12. Isla
ISLA
The blank page on my laptop screen mocks me with its emptiness, just like it has for the past three days.
I’ve written and deleted so many opening lines that I’ve lost count.
The Step Forward Foundation Gala isn’t until next month, but I wanted to get a solid head start on this speech so I have time to feel comfortable with it.
I knew it would take me a while to wrestle with my thoughts, and tonight I’m no closer to writing this damn thing than I was when they first asked me.
Lifting my wine glass from my desk, I take a sip of the now lukewarm Moscato and type, Good evening. My name is Isla Fallon, and I’m here tonight because—
Nope. Delete.
Eight years ago, I was in a car accident that—
Delete.
If you’ve ever wondered if your donation matters, let me tell you—
I groan, dropping my head onto the kitchen table. “Why did I agree to this again?”
My phone buzzes with a text, and I reach for it without lifting my head, grateful for the distraction.
Killian
How’s the speech coming along, Coach?
I snort, typing back with one hand.
Me
It’s not. I’ve written and deleted the same sentence fourteen times. I think I’m broken.
Killian
Need help? I’m great with words. Ask anyone.
Me
You’re great with WORDS? That’s a stretch.
Killian
Fine. I’m great with YOUR words. Better?
I smile despite myself, lifting my head to respond properly.
Me
Marginally. Got any brilliant ideas for what I should say to a room full of people about surviving a horrific car accident without making everyone cry?
Killian
How about starting with “So there I was, bleeding out on the highway...”
Me
Too graphic and I wasn’t bleeding out. If anything, I was bleeding in.
Killian
Okay, how about “Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to thank you all for coming tonight. Before I begin, does anyone know how to get bloodstains out of a Toyota?”
I laugh out loud, the sound echoing in my empty apartment. Tara’s working a red-eye tonight, and I’m grateful for Killian’s distraction.
Me
You’re terrible at this. You know that, right? I’m trying to inspire people, not make them think I’m a stand-up comedian.
Killian
But you could be if you want to. I’ve experienced your heckling skills firsthand. They’re both funny and impressive.
Me
Not the same as public speaking. I don’t have to look anyone in the eye when I’m yelling at you from the stands.
Killian
True. So, what’s the problem? Why can’t you write this thing?
I stare at his question, not knowing how to answer. The truth is complicated, and I’m not sure I want to dive into it with him. But then again, something about Killian makes me want to be honest, even when it’s hard.
Me
Because I don’t know what I want to say. I don’t know what the message is supposed to be.
Killian
What do you mean?
Me
Like...do I focus on the accident itself? Or the recovery? Or how it changed me? Or how it didn’t change me? I don’t know what people want to hear.
Killian
Okay, let me ask you this. What do YOU want to say? Imagine yourself standing in a room full of filthy rich strangers waiting to hear about your life. What do you want them to know? First instinct. What’s your first thought?
I swallow the knot in my throat as another forms in my chest.
Me
That the truth is messy and complicated and not at all inspirational in the way people expect these speeches to be.
Killian
Okay. Keep going.
I stare up at the ceiling, my Moscato all but forgotten next to me.
Me
I’d probably tell them that surviving something terrible doesn’t automatically make you stronger or wiser or more enlightened. Sometimes it just makes you more afraid.
Killian
That’s…unabashedly honest.
Me
Is it too honest? Will that make people uncomfortable?
Killian
Probably. But isn’t that the point? To make people think?
Me
When did you get so smart, Haynes?
Killian
I’ve always been smart. You just never noticed because you were too busy staring at my ass on the mound and heckling me about my strong form.
I laugh, feeling the tension in my shoulders ease slightly. This is why I like talking to Killian. He somehow manages to make even the heaviest conversations feel lighter.
Me
Your form isn’t strong. It’s adequate at best.
Killian
Adequate? Ouch. You’re cruel, Coach. You know that?
Me
You love it.
The three dots appear and disappear several times before his next message comes through.
Killian
Maybe I do.
Something warm flutters inside my stomach at those three words. I take a sip of my forgotten wine, trying to ignore the feeling.
Me
So, what would you say? If you had to give a speech about surviving something?
Killian
I’d say that surviving isn’t the same as living. And that sometimes the hardest part isn’t the thing that almost kills you, but what comes after.
His words hit me somewhere deep. I stare at my phone, suddenly very aware of my heartbeat.
Me
That’s...actually really good.
Killian
I have my moments. When I’m not being an ass.
Me
So, you’re admitting you’re an ass?
Killian
I’m admitting I can be one. There’s a difference.
Me
A significant difference, I’m sure.
Killian
Huge. So, are you going to write your speech now or just keep texting me all night?
I glance at the blinking cursor on my laptop screen. The blank page still stares back at me, but somehow it feels less intimidating now.
Me
You’re right. I should probably try. Thanks for the help, Haynes.
Killian
Anytime, Coach. Oh, and Isla?
Me
Yeah?
Killian
Whatever you write, it’ll be good. Just be honest. That’s what people need to hear. And honesty is one of your biggest strengths.
Me
Says the guy asking me to lie to the world and pretend to be in love with him.
Killian
Gotta get my kicks somehow, eh? Now get to work.
I set my phone down and stare at the blank document. Killian’s words echo in my mind: Surviving isn’t the same as living. He’s right and that’s something I’ve been afraid to acknowledge.
Taking a deep breath, I start typing again.
Good evening. My name is Isla Fallon, and eight years ago, I died for thirty-seven seconds.
I stop, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. It’s not the polished, inspirational opening I imagined, but it’s honest. It’s real. And maybe that’s enough.
The doctors told me I was lucky. My family told me I was brave. Strangers told me I was strong. But the truth is…
The truth is that for a long time after, I wasn’t any of those things.
Not lucky, not brave, not strong. I was just...
there. Existing in a body that didn’t feel like mine anymore, learning to walk in a body that kept betraying me, smiling at nurses and physical therapists and well-meaning strangers because my mother taught me to be kind and well, it was easier than admitting I was terrified.
I stare at the words on my screen, my heart pounding as I continue to type away for the next twenty minutes without stopping.
My words are raw and vulnerable and completely unlike the polished speech I imagined giving.
But what I’ve written…it just feels right.
When I finally stop typing, my eyes sting with unshed tears.
I’ve written about the darkness, the fear, the isolation of recovery.
I’ve written about the moment I realized I was still alive, not because of some grand epiphany, but because a nurse named Heather told me I had to pee in a bedpan and I was too embarrassed to die on her watch.
I’ve written about losing my dad and the crushing pain and helplessness that comes with that.
But I’ve also written about hope. Not the shiny, Instagram-ready kind, but the messy, complicated kind that shows up when you least expect it.
The kind that comes from a stranger holding a door open when your leg gives out.
The kind that comes from learning to laugh at yourself when you trip over nothing in the middle of a grocery store.
I save the document and lean back in my chair, a strange mix of exhaustion and exhilaration washing over me. The words on my screen are messy but completely authentic; everything I’ve been afraid to put down on paper. But Killian’s advice was right. Honesty is what people need to hear.
My phone buzzes again, and I smile when I see his name.
Killian
So? Did you write a speech worthy of an award or are you still staring at a blank page?
Me
I wrote something. And no matter what anyone might say, it’s something…real. So, thank you.
Killian
See? I told you. You’re welcome.
Me
Don’t let it go to your head. You’re still adequate at best.
Killian
Adequate? After I helped you break through your writer’s block? I think I deserve better than adequate.
Me
Fine. Okay, you’re moderately talented at giving unsolicited advice.
Killian
Moderately talented. Wow. I’m swooning over here.
I laugh, finally feeling lighter than I have in days and text him back.
Me
So, what are you doing tonight besides bothering me?
Killian
Besides bothering you? I’m lying in bed thinking about how I’m going to get you to change your mind about the no sex clause.
I nearly choke on my wine when I read his response. I definitely was not expecting that answer.
Me
Bold strategy, Haynes. Has it worked for you before?
Killian
Almost.
Me
Ah, right. I did offer that one day when you were a hot mess of spiraling disaster, but alas, you turned me down. Should’ve taken the offer big guy. Your loss.
Killian
Nah. You were too sweet for offering and I didn’t want pity sex.
Pity sex?
That’s what he thought it would’ve been?
Killian
I’ve just never had to be bold before. I told you women usually throw themselves at me, so this is all new to me. How am I doing so far? Is it working?
Me
Is what working?
Killian
My irresistible charm.
Me
LOL. No. Sorry.
Killian
That’s okay. I’ll keep trying. At some point you won’t be able to resist me and you’ll change your mind.
Me
And what exactly do you think changing my mind entails? Those mozzarella sticks you once promised me but never delivered?
Killian