Page 112 of Fallen Stars

Much to my dismay, it’s still recommended I don’t get behind the wheel.

Dr. Hampton says we’ll do a test drive in a week or two. But until she gives the all clear, my parents have hidden the keys to my car and bolted the garage.

On the upside, my replacement driver’s license, bank cards, and cell phone arrived at Oliver’s—our—place a few days ago. Although I don’t currentlyneedany of them, holding those small plastic rectangles and having more accessibility to the world gives me a sense of normalcy and inclusivity.

I select a playlist I haven’t listened to in over a year, set my phone in my lap, melt into the seat, and let the music drown out my incessant thoughts.

Oliver reverses out of the driveway, shifts gears, then reaches across the console and takes my hand in his. The entire drive to Poke the Yolk, his thumb gently strokes the length of my knuckles and assuages my anxiety.

Dawn barely colors the sky as we exit the car and cross the lot for the employee entrance of the restaurant. Inside, Oliver peels off his hoodie, hangs it on a hook, then fetches an apron.

“Come on.” He tilts his head toward the open door separating the office from the kitchen.

I’ve been back here a couple times—weekend days when Oliver closed—but never when Max, one of the cooks, was on the clock.

“Morning, Max.”

Peeking over her shoulder, her brows tug together. She lifts her wrist, checks her watch, then narrows her eyes at Oliver. “You’re early.” Turning back to the griddle, she flips pancakes and eggs. “Should I get used to it?”

Oliver scoffs. “Not if you’re smart.”

She holds up a spatula. “Noted. Breakfast?”

“Please.” Oliver prattles off his order then looks to me. “Whatever you want. You can take it for later.”

Food has been a weird subject since my return.

Doctors talked with me at length on how to ease back into normal eating habits. They gave me a list ofgentlefoods—whatever the hell that means—and when I should introduce heavier items into my diet.

My parents hired a chef exclusively for me. They wanted to make sure the doctor’s list was strictly adhered to. If the list said vegetable soup for dinner five times a week, that’s what was delivered to my room.

I hated those damn food lists.

Oliver is oblivious to the doctor’s recommendations.

With the exception of the night of the Fall Fest, when he ordered pizza with my favorite toppings, he lets me choose what I eat. Most days, it’s Emina’s dishes for breakfast and Nero’s massive entrées for dinner. Belly ache be damned, I clear my plate during every meal.

“French toast, scrambled eggs, and turkey sausage.”

“On it.” Max holds up her spatula again, shaking it twice.

Oliver fills two mugs with coffee and we take a seat at the small table in the back. Kirsten enters the kitchen and chats with us for a moment. Like Oliver, she doesn’t ask how I am. Like me, she knows what it’s like to be under the microscope after a traumatic situation.

We eat breakfast in relative, comfortable silence. Oliver clears his plate, but I save a slice of French toast and sausage link for later.

With my leftovers in a box and a to-go cup filled with coffee, I squeeze Oliver’s hand and tell him I’ll see him when his shift ends. Wanting to avoid the town gossip mill, I exit through the back. Surveying my surroundings, I cross the lot and head for the street.

TWSIS doesn’t unlock its front door for another hour, but I spot Tymber’s car in the lot as I dash across Opal Trail.

The nervous energy I had an hour ago flares back to life. Only now, it’s accompanied by skepticism and insecurity.

Can I do this?

Can I walk back into TWSIS and not lose my shit?

Can I work there without reliving the horrors I unearthed while hunting for the person who eventually became my captor?

Will I ever be able to sit behind a computer screen again?

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