Twelve – Morgan
Twelve
Morgan
I lay on the gymnastics mat in a boneless heap, gasping, with a thousand molten thorns embedded in my skin and nothing but my cold sweat for comfort. A spotlight seared my face, melting my brain. Grace screamed. And screamed.
Then I was the one screaming, spewing horrible things because I couldn’t read my pharmacology textbook. Couldn’t focus on the words long enough for them to make sense, all nauseating squiggles and slashes, beyond comprehension.
Disgusted with myself and enraged by failure, I hurled the book across the room without a second thought, not caring where it landed, determined never to look at it again.
But I didn’t realize Jenna, my youngest sister, was lingering in the doorway—her slender, pre-teen frame and riot of dark curls backlit by the hall light.
Paralyzed with horror, I could only watch as the book slammed into her sternum, leaving a horrid red mark on her light brown skin, a painful contrast to the gentle frills of her pink lace shirt. Her eyes bulged, jaw slack, as the air rushed out of her lungs with a sickening squelch. My hand stretched out, trembling and useless, as she crumpled to the floor, sobbing.
“Why—why—I hate you… I hate you!”
Nausea choked me awake. My heart pounded beneath clammy skin. The cats scattered as I staggered toward the bathroom, gripping the vanity for balance before sinking onto the cold tiles. I threw back the toilet lid and retched, over and over, spewing out bile until nothing remained but my guilt.
Hooks of pure agony dug into my head and neck as I huddled on the unforgiving floor, panting. Tears further blurred my unfocused vision. Day three of waking up with a migraine.
Tenny had joined me at some point, a spotted loaf beside my knee, offering a steady stream of affectionate blinks and blessed unconditional tolerance. Kip perched on the edge of the sink, the tip of his tail swishing back and forth in slow irritation, displeased with yet another rude awakening.
I was a mess. Had been ever since I started taking the new, lower suppressant dosage. This was only the first reduction. How was I supposed to function like this? Forget making it to my heat in December. At this rate, I might not survive the week. I’d already been chastised for zoning out during radiology rotation.
What if I made a mistake during my clinic hours and didn’t know it yet—what if I hurt someone?
No, I couldn’t think like that. I had to believe in my abilities and trust that I knew what I was doing. Losing confidence would lead to actual mistakes.
Once I calmed down, I pulled myself up with unsteady hands, focusing all my concentration on the simple, rhythmic motion of brushing my teeth. Kip didn’t budge, content to watch the water stream from the faucet and swirl down the drain. A far better sight than my wan, splotchy reflection in the mirror.
Going to bed early last night was supposed to help. But it didn’t. If anything, I felt even achier and more sluggish.
There was no point going back to sleep. My alarm would go off in forty-five minutes, and even a brief nap risked terrible dreams. I couldn’t remember the details, but they all left the same lingering anxiety. Snippets of bad things happening to my parents or siblings. Bizarre football injuries I couldn’t diagnose.
But mostly, I had nightmares about the accident—and the portions of my recovery I was able to remember.
When I was still grappling with the abrupt end of my gymnastics career and the dream of becoming an orthopedic surgeon. Emotionally volatile, I swung between frantic bursts of productivity and being bedridden in a fog of hopeless malaise. My head throbbed constantly. Spasms contorted my back. Food lost its taste. Worst of all, I couldn’t smell anything.
Even in a sterile hospital room, there should have been one pillow or robe with my scent to reassure me I was safe. Something to ease the constant urge of fight or flight—and with my new hair-trigger, you can guess which impulse won out most often.
The neck fracture healed first, partly while I was unconscious, and then during the first few weeks when I was awake but barely aware. Those first three months are a void. Everything I know about them comes from medical records, cell phone videos, and my family’s careful retellings.
That’s how I know I spent weeks in a neck brace. How I spurned my favorite red chenille blanket and childhood teddy bear because I couldn’t smell them. And that I didn’t recognize Jenna or Rory, convinced they were too old to be my baby siblings.
There were small mercies, I suppose. My accident happened in Canada instead of a city in Europe or Asia. At least Mom didn’t have to face those first bleak days alone. My fathers and older brother, Ethan, loaded up a car and drove to Montreal overnight, ready to do whatever it took to support her—and me.
However, it caused a financial quagmire. I couldn’t meet my contractual obligations for endorsements, and taking legal action against the event organizers drained even more money. The eventual settlement felt like a hollow victory.
Money couldn’t fix me.
It couldn’t repair my fine motor skills or make me a surgeon. I’d never vault again. And nothing could ever repay my family for what they endured.
Instead of enjoying her first year of college, Kelsey spent most of her free time with me, making sure I did my mobility and memory exercises and keeping me sane. She knew the five-year outcome statistics.
Only a quarter of TBI patients improved.
If I focused on my recovery, I could be one of them. She was determined to keep me from falling into the other columns—one of the many who plateaued, declined, or died.
After six grueling months of rehabilitation, I was allowed to go home. Another two months passed before I regained my ability to taste food, and two more before I trusted my memory enough to resume college coursework.
Rory’s optimistic approach to life made him the most adaptable. My physical therapy exercises became games we could do together. He played along when I struggled to remember a word, happily guessing what I was trying to say rather than growing impatient. He was also a social butterfly with a busy schedule—hockey games, scout meetings, sleepovers—so he missed a lot of rough moments just by living his own life.
But Jenna was a homebody, drawn to quiet, individual pursuits, always in the middle of a crochet project or reading a new book. A creative sweetheart, too young to understand that not all injuries are visible. That I wasn’t the same person anymore.
The old Morgan—who helped with her math homework, watched baking shows with her, and did handstands everywhere—was gone.
New Morgan had landmines scattered throughout, ready to explode without rhyme or reason.
Jenna caught me on a lot of bad days. And one terrible day.
Two more years passed before I could drive again—and by then, my only friends left were Jacobi and Grace.
Now, ten years later, I still take medication for migraines, seizures, muscle pain, and depression.
But my sense of smell never returned. And my relationship with Jenna never recovered.
***
I sat at a picnic table inside a pavilion near the football operations center, moving pasta salad around with a fork, glowering at my phone, waiting in vain for the fresh air to soothe even a single nerve. The autumn sun warmed my back, which might have been relaxing in other circumstances. Not today with a five-alarm migraine.
Jacobi’s latest barrage of texts didn’t help. The long-awaited Owen update had not gone over well.
This is horseshit. Absolute horseshit. I’m going to sue for piano custody. Didn’t spend years working on Tolliver Yards for a bunch of fuckwits to move in. Bet it reeks now. Going to ask Kelsey. If it smells like cat piss, I riot.
Surely, I had the capacity to send one decent text. Something that would assuage his misplaced guilt and settle his anxious heart. I tried a few different drafts, but every intended reassurance came across as passive-aggressive— don’t worry, it’s not your fault, you couldn’t have known . Nothing I ever wanted to hear, let alone say to my best friend.
“Oh, fuck it.” I deleted everything and typed what I really wanted to say to him. Sensitivity and appropriateness be damned.
Why are you so upset? There’s a hot guy in your shower. All your showers.
“You’re thinking too loud. Could practically hear it from the parking lot.” Joaquin slid onto the opposite bench, wearing aviator sunglasses and a black hoodie over another Belcrest Ballet t-shirt.
I glanced at the takeout bags he set on the tabletop, my gaze lingering on the delicate lines of the red spider lily tattooed across the back of his right hand.
“Lunch date?”
“It was supposed to be,” he said, eyes locked on me, sunlight glinting off his piercings. “Think I’m getting stood up. Something about last-minute social media planning.”
“It’s the Wakeland State game this weekend. Can’t post substandard taunts.” I choked down another bite of pasta salad.
Joaquin flashed that sly grin of his, the leonine one with too many teeth. That did nothing to detract from his striking features.
“How did a ferret like you end up working for Northport?”
I didn’t take the bait. Fishers and ferrets were both Mustelids, just like weasels.
“Probably the same reason you’re working at the ballet rather than touring with a band or something more your style. Reliable employment is nice.”
“My job is pretty sweet and solid.”
He dug into a bag and set an overloaded takeout container on the tabletop. He opened it to reveal slices of well-sauced beef brisket, cheesy potatoes, coleslaw, and a thick, flaky biscuit.
“Are you planning to stay in Northport, or is this just a pit stop?”
“Don’t know yet. Still interviewing.” I surveyed his food, unable to check my envy.
Pasta salad was a simple, filling lunch. Perfect for an unsettled stomach. But it wasn’t barbecue, slathered in zesty sauce.
“Does Alijah know what he’s missing out on?”
“Yup,” Joaquin said with a smirk. He speared a large bite of brisket, making an exaggerated groan of appreciation while he chewed.
I rolled my eyes at him.
“It’s his favorite food truck. Follow their location calendar just for him. ”
“Very thoughtful.”
Joaquin shrugged and wiped his mouth. “More self-serving than anything. I like it when he’s happy. This makes him happy, and I get to eat kick-ass food. Win-win.”
He reached into the bag and set a container on the table between us.
“Peach cobbler. If you want it.”
I eyed him with suspicion. “What’s the catch?”
Joaquin leaned forward, intrigued by my prickly response. “What makes you think there is one?”
“Just a hunch.”
“Huh.” Joaquin held my gaze, tattooed finger rubbing against the handle of his plastic fork. “Didn’t realize sharing a bit of sweetness could be such a loaded proposition.”
“Of course not, given your most successful pick-up line involved a new stylus.”
“You heard about that, huh?” His sunglasses couldn’t contain the devilish amusement in his dark brown eyes. “He talks a lot about you, too. Always the highlight of his day.”
“Can’t imagine why.” I glanced at the time on my phone. There were five minutes until my shift started.
“Surely, you can see the appeal of a smart, sassy professional. Such as yourself.”
Why was I bothering with this man?
I put the lid on my container of half-eaten pasta salad with a sharp snap. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Younger. Co-worker. Already mated.”
“I don’t see how his age matters.” Scrunching his brow, Joaquin ran his tongue across his teeth. “He’s like, what, two years younger than you? Three?”
“I’m almost thirty-two.”
“And he’s almost twenty-nine. So what?”
I stared at Joaquin. “Isn’t he, like, twenty-five?”
My memory wasn’t that bad. Or had I never actually learned Alijah’s age?
“Another victim of his baby face.” Joaquin indulged in a raspy chuckle. “Not that it’d be a bad thing to have an age gap.”
He nudged the container of peach cobbler toward me, then rapped his fingers against the lid.
“We’re all consenting adults.”
I glanced between his defined fingers and angular face—tempting and likely treacherous.
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-five. A little younger than Owen. Speaking of Redmonds…” He shot me a rakish grin and speared another piece of brisket. “Alijah mentioned that you know Wyatt?”
“Yes. And I know how old he is, too.”
One year younger, twice my size, and three inches taller.
“See, it’s that sparkling wit. Right there,” he said with a slow flick of his fork in my direction. “Since you know Wyatt from back in the day, I have a question. Did he ever have a girlfriend? Or some girl he was especially close to.”
A newly forged iron spike embedded itself in my prefrontal cortex.
“Why do you… No, I don’t think so.”
“Keep trying to rope him into the pack. Always refuses, of course, but toward the end of college—before the Olympics, I think—it was because of this girl. Turned us down, saying he wanted to see where things went with her. Always wondered what happened.” Joaquin ate a mouthful of coleslaw. “So mysterious, that Miss Montreal.”
Blood pounded in my ears. How fucking dare he mention Montreal. To me.
Joaquin pondered me as he chewed. “Ring a bell?”
“No.”
“Too bad,” he drawled as he held my gaze. “Screwed him right up. Hasn’t been serious about a woman since.”
“I sincerely doubt that.” I bit out my words, on the verge of losing control of my temper.
Joaquin’s head tilted to one side, taking another bite as he pondered my response. “Guess you two weren’t all that close, then.”
Of course not. I was the irrational one, the one with a scrambled brain, prone to anger, who couldn’t maintain personal relationships. It was my fault our relationship failed to launch. Not that Wyatt was without blame, but he’d never been one for confrontation.
“They keep alpha and omega athletes pretty segregated.” After slinging my bag over my shoulder, I picked up the remaining takeover container. “I’ll take Alijah’s lunch to the breakroom.”
“You’re a peach.” Joaquin offered his most charming smile, which verged on predatory, and nudged the container of cobbler even closer. “So don’t leave your tasty brethren behind.”
“For Alijah,” I said and snagged it, flashing a pointed look over the rims of my sunglasses. “I’m full.”
“Whatever you say, doc,” he said, saluting my departure with a forkful of brisket. “Same time next week?”
“Not interested in being a third wheel.”
“It’s just lunch.”
“Whatever you say, Joaquin.”
The raspy rumble of his laugh dogged my footsteps as I made a tactical—albeit hasty—retreat.