Page 21 of Wished

On the bright side, I’ll be so busy scrambling I won’t have a moment to think about the way Max looked at me when he told me he never wanted to see me again. I won’t even have to think about what it felt like when a dream smashed into the pavement and a wish came crashing down in flames.

For years I thought I had put that hope behind me. I didn’t know how painful it’d be to feel that final glimmer wink out.

After the dishes are done and Emme’s science project is finished and she’s sent to bed, my mom, Dorene, and I finish both bottles of wine. Then Dorene brings out the cognac and I get gloriously, wonderfully, stupidly drunk.

I decide my life is better without Max Barone. My world is better without wishes. Everything is better without the pain and hope of love.

At midnight I stumble to my tiny, windowless bedroom and fall flat on my mattress. I’m sprawled on my stomach, my arms spread wide. I’m floating, the room is spinning, and when I close my eyes, all I can see is Max looking like he wants to kiss me with rough, punishing, urgent need.

“I wish . . .” I whisper, my voice a soft slur. “I wish I never loved you. I wish I didn’t know what it felt like to hurt. To want you so much.”

I bury my face in my soft quilt—the one my mom made from my old T-shirts. I close my eyes again, falling into the spinning, swirling darkness of the night.

“I take it back,” I say. “I take it back.”

I’m not exactly sure what I’m taking back. My wish that I never loved Max, or my wish that he loved me and was my husband.

Either way. I take it back.

I fall asleep floating up to the stars on a vibrant blue river of light.

4

The sun stretches over me,long, golden fingers tugging at my eyelids and urging me to wake up. I’m pulled out of my dream in tiny increments. I’m cozy-warm, wrapped beneath a soft blanket, and settled in a feathery mattress.

Somehow, overnight, my floor-hard mattress became a soft, springy cloud. It probably has something to do with the second bottle of wine, or maybe the third glass of cognac.

Or more likely, it has to do with the dream. I have this glowy, comfortable feeling that only comes after experiencing a dream you don’t want to end.

In my dream, I was in a wedding gown with a long lace train, standing at the front of an old stone cathedral. Max—a younger, happier version of him I’ve never met—held my hands and promised to honor me and cherish me. While rainbow light shimmered through tall stained-glass windows, and the scent of roses laced around us, we were married.

I can still smell the perfume of the white rose petals trailing down the aisle and the gardenias braided through my hair. It’s light and teasing and sweet. I take a deep breath, stretch my arms and legs, and wiggle my toes. I was certain I’d have a hangover this morning, but I feel great.

A little hungry. Waffles would be nice. But overall, I’m great.

In fact, I’m feeling decidedly optimistic.

It’s a new day. It’s the first day of the rest of my life. It’s ... a beautiful day.

A gorgeous day, in this cloudlike bed, with the subtle scent of roses and the soft cooing sound of a mourning dove, and ... everything’s great.

Not even the sunlight feathering across my eyelids causes a stitch of discomfort.

Not a twinge.

Not a twitch.

Wait.

I don’t have sunlight in my bedroom. I don’t have a window in my bedroom. I don’t have rose-scented perfume or floral-scented laundry detergent. I don’t have mourning doves cooing prettily outside my nonexistent window. I definitely don’t have a cloudlike bed.

I open my eyes and bolt upright.

I’m not in my bedroom.

I’m not in my bed.

I’m not in the ratty Motor City T-shirt I was wearing when I finally collapsed face-first into my mattress last night.

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