Page 84 of Mr. Wilde

The cardiologist can call it Broken Heart Syndrome all they want, but I know the truth. My father’s heart didn’t just break. The fear and grief literally squeezed the life out of him.

“I would’ve traded with you.” I scream into the wind, my face buried in my hands. “I would’ve stayed under, Daddy. I would’ve never woken up if it meant you could stay.”

I’m blinded by the pure, unadulterated grief that makes my brain injury feel like a paper cut. I stay there, shaking, pouring my heartbreak into the wet ground, until I have nothing left.

I look up at the headstone, my vision blurred by tears. I came here hoping to feel strong. Show him I was ready to tackle that neurology appointment tomorrow on my own. But all I feel is the hollow ache of being an orphan in a world that doesn’t care.

I wipe my face, the salt stinging my skin. I have to get up. I have to keep moving, even if every step feels like I’m walking through wet sand.

On the way back to the airport, I make Holt stop at a small salon.

“You’re sure about losing the pink?” he asks.

I considered going back to my natural dark brown, but that feels like a version of myself that died in the hospital. Instead, I have them strip the pink until it’s a nondescript blonde.

When I look in the mirror, a stranger blinks back at me. A woman who could disappear in a crowd, just as I intended.

I feel stronger every day. Tomorrow, I’m going to drive myself to Hanover. No Holt. No security. It’s time to see if I can stand on my own two feet without the Devil’s Playground or Max Wilde propping me up.

34

CASSIDY

I grip the steering wheel with white-knuckle force as I pull out of the St. Luke’s parking lot. I did it! The hard part is over, Cass. Calm your ass down.

I’d managed to drive from Northern Virginia to Hanover, my gaze bouncing between the windshield and the rearview mirror so often I’d almost given myself vertigo.

The neurologist’s words are still ringing in my ears like my own personal fight song. “You have a clean bill of health, young lady. No more monthly check-ins.” He’d cleared me for a solid year.

I felt lighter than I had since before the coma. It was as if I’d finally shed the virtual hospital gown I’d been wearing in my mind for years. Until I spotted the suits running down the corridor of the hospital. Now I can’t get my racing heart under control.

Four men in dark, tailored suits, wires curling behind their ears, had raced through the lobby with a precision that screamed DANGER. They weren’t focused on me, but my paranoia didn’t care. To my battered brain, it was an indication of a threat. Shadows returning to put me back in the dark.

I can barely remember how I made it to the women’s room. Once inside, I’d scrambled into a stall, locked the door, and hugged my knees to my chest. My breaths had come in short, hitching sounds activating my well-rehearsed mantra.

Five things you can see: The industrial silver of the toilet paper dispenser, a crack in the floor tile, my own shaking hands, the Out of Order sign on the next stall, the flickering fluorescent light above.

Four things you can touch: The cold metal of the door latch, the rough denim of my jeans, the smooth paper in my hand, the cool porcelain of the tank.

Three things you can hear: The hum of the ventilation system, the distant slamming of a door, the frantic thud of my own heart.

“You’ve got this,” I breathe, closing my eyes. “You’ve been through far worse. They aren’t here for you. Just get to the car. Just get home.”

I wince as the word home echoes in my head. When had The Devil’s Playground become my home?

Sitting here on a public toilet, the clarity hits me with the force of a physical blow. I can’t remain in the shadows anymore. That job isn’t a home. It served its purpose, but I’m meant for more.

I think back to the dinner at Max’s house. He’d asked me where I’d go if I could go anywhere. I’d been too nervous to answer then, too caught up in the domestic porn of watching him cook. But I know now.

I want to go everywhere.

I want to travel the world. I want to go to a movie and sit in the middle of the theater instead of the seat closest to the exit. I want an exotic island vacation where the only thing I have to worry about is the SPF of my sunscreen.

I want to go to a county fair, walk down the midway hand-in-hand with the man I love. No blending into the shadows. My pink hair on full display.

I force my fingers to unlock the stall door, the metallic click sounding like a gunshot in the tiled silence. My breath is still coming in shallow, jagged hitches as I stumble toward the exit, my gaze darting to every corner.

The lobby feels a mile wide. I keep my head down, my newly blonde hair acting as a curtain between me and anyone I encounter. I burst through the heavy glass doors, the humid Hanover air slapping my face. Yet it does nothing to distract me from the panic rising in my throat.