Chapter 6 – Morgan
Six
I Woke Up Like This
Morgan
I'd had the best dream of my life last night. Holy hell.
Lance had been back. And unlike the other dreams where he drifted away like smoke the second I tried to hold onto him, this time he stayed. I could touch him, breathe him in, taste his kisses.
And then the orgasms happened. I wasn't even sure how many, but shit, I hadn't slept that well since before.
It didn't matter that all I did these days was lay in bed and sleep.
Everyone kept telling me time heals all wounds. Part of me figured if I could sleep away the time, I'd feel better faster.
I was wrong.
But this morning, this morning, I felt more like myself. Like I wasn't just a husk of a person going through the motions of breathing.
I stretched, and paused. My body felt... different. Not sore exactly, but there was a pleasant ache in my muscles, a lingering sensitivity that felt too real for just a dream. Like I'd actually been touched. Actually, been loved.
Dreams don't leave physical evidence.
So...are we not going to worry about the sex dreams we're having about our dead husband?
No. No the fuck we were not. I didn't want them to stop. At least I got to see him in my sleep and I needed that more than I needed my next breath.
Okay, so on with the delusions. Bet.
Except there was that teeny tiny voice that didn't think I was being delusional.
So what, the ghost of husbands past visited you?
No. Of course not...but...
I'd been feeling better for several days now.
Ever since the delusions started.
They were not delusions. I wasn't crazy. They were just dreams. Vivid, incredibly realistic, toe-curlingly sexy dreams that left me satisfied and feeling better than I had in weeks. But I wasn't so far gone that I thought my dead husband was visiting me from the great beyond or something.
I could almost feel the internal side eye from my subconscious.
Right. Because that's totally the energy you're giving off right now.
Shut up, brain.
Hell, I'd been feeling good enough to even go to the Co-op today.
Adele had been waiting on some changes. Gwen had managed to direct my seamstresses to some of them, but some of the changes needed me.
Needed my actual hands, my actual brain, my actual ability to function like a human being instead of a grief-zombie.
The co-op felt like visiting a museum of my former life.
Everything was exactly the same, the exposed brick walls with their carefully curated imperfections, the vintage sewing machines humming along the far wall like mechanical prayers, the scent of fabric dye and coffee that usually felt like home.
But I was different. Fundamentally, irreversibly different.
You're the ghost haunting your own life.
I stood in the doorway for a full minute, gripping my laptop bag like a shield, trying to work up the courage to actually enter.
People were staring, not obviously, because nobody wanted to be caught gawking at the widow, but I could feel their eyes on me anyway.
The glances. The whispered conversations stopped when I got too close.
Poor Morgan. Lost her husband in that terrible accident. Such a shame. So young.
"Fuck it," I muttered, and forced myself to walk to my usual station.
The workspace looked abandoned. Dust had settled on my cutting table like a fine layer of neglect, and someone had moved my good scissors.
My half-finished sketches from before, before Lance died, before my world exploded, before everything became measured in befores and afters, were still pinned to the inspiration board, looking like artifacts from another century.
When life was simple and your biggest problem was whether to use French seams or flat-fell.
I was just settling in, trying to remember how to be a person who had a job and responsibilities and a reason to exist beyond waiting for nightfall, when a familiar voice made me turn.
"Oh my God, Morgan!"
Amber rushed over, full of genuine concern, wrapping me in one of those fierce hugs that knocked the air out of your lungs. She smelled like vanilla perfume and fabric softener, safe, comfortable, normal. Like the before times when hugs didn't feel like pity wrapped in good intentions.
"I'm so happy you're back," she said, pulling away to study my face with those sharp green eyes. "Are you okay? I mean, obviously you're not okay, but you know what I mean."
"I'm..." I started, then stopped.
How did you answer that question? The real answer was complicated and involved sex dreams about dead husbands and checking security footage for evidence of supernatural visitation. The polite answer was a lie wrapped in fake courage.
I wasn't okay. I might never be okay again. But I also wasn't the broken shell of a person I'd been a few weeks ago, the one who couldn't remember to drink water or brush her teeth. "I'm here. That's something, right?"
She smiled, and it was so warm and uncomplicated that I felt some of the tension leave my shoulders. Like maybe I could pretend to be normal for a few hours.
"That's everything. I was worried you might never come back. I'm happy to keep visiting you at the penthouse, but I've been lonely here. I'm also glad to see you trying to take baby steps in the right direction."
Yeah, right direction…because you believe the ghost of your dead husband is visiting you at night…
"I'm sorry I haven't been better about calling you back.
I know you called and texted, and I just—" I gestured vaguely, hoping she'd fill in the blanks with something more socially acceptable than 'I was too busy having a complete mental breakdown to function as a friend.
' "I couldn't get out of bed most days."
"Hey, no apologies. Grief doesn't follow anyone else's timeline." She squeezed my arm, and the simple human contact felt like a lifeline. "You look better than when I saw you right after the funeral, though."
I did feel better. Not good. Good felt like a foreign concept, something other people got to experience, but better. Like someone had turned the volume down on the constant screaming in my head.
Because of the dreams.
Dreams where you come so hard you see stars and wake up with your panties soaked.
The thought sent heat flooding my cheeks. I couldn't tell Amber that the reason I looked better was because my subconscious was apparently giving me the best sex of my life while I slept. That would be insane.
You are insane. That's the only explanation for any of this.
"I've been sleeping better," I said instead, which wasn't exactly a lie. "Finally got some decent rest."
For the first time in weeks, I was actually looking forward to bedtime instead of dreading the long, empty hours of staring at the ceiling.
"Good. You needed it." Amber glanced around the co-op, then back at me. "Listen, I know you're probably not ready for socializing yet, but do you want to grab lunch later? Nothing fancy, just that little café around the corner. My treat."
The old me would have said yes immediately. The old me loved lunch dates and gossip and pretending my biggest problems were deadlines and difficult clients and whether my latest design was too avant-garde for mainstream appeal.
The old you was married to a man who was alive.
"I don't know if I'm ready for—"
"Just lunch," Amber said gently, cutting off my spiral before it could gain momentum. "One hour. If you hate it, you can leave. But I think it might be good for you to get out of your head for a little while."
She had a point. I'd been living inside my own grief for so long it felt like I was suffocating on it. Drowning in my own thoughts and memories and impossible dreams.
"Okay," I heard myself say. "Lunch sounds nice."
"Perfect." Her smile was brilliant, the kind that made you remember why you'd been friends in the first place.
Before she could say anything else, the co-op door opened and Sam walked in, holding two to-go cups and scanning the room until his eyes landed on me.
Oh no.
"Morgan." His face lit up in a way that made my stomach clench with guilt. "You're here. You're actually here."
Sam crossed the space between us with the kind of easy confidence that came from never having your world implode. He was dressed in business casual, nice jeans, button-down shirt rolled at the sleeves, looking every bit the successful young entrepreneur.
"Hey, Sam." I tried for a smile and probably failed.
"I've been texting, but I figured you needed space." He held up the cups. "I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd bring you this. Amber mentioned you’d be in today so I took a chance. How are you holding up?"
"I'm not really up for coffee," I said, the words coming out blunter than I intended.
Sam's smile didn't falter. "Good thing I brought you hot chocolate then." He set one of the cups on my worktable. "Extra marshmallows, the way you like it. Glad you're back."
The gesture was so simple, so genuinely kind, that I didn't know what to do with it. "That's... thank you. That's really sweet."
"You deserve sweet." He said it easily, like it was fact, and there was something in his eyes that made my chest tighten with discomfort. "I know things are hard right now. But if you ever want to talk, or just sit quietly, or need literally anything, my office is around the corner."
"I appreciate that." I meant it, even if I had no intention of taking him up on it. He lingered for a moment, like he wanted to say more, then seemed to think better of it.
"I'll let you get back to work. But Morgan? It's really good to see you."
After he left, Amber appeared at my elbow with a knowing look. "Okay, that was smooth. And he's definitely cute."
"My pussy is closed for business," I said flatly.
Amber nearly choked on her own coffee. "Jesus, Morgan. I wasn't suggesting—"