointed by the selection.
I’m humming to the classic Christmas songs playing over the speakers, rolls of wrapping paper in hand, when I spot the cutest candles on the bottom shelf.
Dark red with gold gingerbread men—it’ll look perfect on the coffee table in my parents' living room.
Satisfied, I grab two, then straighten from my crouch, momentarily dizzy.
I really need to work out more or something.
Hands grab me as I lean to the side, and I remember my EMT steadying me just like this at the gym last week. Blushing, I look up at the person holding me.
“Thank you, I—”
My words get stuck in my throat. Marco. Slightly older, thicker around the middle, wearing a smug grin. But definitely him this time, not my imagination.
“Morgan?” His voice makes my ears ring as my vision tunnels and my hands go cold. “Wow, it’s been forever. You look good.”
He steps closer, and I take a jerky step back, making candles clatter behind me as they tip over on their shelves.
His hands hold me tighter, and panic detonates.
My heart rate spikes, my lungs seize up, my eyes go unfocused as I’m hit by a deluge of memories.
He still smells the same, that same brand of cologne that makes me want to throw up whenever I smell it on someone.
I can’t speak. I can’t breathe. People are starting to stare at us curiously, wondering what’s going on.
Marco’s all fake charm, flashing everyone a smile before leaning closer. “You okay? Morgan? You’re shaking.”
I don’t say anything. I can’t. I drop what I was going to buy and shove past him, knocking over a rack of scarves on my way out.
As I burst into the cold December air, I start gasping, my hands clutching at my chest. I need to get away from here, but I can’t breathe.
I bring my inhaler to my mouth and breathe in the medicine, but there’s no relief.
Breathe, princess. In through your nose. That’s my girl.
I moan in relief at the sound of Damien’s voice in my head, opening my airways enough for my vision to crystallize.
It sounds so real, like he’s right here with me, chasing away the spiky dread.
So real that I start looking around to see if I can spot him.
But what would he be doing in Madison? He’s too good to exist in this space tainted by Marco.
“Miss? Are you alright?”
I blink at the vaguely familiar elderly man looking at me with a frown.
“Y—yes,” I stutter and wave with my inhaler. “Just asthma.” My go-to cover story. The man doesn’t look convinced, but nods at me anyway before carrying on down the street.
Gathering the courage to finally turn around, I look through the shop’s display. Marco’s gone. When did he leave? It doesn’t matter. I can’t go back in there. Not today. Maybe ever. Another thing he took from me.