Page 32 of Wait For It

My pulse thundered as she surveyed me, forcing my heart up into my throat with each furious beat. Tiffani might have been nice, but Tsega was perceptive, picking up on the little things that had gone unnoticed my entire life.

Just last Sunday morning, an overzealous nurse had come in. After turning my television to the live broadcast fromEagle Lake Church, she’d found it necessary to tell me how Pastor James had saved her marriage. When the first few bars of the opening song had begun to play, she’d placed a hand on her chest with a sigh and asked, “Doesn’t hearing this just fill you with hope?”

I’d stared blankly at her, sure she was messing with me.

I was the one singing.

Our worship band had released four albums—the latest of which had been nominated for Pop/Contemporary Album of the Year at last year’s Dove Awards—not that I’d been allowed to attend the award ceremony in Nashville.

Brad had once boasted that they’d use my songs until the earth turned to dust because there was something eerie in my voice—something that made people sink to their knees in repentance.

As I’d listened, I couldn’t help but agree. The sound was hauntingly beautiful, causing my flesh to break out in goosebumps by the time I reached the chorus. My every word was clear and resolute, leaving me to wonder where the strength went when I wasn’t singing.

Tsega had watched me intently during the song, and in the minutes following the nurse’s departure when my father came on-stage. Then, without saying a word, she’d gotten up and turned it off.

She was doing it again now, studying me like I was a code in need of cracking. I gathered a deep breath, slightly curious to know what she saw when she looked at me—a meek creature who startled at the slightest sound? A fragile woman with no voice?

Perhaps Tsega’s view was just as misguided as Killian’s. That somehow felt worse than being seen as weak. I turned away as emotion clogged my throat, threatening to spill over in the form of tears.

It only hurts if you let it…

She inhaled sharply before placing her free hand over both of mine. “It’s not your father, okay? It’s not him. It’s a woman—Morgan. If you don’t want to see her—”

Morgan? Yes.

To drive my point home, I began bobbing my head up and down in an exaggerated manner, loosening my braid with each eager nod.

Tsega nodded, her eyes glinting with amusement. “Okay. But first, we have to fix your hair again.”

With the feelings of relief came a sudden influx of memories and a sharp flare of guilt—I hadn’t thought of Morgan once since my accident.

How had I forgotten my only confidante? Her family had begun attendingEagle Lakewhen she was fourteen, but it had taken me a lot longer just to work up the courage to say hello.

At youth gatherings, I sat in the back, silently admiring the streaks of white blonde in her dark hair.Later, once we’d been properly introduced, she’d informed me they were highlights and not something she’d been born with—yet I’d never even been allowed to cut my hair, much less alter the color.

Looking back, I couldn’t help but feel that by befriending her, I was at least partially responsible for what happened next. If I’d never overcome my fear of speaking to her, Morgan would have been just another nameless face in the crowd.

Safe.

Instead, I’d led her into the monster’s lair, never imagining Tristan would take an interest in a sixteen year-old girl.

Clearly, I’d underestimated him.

Her family eagerly accepted Tristan’s proposal and moved into the gated community during their two-year courtship, oblivious to the trap that had been set. On her eighteenth birthday, Tristan put a ring on Morgan’s finger and an end to her traveling anywhere without an escort.

The white highlights gradually faded away, but Morgan had never lost her spark, which had only made me admire her more. Yet, as much as I’d tried over the last three years, I couldn’t bring myself to call her my stepmother. She was, after all, only a couple of years older than me.

My best friend.

The one person who knew me better than anyone else.

An idea began to take root. I’d been going about this all wrong—putting enormous amounts of pressure on my body to speed up the healing process.But the answer had been right in front of me all along. If there was one person who could tell me with certainty what I’d been doing before the accident, it was Morgan.

We never kept secrets from each other.

After Tsega radioed down to the front desk, I kept my eyes on the door, restlessly bouncing the soles of my house shoes against the wheelchair footrests. Somehow, despite the current of nervous energy flooding my body, she managed to tame my braid.

I was so caught up in witnessing Morgan’s arrival that when Tsega offered me a notebook and pen, I handed it back to her in confusion.

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