6. Isla
ISLA
Inever thought a simple email could make me feel like I’ve been sucker punched. But there it is, sitting in my inbox like it belongs there, all bright and innocent and casually life-ruining.
Dear Ms. Fallon,
I stop reading, because I know what comes next.
My story. The one where I went from promising college athlete to broken body in a hospital bed, learning to walk again after the car accident that nearly killed me.
The one where I had to relearn everything; how to stand, how to take a step, how to live with a body that would never be the same.
How to navigate my life knowing I was spared but my father wasn’t.
My phone feels heavy in my hands, like the weight of the words is somehow physical.
I should be honored, I know. I should be thrilled.
The Step Forward Foundation literally saved my life and gave me back the ability to walk when doctors said I’d be lucky to ever feel my legs again.
They deserve my gratitude, and my time any time they ask for it.
But the thought of standing on that stage, spotlight on me, telling a room full of strangers about the worst part of my life…
My thumb hovers over the delete button. It would be so easy to pretend I never saw this. To continue flying above the clouds, serving drinks and snacks to wealthy baseball players, never having to face my past head-on. But something stops me.
Maybe it’s the memory of Dr. Flowers, who spent hours with me after her shifts ended, showing me exercises to help me walk again.
Or maybe it’s the thought of the other patients I met during my time there.
The ones fighting their own battles, the ones who, like me, wondered if life would ever feel normal again.
I sigh and continue reading.
...As our keynote speaker, you would be joining a select group of individuals who have inspired our community with their courage and determination.
The gala is our primary fundraising event, with all proceeds supporting the expansion of our rehabilitation services for patients with mobility challenges…
My eyes catch on the words “mobility challenges.” Such a clinical way to describe what I went through. What I still go through sometimes. The doctors called it that too, a “mobility challenge” instead of what it really was.
My life falling apart.
…We’ve also included a plus one for this event. Should you need more than just one extra ticket, please let me know and I’ll make sure your wishes are accommodated…
I close the email and stare out the window of my hotel room. The Chicago skyline stretches before me, a sea of lights against the night sky. It’s beautiful, but I’m not really seeing it. My mind is back in that hospital room, the smell of antiseptics and the constant beeping of machines.
I should be flattered. They want me to speak because I’m a “success story.” I can walk now, even if it’s with a limp. I can run, though not like I used to. I can live a relatively normal life even though everything about my life changed that day.
I know what they want. They want the inspirational version. The one where I overcome tragedy through sheer determination, where I smile through the pain and make everyone believe that if they just try hard enough, they too can overcome their “mobility challenges.”
They don’t want the real version. The one where I screamed into my pillow every night for months.
Where I punched walls and broke things and told my mother I wished I had died instead.
Where I still sometimes wake up in the middle of the night, certain I can feel my legs being crushed all over again.
No one wants to hear that. So, am I really a success story?
Or am I just someone who got lucky enough to recover most of what I lost?
“Don’t take life too seriously, Isla. Like it or not, you’ll never get out of it alive anyway.”
That’s what my dad used to say when he saw how hard I would study for organic chemistry or molecular biology.
It was my dream to be a doctor. A surgeon.
I knew when I was ten years old that I wanted to save lives and be loved and adored by everyone I saved.
I wanted to be everyone’s favorite doctor.
But sometimes life hands you big fat fucking lemons and it takes forever to learn how to make enough lemonade to just…survive.
“Okay, Isla. Enough of the dark and heavy,” I scoff as I stare at my reflection in the window.
I pocket my phone and consider going downstairs for some dinner since I napped through the normal dinner hour.
My stomach has been rumbling since the end of the game I caught online.
I could probably order room service but it’s late enough after the game that I imagine most of the players will have gone to bed since they play one more time tomorrow.
Not having to pretend to be my usual chipper self on a day where I just don’t have the energy would be really nice.
I know I just need to get out of this room and look at something different for a while, so I grab my keycard and quietly head to the elevator, making my way down to the bar.
It’s much quieter here tonight than it was last night.
I grab a small booth toward the back wall where I can still see out into the hotel lobby area and order myself a burger and a glass of wine.
As I take my first sip, I feel my phone buzz in my pocket. I’m tempted to ignore it but something makes me pull it out anyway. It’s a text from Tara.
Tara
Just checking in. How’s it going with the baseball boys? Have you kissed Killian yet?
I roll my eyes but can’t help the small smile that forms.
Me
No kissing. No making out. No hand-holding. No nothing. We had drinks with the team last night. That’s it.
Tara
Drinks? Plural? Girl, you know that’s step one in the baseball player seduction playbook.
Me
There is no playbook. We just talked. He’s actually kind of…different than I expected.
Tara
Different how? Like, serial killer different or actually-a-nice-person different?
Me
The second one. And before you get any ideas, it doesn’t matter. I’m not looking for anything and he’ll be a distant memory by October.
Tara
Uh huh. Sure. And I’m the Queen of England.
I lock my phone and set it face-down on the table, taking another sip of wine. My burger arrives, and I’m halfway through it when I hear a familiar voice.
“What’s the matter, Coach? Did the vending machine deny you your entire dinner this time?”
I look up to find Killian Haynes standing beside my table. My stomach performs a complicated dance, like a flock of birds suddenly startled into flight. I clock his gray sweatpants that hang off his hips and a plain black T-shirt that stretches across his pecs in a way that should be illegal.
His hair is still a tiny bit damp from his post-game shower, dark strands curling slightly at his temples.
He’s wearing the same dark rimmed reading glasses he had on last night, which somehow makes him even hotter.
Less untouchable baseball god and more exhausted man trying to survive another day in the spotlight, but still…
there’s something about a man in glasses that I find wildly attractive.
Tattoos run down both of his arms in illustrated sleeves as he shifts a ridiculous amount of candy balanced in his hold. M&M’s. Peanut M&M’s. Sour gummy worms. Skittles. Two king-sized Twix bars and what appears to be an alarming number of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.
I blink once.
Then again.
“Did you rob a twelve-year-old after Little League?” I ask before I can stop myself.
His mouth twitches instantly, like he was already expecting me to say something smart-assed.
“Long game,” he replies, voice rough and low enough that it does absolutely nothing helpful for my blood pressure. “Needed reinforcements.”
My eyes drift back down to the gray sweatpants against my will.
Okay.
Maybe I need reinforcements.
Seriously though.
How is it even possible for a man to be as breathtakingly hot as Killian Haynes is?
“Saw you in here and knew it was late so I figured I’d check on you.” He pauses, his cheeks reddening. “I mean, surely you’re not meeting someone here at eleven o’clock at night but—”
Is that his way of asking if I’m single?
“I’m not meeting anyone,” I tell him candidly. “Just didn’t feel much like peopling this evening so I skipped the team meet and greet in the hotel lobby.”
“Oh.” He nods. “Right. I get it. Everyone has off days. I can leave you alone unless you…” he shrugs, “Want company?”
I hesitate for just a moment. The last thing I need is to get more tangled up with Killian Haynes, but the thought of sitting alone with my email-induced anxiety suddenly seems less appealing than it did five minutes ago.
“Depends.” I narrow my eyes teasingly. “What’s in it for me?”
Killian’s smile grows as he glances down at the sugar haul in his arms. He lets it all fall to the table, in front of me. “Meh, it’s probably too much for one person anyway.”
“Probably?” I laugh. “Should I be worried about your blood sugar? Maybe I need to stock medically necessary sugar on the plane.”
“Nah. My body is a temple,” he assures me as he slides into the booth across from me. “These are just my post-game vitamins.”
“Right, because Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups…” I pick up one of the orange-wrapped chocolates from the table. “Have all the appropriate nutrients.”
“Duh.” He reaches for one and rips it open, pulling the pie-shaped candy from the wrapper.
“Chocolate and peanut butter are the two most important food groups. What’s wrong with you for not knowing that?
” He tosses an entire Reese’s Cup into his mouth, groaning at the wonderful taste that is the combination of chocolate and peanut butter.
I watch as he methodically arranges his candy collection, sorting by type like he’s planning a strategic attack on his sweet tooth. The reading glasses catch the light when he moves, and I find myself wondering when exactly I developed a thing for men in glasses.