Page 2
Mom sighs. “I’m so sorry, but the doctor said no swimming for two weeks.”
My eyes fill with tears. Swimming is one of the main activities I’ve found that eases my anxiety. My therapist encouraged me to face my fear of the water and swim several times a week. “But, Mom—” I start, but she interrupts me.
“I know it’s going to be hard, but your body has to heal.” She pats my blanket where my knee is, a loving look in her eyes as she tries to soothe me like I’m a little girl.
I choke back my tears and swallow the lump in my throat. “I just wish I was normal.”
She gently puts her hand under my chin and nudges my face to look at her. “Melanie, there is nothing wrong with you. You’re perfect just the way you are. There’s not a person alive that doesn’t have struggles and quirks.”
“Not sure trauma-induced anxiety qualifies as a quirk,” I tell her with a sassy expression on my face.
She wrinkles her nose. “True… but you could have irritable bowel syndrome like your father instead.”
I laugh then grimace. “Don’t make me laugh! And please never talk to me about Dad’s bowels, gross.”
She laughs. “All right, I’ll try. Can I make you some breakfast?”
I nod, realizing I’m actually quite famished.
She grins, causing the lines around her eyes to scrunch up. My mom has a timeless beauty I’ve always admired. The kind of beauty that doesn’t go away with age. With her shiny dark hair and big blue eyes, she reminds me a bit of Zooey Deschanel. I inherited my eyes from my mom, but I got my dad’s lighter brown hair. If you ask me, it’s kind of a mousy-brown color. I always wished I’d gotten Mom’s dark brown color like Harrison did.
“I’ll be back soon with some breakfast!” she tells me before cautiously sliding off my bed and leaving my room in the direction of the kitchen.
My head hurts so bad. I rub my temples again before reaching for my phone. I check my email and Facebook when I realize that I thought the appendectomy was a dream but it actually really happened—what if the rest of the dream was real too. I freeze, my eyes widening in horror.
“Oh. My. Gosh.” I pull up my texts and tap on West’s.
“NO. No, no, no!” I click on the video I sent him late last night and watch it. My face flames in humiliation. I exit the video to see if he’s seen it yet; maybe he’s still asleep. My eyes go to the corner of my phone where the time is displayed, 8:30 a.m. Shoot, he and Harrison will already be up and at hockey practice.
And sure enough, the read receipt shows seen at 6:45 a.m.
* * *
West
“You okay, West? You’re acting weird.”
My head whips over to look at my best friend, Harrison. “Me? Acting weird?” My voice comes out in a squeak, proving his point.
He quirks an eyebrow before settling onto his bed with a textbook. I sit on my own bed, which is across the room from his in our small dorm room. Posters of our favorite hockey players line the walls, and the room smells faintly of sweaty hockey equipment from practice.
No, our equipment isn’t in our dorm; it’s stored in the locker room. But somehow the scent lingers. Maybe from our socks?
Harrison is still looking at me curiously. I gulp, trying to think of an excuse for acting weird. I can’t really tell him I’m filled with nervous energy because his little sister proclaimed her love to me with her words, and then again in song form. And I definitely can’t tell him I reciprocate her feelings. That would defy the pact we made when we were thirteen.
There’s one rule and one rule alone in our friendship: don’t date each other’s sisters.
It took me a few years to realize how unfair our pact was, seeing as my sisters are several years older than us and therefore completely uninterested in Harrison. Perhaps it’s time to revisit the terms of this pact.
“I, uh, have a big test on Monday. Biochemistry.” I grab my backpack from the foot of my bed and take out my chem textbook for good measure.
He doesn’t look convinced but shrugs his shoulders and turns his attention to his homework. I breathe out a slow sigh of relief.
Harrison’s phone pings with a text and his face scrunches up while he looks at the screen. “Ugh, poor Mel.”
My eyebrows shoot up at the mention of Melanie, the girl who has made my stomach flutter since I was old enough to notice girls. “Why? What’s wrong?”
“Because of her appendectomy, she can’t swim for a few weeks. She’s freaking out about it.”
