Page 3 of From Square One

Aaron Beckham is a blight on my family. An ulcer I can’t surgically remove. My parents verbally scolded Logan for hanging out with Aaron and risking his reputation as a golden child, but they’ve always taken the “passive parenting” approach in terms of enforcing consequences, so they didn’t do much to stop it. I’m the only one who’s ever looked out for my brother.

Even now—even when I’m limp in a hospital bed—Aaron is trying to get a rise out of me. Petting my hair, holding my hand, kissing me, calling himself my boyfriend…This fainting episode is one sick, amusing joke to him. He’s mocking me.

Maybe I should congratulate him. In the five years I’ve known him, this is the closest he’s gotten to making me explode.

“He obviously wants nothing to do with you, so get out!” Logan seizes the scruff of Aaron’s jacket, heaving him off the bed.

“But…” Aaron looks like a wounded puppy, his eyes two giant gray moons. When he meets my gaze, his own flickers with something I’ve never seen before.

Panic.

This is a hallucination. A hellish nightmare. I need to sleep, and when I next awaken, things will start making sense. So that’s what I do.

I go back to sleep.

2

My name is Riley Wilson. I’m seventeen. I’m a junior. I plan to attend the Ilitch Institute of Technology—a local college beyond the suburbs—where I’ll earn my degree in computer science, because I hear it makes good money. After years’ worth of medical bills alongside brutally expensive certified gluten-free food brands, financial stability is a reasonable goal. It’s March. I’m single.

My name is Riley Wilson. I’m eighteen. I just graduated my senior year. I’m enrolled at some general education college thirty minutes north for the fall semester. It’s June. I might be taken.

By Aaron Beckham.

I’ve been staring at my bedroom for ten minutes, nauseated by the change in scenery from what should be “three days ago,” considering I was unconscious for two and monitored overnight in the hospital for one more. It’s the same room—the chips in the wall, the furniture, the trampled carpeting. But it’s painted sunset orange, my favorite color. Packing boxes are stuffed into the corner, filled with my clothes. Golden string lights drip down the far wall like a curtain, and the others have been fixed with artsy canvases that complement the room’s warmth.

I massage my aching forehead. Who decorated? I’m not handy, and stopped trying to be when I broke my thumb while nailing up an honor society certificate. I’ve never understood which tools to use, or how to drill holes into things without hitting wooden beams, or how to properly balance decor. My dad has also been equally useless in this field, despite his best efforts to bumble his way to success. This paint job is far too neat to be either of ours. Professional.

I don’t care enough to put money or time aside for sprucing up my living space. I only need a bed. That’s what a bedroom is for, right? I don’t need extraneous nonsense.

I don’t hate it, though. I guess.

My eyes move to the calendar pinned on the wall. It’s June, but the month on display is April. I don’t just forget to switch a calendar over. In fact, I usually have to keep from flipping to a new month early so I can start planning my weeks out. Furthermore, half the month is empty—no notes, reminders, anything. It should be jam-packed with writing, but it’s mysteriously vacant.

And what’s with these moving boxes?

My head responds to my bewilderment with a particularly brutal throb, and I wince, shielding my eyes from the searing summer sun warming the windows. Trying to keep my frustration from swelling up into a burstable bubble. I’ve never had a meltdown, not even through the diagnosis process and accompanying life changes, so I don’t need to start now. Yet my reality settles in my stomach as painfully as bread does. And pasta. And anything else worth eating. My body hurts beyond the usual joint pain—my bones feel weaker, like one good whack will shatter me.

Maybe it’s because of all the bruises. The violet splotch spanning my thigh. The yellow tinge on my shoulder. The shrinking lump on my head. They all stem from the moment I was slammed up against Logan’s passenger door after he drove through a stop sign, resulting in us getting T-boned. The other driver was fine, and Logan got away with scratches when his window shattered. It shouldn’t have been a terrible accident.

But I wasn’t wearing my seat belt.

Why wasn’t I wearing my seat belt?

My head collided with the passenger window, and I woke up two days later, mostly fine aside from a major concussion. All my limbs came with me when I was pulled from the car, but I did leave something else behind.

The past fifteen months of my life.

I’m not sure why it’s such a specific amount of time. I told the doctor that the last thing I remember is writing something on the calendar for March 15 of junior year. She admitted in all her years of handling trauma care patients, she’s never experienced a case like mine. I woke from the coma slightly disoriented but behaviorally sound. Other than a blur that disappeared the longer I kept my eyes open, I experienced no vision problems or issues with balance or dizziness. I remembered what classes I was taking, who my teachers were, where I live, who I am. The MRI came back clear aside from a minor bit of swelling where I hit the window. By all accounts, everything is abnormally…normal.

So where are the past fifteen months?

I should be finishing junior year, but I’ve already graduated. My brother should be a senior, but he just finished freshman year at the community college down the road, where he’s taking summer classes and works as a student assistant. Aaron Beckham also graduated despite his knack for setting fires. Breaking into restricted areas of the school, ditching class to buy smoothies, starting unnecessary fights with his condescending attitude.

I guess his grades being high enough to graduate isn’t surprising. One thing that frustrates me beyond belief about Aaron is that he’s smart. He could get a 4.0 GPA but doesn’t care enough to put in the work because the end result isn’t exciting enough. He must’ve done just enough to earn the cap and gown to make attending high school worth it. Along the way, he stirred up enough trouble to lose Logan his scholarship and put himself on my permanent severely dislike list.

So what changed eighteen-year-old Riley’s mind?

I haven’t seen Aaron since he kissed me. I’ve been too afraid to ask Logan for details because I’m not sure I want to know what fooled me into thinking that flirty, arrogant, self-absorbed jerk is worth my time. Which maybe sounds egotistical, but that’s the thing about Aaron. He brings out my worst personality traits just by entering my thoughts.