Chapter 3 – Morgan
Three
Best. Dream. Ever.
Morgan
I woke up feeling good.
Like, really good. Like I actually slept kind of good.
But it was more than that. It felt like the ever-present tension of sadness had loosened its grip. I’d dreamed of Lance again, obviously. All I could remember were snippets. His voice, his touch.
His touch hmmm…
The fact that my own psyche was side-eyeing what could only be thought of as a wet dream made me feel like I was on the edge of losing it.
But I felt satisfied in a way I hadn't been since he died. My body hummed with leftover pleasure, skin tingling like I'd been thoroughly loved.
I stretched, muscles loose and relaxed. Even my breathing felt different. Deeper. Like I'd slept instead of just existing in unconsciousness.
Had I been dreaming? The details were hazy, but I remembered warmth. Strong hands. Lance's voice whispering my name. The weight of someone beside me, holding me, making everything okay.
My heart ached. Best dream ever.
The Egyptian cotton sheets were twisted around my legs, but not in the usual way. Not like I'd been fighting nightmares. More like I'd been... moving. Responding to something.
Someone.
I shook my head. Grief was making me delusional.
Yeah, real healthy, sex dreams about your dead husband. You need grippy socks.
Was it concerning, yes. Gwen was going to drag me right back to therapy. I’d done a couple of sessions right after the funeral, but then I’d stopped.
If I was honest, I’d stopped just about everything.
I paused, frowning at the familiar scent of sandalwood in the air.
My chest tightened. Lance?
No. He’s gone.
My brain was valiantly trying to force reality on me. But hell, it was that same brain that was making me sure I smelled him.
Which was impossible. I was alone in the guest room. Lance was dead.
I had to give myself harsh reminders. Because if I didn’t, I was going to fucking lose it. But for the first time in over a month, I didn't feel alone. Like his essence was just out of reach.
I sat up, pushing tangled braids out of my face. Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting everything in a golden glow. When was the last time morning light hadn't felt like an assault?
The journal lay open on the nightstand. I grabbed it, trying to remember what I'd been reading last night. Something about our honeymoon. Lance writing about how I'd snorted wine through my nose and he'd thought it was beautiful.
That's when I saw it.
Spitfire, you're stronger than you know. don't give up.
My heart stopped. That hadn’t been there yesterday.
I stared at the words until they blurred. This wasn't here yesterday. I was absolutely sure.
I'd read this journal cover to cover. Multiple times. Memorized every entry, every loop of his handwriting, every smudge and coffee stain.
This was new.
Are you sure, or are you losing it?
My hands started shaking so hard I almost dropped the book.
"Gwen!" I called out, my voice cracking.
Silence.
"Gwen!"
Footsteps in the hallway. Fast ones.
"What's wrong?" She appeared in the doorway, baby Ava strapped to her chest, looking like she'd been up for hours. "You sound panicked."
"Look." I held out the journal with trembling fingers. "Look at this."
Gwen approached carefully, like I might spook. "What am I looking at?"
"This entry. This wasn't here before." Fuck, I knew how that sounded.
She shifted Ava to one arm and took the journal, reading the words carefully.
"Are you sure?" Her voice was gentle. Too gentle.
"I'm positive. I've read every page of this thing multiple times. I could recite half of it from memory." The words tumbled out faster. "This entry is new.”
Is it though?
"Morgan..." That careful tone again. The one everyone used when they thought I was losing it.
"I'm not crazy." But even as I said it, doubt crept in. "Am I going crazy?"
"Honey, you've been under incredible stress. More stress than any human should have to handle." Gwen sat on the edge of the bed, bouncing Ava. "Sometimes our minds protect us by revealing things when we're emotionally ready to process them."
"You think I just missed this? For weeks?"
"Grief does strange things to memory. You're exhausted, traumatized. your brain might be protecting you by only showing you what you can handle." She studied my face with worried eyes. "Maybe this entry was always there, but your subconscious wasn't ready to see it until now."
The explanation sounded reasonable. Logical. The kind of thing my therapist would probably say.
So why did every instinct I had scream that something else was happening?
"But what if—"
“Gwen? What’s up?” Atticus's voice from the doorway, soft and concerned. He looked tired, like he'd been up all night.
Behind him stood Micah, glasses slightly askew, like he'd been up all night too. He held a tablet and wore that focused expression he got when analyzing data.
"Hey," I said weakly.
Atticus stepped into the room, his movements careful and gentle. “What’s the problem?” He said, taking Ava from my sister. My beautiful niece popped her father on the nose for his efforts. He merely trapped the little boxers hands gently.
“Morgan thinks she found a new entry in one of the journals,” Gwen explained.
"I did find a new entry," I insisted.
"Okay." Atticus sat on the chair by the window, keeping his distance but close enough to show he cared. "Can I see?"
I handed him the journal, watching his face as he read Lance's words. "This is definitely his handwriting," he said quietly.
"Right? But it wasn't there before."
Atticus was quiet for a moment, choosing his words carefully. "Morgan. Maybe it’s time to talk to the doctor again.”
"About what?"
"About the fact that you don't leave this house. You barely sketch anymore. You have a whole fashion line on pause with Adele waiting." His voice was gentle but firm. "It's time to talk to Dr. Chen and start living again."
"I am living,” I insisted.
"Are you? Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're just surviving."
The words hit harder because they were true.
"I don't know how to do anything else right now. Besides, that has nothing to do with the entry. I’ve never seen it before.”
"I know. And that's okay. But you need help figuring it out."
Micah pushed his glasses up his nose, studying me with those analytical eyes. “We’re just worried about you, Morgan.”
“My husband died.”
Micah took the journal, examining it closely. “We know. We lost him, too. We also know he wouldn’t want you to do this to yourself. That's completely normal for traumatic grief. Your brain is trying to process an impossible loss."
I hated those concerned looks. "So you think I just missed it?"
"I think you're exhausted and emotionally compromised." His voice was gentle but clinical. "Sleep deprivation affects memory consolidation. Your brain's been in survival mode for weeks. Memory gets weird when you're running on fumes."
"It's possible you read this entry before, but your brain didn't file it properly," Gwen added.
The words slapped me like a physical blow because they were true.
"You really think I should see Dr. Chen?"
"I think you deserve support," Atticus said. "Professional support. Someone who knows how to help you through this."
"And the journals?"
"Keep reading if they bring you comfort," Micah said. "But maybe try to balance that with other things. Your art. Your career. Your life."
"What if I can't? What if I try to draw and there's nothing there?"
"Then you try again the next day," Gwen said. "And the day after that. Until something comes back."
"And if nothing does?"
"Then we figure something else out," Atticus promised. "But Morgan, you'll never know if you don't try."
Later that afternoon, my phone buzzed. I'd been ignoring it for days, weeks, really, but something made me glance at the screen.
Twelve unread messages. Damn.
I considered ignoring them. But if I did, they’d only pile up until they were too exhausting to deal with.
I scrolled through them, each one a small punch to the chest.
Devon: Morgan, I know you probably won't read this, but I'm here if you need me. We can fly back anytime. Just say the word. Love you, babe.
Me: I'm okay. Thank you. Give Adam a hug for me.
The two of them had flown back for the funeral, stayed a week, but I'd barely registered their presence.
Miriam: Sweet girl, the co-op is still standing.
Lance made sure of that. But it needs you.
We all need you. Take your time, but don't forget you have a family here.
The woman who'd owned the co-op before Lance bought it for me.
She still came by weekly, checking on things, making sure I had a place to come back to.
Another couple from two girls who were fashion students and Adele had given me to help with my collection.
Jasmine: Boss lady, we miss your face around here. No rush, just wanted you to know we're holding down the fort.
Chloe: Thinking of you, Morgan. Your workspace is exactly how you left it.
Then of course from boss lady herself wondering if she’d made a bad investment.
Adele Beekman: Morgan darling, I know you're grieving. Take all the time you need. But when you're ready to create again, I'll be here. Your talent doesn't disappear just because your heart is broken. I'm a call away.
God. Adele. I felt really bad about that one. She’d given me a huge opportunity. I’d delivered and then stalled. Just when I was getting my life together, the rug was pulled from under me.
In the midst of the message rubble was Amber. At least one person I wanted to reply to.
Amber: Checking on you. Want me to come around with your favorite ice cream? We can binge the Pitch Perfect movies?
I gave her message a thumbs up. Having zero energy to craft a reply. Might as well let her come over. Otherwise, the movie choices would get worse.
There were several unexpected messages from Sam, too. Sam Walsh. He used to work for Gwen at Bex. Kind of nerdy, quiet, but he was nice. He’d been kind enough to go to the funeral. I should at least try to muster up the energy to respond.
Sam: Hey, Morgan. Just checking in. I know things are really hard right now. No pressure to respond. Just wanted you to know I'm thinking of you.
We'd been friendly, though I'd never taken him up on his invitations for coffee.
I stared at the messages, guilt mixing with something softer.
All these people, reaching out into my darkness, refusing to let me disappear completely.
My thumbs hovered over the keyboard. What did you say to people who cared when you could barely remember how to care for yourself?
Me: Thanks, Sam. I appreciate that.
His reply came almost immediately.
Sam: My office is around the corner from your co-op if you ever want to talk. Or just sit quietly. Whatever you need.
These people who weren't treating me like I was made of glass, just... broken. And breakable things could be mended. I set the phone down, something warm and unfamiliar stirring in my chest.
Maybe Atticus was right. Maybe it was time to try living again, even if I had no idea how.