Total pages in book: 153
Estimated words: 149606 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 748(@200wpm)___ 598(@250wpm)___ 499(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 149606 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 748(@200wpm)___ 598(@250wpm)___ 499(@300wpm)
My speech has improved, and now the words I say actually match what I’m thinking in my head. Most of the time, anyway.
I’m learning how to do math and tell time again, although the doctor says I have dyslexia, which I didn’t have before.
The random bouts of fear, depression, confusion, and exhaustion are slowly diminishing. I still feel displaced, though. Like I jumped out of a plane, and my parachute not only didn’t work in time, but transported me to an unknown place.
The nurses call me Miracle Girl.
Years ago, there was a Miracle Man who wound up in this same facility after he put a gun to his own head and blew half his brains out. Rumor has it, he made a full recovery.
“If he can, you can,” the nurses say.
His name? Redwood.
“Try to keep your hand still.” Kenzi leans over the small table between us, brushing pink polish onto my nails.
“I am.”
“Do your fingers shake all the time?”
“Not all the time, but most of the time.”
“What does the doctor say?”
I shrug and focus on trying to keep my fingers from shaking. I don’t want to mess up her effort and get polish all over my fingertips. “Not much. It might get better… It might not.”
“Your nails aren’t as brittle as they were a few weeks ago. That’s good.” She smiles up at me. “Your body is getting healthier.”
Kenzi is so much like Asher—always smiling, kind, and thoughtful. She visits several times per week, toting magazines, snacks, and clothes for me.
I don’t let her call me Mom. We keep things light. The mommy and the little girl are gone, and now we’re just friends.
“There.” She puts the tiny brush in its glass bottle. “They have to dry, so don’t touch anything.”
“Thank you.” The pink shade she chose is the color of bubble gum, and I like how my fingertips look all shiny now. “I feel pretty.”
“You are pretty.” She smiles. “In fact, you look amazing. I was just telling Dad on the phone last night how incredible you look.”
“Oh.”
“He’s looking forward to seeing you next week.” She pulls a laptop out of her bag.
“Next week?”
“Mm-hm. He’s coming home from the tour next week.”
Next week isn’t that far off, according to the calendar on my wall. Just a few numbered squares away. Asher kept his word by playing the music for me every night, and I’ve enjoyed talking to him on the phone, learning more about him. Every time he sends me a random text message, it puts a big smile on my face and makes my insides feel all tumbly. The whole marriage thing is scary, though. Being someone’s wife is a big deal. It’s not just a word. It has meaning and certain expectations. Commitment. Love. Intimacy.
Kenzi puts her laptop on the table in front of us. “I had an idea…and you can say no if you don’t want to. A friend of mine recorded Dad at the concert last night, and he sent it to me. We can watch it together if you want. I thought maybe you’d be curious to see him on stage.”
“Oh.” I wiggle my fingers and watch the light glint off the polish. “I guess that might be fun.”
After Kenzi clicks a few things, the small screen is filled with a smoky stage scene with fans screaming and waving their hands in the air in front of the person filming the video. The band is in the middle of playing a fast, hard rock song, and when it ends, they transition to a new song. During the first chorus, Asher walks onto the stage seemingly out of thin air and joins in with the other singer. I jump in my seat when the crowd’s screams erupt from the laptop speakers.
The first singer points to Asher. “Ladies and gentlemen…Asher Valentine!”
The fans go completely nuts, jumping up and down and screaming his name as Asher continues to sing. The huge smile on his face says it all—he puts his heart and soul into everything—and he loves it.
The depth and power of his voice on stage is much different than his voice when he sings over the phone for me. Warm shivers cascade through my body as I watch him move across the stage, his long hair blowing wildly around his face as he belts out notes that go from incredibly high to low with barely a breath in between. A thin, white T-shirt wraps around his shoulders and torso, hugging his body, accentuating muscular arms and shoulders I haven’t noticed in this way before.
My thighs tingle. My mouth feels dry.
The skeleton key necklace I’ve never seen him without bounces against his chest as he prowls across the stage.
I’m unexpectedly drawn to him. That tattooed hand wrapped around the mic is the same that caresses my cheek. That muscular arm fist pumping in the air to the screams of the fans is the same that has gently wrapped around me.