EIGHTEEN
ANNIKA
You were always good at pretending nothing happened.
The library is filled with the soft hums you would expect.
Pages turning.
Keyboards clicking.
Low voices blending together.
I stare at the note. I’ve read the line so many times that the ink should be worn and thin. It’s not. It’s still sharp and fresh.
I shift in my chair, pressing the note inside the openJournal of Clinical Psychologylike I can forget it if I push hard enough.
I tap my fingers on the textbook to compare the theories.
Neuromuscular Control and Motor Response.
This is where I’m at my best. When I’m in control and able to predict what will happen. Everything I built my new life around.
My eyes drift back to the crease in the page where the note sits hidden.
You were always good at pretending nothing happened.
My stomach twists because that’s the part that settles in my heart.
Not the accusation. That part is true.
Not the anger.
It’s more about not being able to predict who is sending these letters. And how they know who I am and where I work despite me changing my name.
“Hi, I know you. You’re Parker’s brain fixer.”
I jump from my chair an inch or two. My head snaps up, heart already racing, body halfway out of the chair before my brain catches up.
Noelle O’Ryan stands there like she’s just walked out of a coffee shop instead of startling someone into a mild cardiac event.
She has a baby strapped to her chest in one of those soft carriers, tiny little feet peeking out, and a tote bag slung over her shoulder. She smiles bright and wide, kisses the crown of the baby’s head, like she’s not juggling an extra fifty pounds of baby and baby stuff.
“Oh my gosh… so sorry,” she says with a rolling sweet laugh. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“You did,” I say, my breath still catching up.
“Yeah, I can see that.” She winces with her eyes narrowing and then grins. “Sorry, I tend to jump in with both feet.
“No problem.”
She shifts her baby without even realizing it, patting her back like it’s instinct. “I’m Noelle O’Ryan-Stricker and this isEmma,” she says, introducing herself whether I’m ready or not. “My son is at Mom’s Day Out, so I have three hours to pretend I have a life outside of work and family while she sleeps.”
“I’m Anna,” I blink. “Mom’s day out?”
“Best invention ever. Twice a week I take the kids and drop them off. She was sniffling today so I brought her with me.”
“It must be difficult working full time for a sports network and having a family.”
