Page 4 of From Square One

After a few minutes of lying stock-still in my room, I fling myself back to my feet and start investigating. My dresser is completely empty. I move to my bedside table drawer and fumble through the clutter—gluten-free hand lotion, bookmarks, a cute wooden duck that looks like it was whittled, socks and gloves for when I get cold at night—

Wait. There’s something stuffed in the socks. Candy wrappers? I shake the contents into the drawer, frowning, and the sight awaiting me causes every thought to evaporate.

I stare at them. They stare back. Menacingly.

Surely, I must be holding these for a friend. Though I don’t have those, as far as I’m aware. I get along with people, but socializing has deteriorated since my diagnosis because I’m never sure where gluten is lying in wait to ambush me. Even though my digestive problems aren’t as difficult to deal with compared to other celiacs’, getting glutened makes me feel like I’ve been hit by a truck, the signs manifesting in symptoms like fatigue, brain fog, headaches, chills, and severe joint pain. The side effects of my anemia tend to flare up, too, worsening my tiredness and muscle weakness. Even sitting around others in restaurants carries risk if I touch the wrong thing, made worse by my finger-gnawing habit. I’m not close enough to anyone that I would be storing their…their…

I stare at the bottle peeking out of the twin sock. It stares back. Ominously.

I’m still in a coma. That’s the only explanation.

I hear the dreadful sound of my bedroom door creaking open. Gagging from the mere mental image of someone finding me hunched over these items, I slam the drawer shut and smile awkwardly at the intruder.

It’s Dad. His salt-and-pepper hair is rumpled and slightly saltier than I remember. Can fifteen months really make that much of a difference?

“How are you feeling, honey?” He’s smiling, but his tea-green eyes aren’t crinkled, so I can tell he’s apprehensive. “You must be overwhelmed.”

“I’m…fine.” I divert my stare to my fingers. They seem fuller. I must have the iron supplements and my earnest desire to learn to cook to thank—every online forum I visited after my diagnosis recommended becoming best friends with my kitchen. I’m still not at the “average” percentile for weight or height, though I’ve grown a couple of inches vertically, thankfully. They measured me at five-foot-six at the hospital. “It’s just a lot. Missing a year of my life.”

“It’s like the doctor said—give it some time, and you’ll hopefully start to see results in the next few days or weeks.” He scratches his fingers through my honey-blond hair, accidentally grazing the welt. I avoid flinching. “Keep faith, okay?”

I’m used to my parents trying to be optimistic around me. “How much is our insurance about to go up?” I whisper, scanning his face.

Dad’s unruly brows furrow. “Don’t worry about that, Riley. All you need to do is focus on healing.”

“You always say that,” I mumble.

“And I mean it.” Maybe Dad sees the tearful frustration building in my eyes, because his own soften. He readjusts his rectangular glasses and props himself on my mattress, then rubs my knee. He’s probably trying to soothe me, but another monstrous bruise spans my leg there, and his touch exacerbates the throbbing. “Ask whatever questions you want, and we’ll do our best to answer them without overwhelming you, like the doctor suggested. Try to reestablish your routine so things feel normal. Mom and I will get the bills paid, and you can look after the house. Sound good?”

As if it hasn’t always been this way. Over the past year in particular (or, I guess, two years), my obsession with cleaning everything to keep myself from getting sick evolved into me deep-cleaning the entire house on a regular basis. It’s the least I can do to make up for the former hospital visits.

“Sounds good,” I say.

I notice a shadow in the doorframe and look over to find Logan lingering in the hallway. He’s bulked his upper body over the past year. The violet bruises under his eyes are intense from lack of sleep, and he keeps scratching at the maple-brown hair behind his neck.

Dad glances between us, then offers another nervous smile, and says, “Get some rest, honey. Let us know if you need anything.” With that, he heads downstairs. Logan examines me in this thorough, cautious way, like I’m a land mine that might detonate if he treads on the wrong carpet strand. Like he’s still not sure if he should believe my amnesia. I can’t blame him, considering how perfectly functional I am.

Whatever Logan wants to ask me is trapped behind his tightly pressed lips. So I blurt a question I’ve been avoiding.

“Why did Aaron call himself my boyfriend?”

Logan’s eyes glint with annoyance. He’s quiet for a full fifteen seconds, like he’s weighing his words. The silence scratches and claws at me, and every moment feels like another lost year of life.

Finally, he speaks. It’s what I expect. It helps nothing.

“You and Aaron dated.”

I wait for more explanation, my pulse fast enough to catch fire, queasiness stirring in my stomach. “And?” I accidentally snap. I throw my finger into my mouth and chew it, wincing. “Sorry.”

“And what?” Logan peers at me with a level of intensity that’s nearly accusatory.

I gnaw harder on my finger. “Are we currently dating?”

“Yes.” Logan’s voice is short and monotone. He clearly doesn’t want to talk about this, but I can’t abandon the topic when it’s been eating at me since I woke up.

“For how long?”

His mouth twists downward with displeasure. “A year or something.”