Page 4 of It's a Date (Again)

“Are you drunk, Peyton?” Her voice raises. She clearly has the phone pressed firmly against her ear so she can hear me better, analyze whether I’m slurring my words or not. On her end, there’s a lot of background noise, loud voices, laughter, and someone speaking into a microphone. She must be at Zanies, waiting to perform, or maybe she just finished her set.

“No, I’m not drunk.”

A car blares its horn at me as I run through another intersection. I put my hand up and mouthSorry, and I keep going. Nothing is going to stop me because I’ve already removed the greatest barrier ... myself.

“Where are you? Are you okay?” Maya asks, her voice full of concern.

“Yes, I’m fine. I just haven’t been seeing clearly. But I can see now. He’s my soulmate. He’s the one I’m supposed to be with. I love him, and I’m going to tell him right now, before it’s too late.”

“Who is? Who are you talking about? The consultant guy? That’d be cool. Since he has beaucoup bucks. Or the contractor? He’d come in handy. Get it?” She chuckles. “Ooooh, is it the chef? Maybe he’d meal prep for me.”

Another car lays on its horn. Tires screech far too late. I see a set of blinding headlights for only a mere second before I don’t see them anymore. A gut-wrenching scream escapes me. My feet leavethe ground, and it feels like I’m flying. Maya yells my name through the speaker. There are other screams, but I’m not sure where they’re coming from. Glass shatters. More tires screech and squeal. Metal clashes into metal. I can see the raindrops fall from the sky as I fall with them. My body slams against the ground with a thud. Something cracks against the pavement. I’m sure it’s my skull.

And then there is no rain.

There is no sound.

There is nothing.

CHAPTER2

A steady beeping sound rouses me. At first, I think it’s an alarm clock. But no, it’s too calm and controlled. My eyelids flutter as I try to peel them apart. It feels like they’ve been glued shut. When they finally open, it’s all a blur. I blink several times until my surroundings become clearer. I’m lying in a hospital bed, tucked beneath covers and hooked up to various machines. A small plastic device is clipped onto my pointer finger. An IV needle is stuck in my hand with tape holding it in place. A clear tube is positioned into my nose, emitting a steady stream of air. The ceiling is made up of sterile-white tiles. I turn my head to the right and see an empty chair and two closed doors. In front of my bed, a television hangs on the wall playing some game show. Either it’s muted or I can’t hear it at all. Beneath the TV is a stand adorned with vases of colorful flowers and propped-open greeting cards.

My head throbs like the contents of it have been scraped out, shaken up, and dumped back into my skull. A slew of questions rattle around my brain:Why am I in a hospital?What happened?How did I get here?Where ishere?The sound of pen scratching at paper pulls my attention. It’s deafening. I slowly turn my head to the left, where the noise is coming from, and find a woman sitting in a chair. Her head is craned forward, focused on the notebook she’s writing in. Her dark hair is full of tight curls, streaked with caramel highlights. Her makeup is minimal except for extralong lashes and red-painted lips, as though she knowsthose are her most bold features. She’s dressed in a pair of black leggings, combat boots, and an oversized sweatshirt. She’s pretty, but I don’t know who she is. I try to speak but only a gasp comes out.

Her head flicks up, and her honey-brown eyes go wide. “Oh, Jesus. You’re up.” She snaps her notebook closed and jumps to her feet. “Nurse!”

I try to speak again, but I can’t. It feels like I swallowed sand. All that comes out is a croaky gasp. When she realizes I can’t talk, she picks up a Dixie cup from the stand beside her and brings it to my lips.

“Here. Have some water,” she says, tipping the cup. I swallow a couple of gulps and exhale deeply, trying to catch my breath. A fruity, floral scent wafts off her. It’s lovely and familiar, but I’m not sure why. She yells for the nurse again.

I struggle to talk. “Why ... am ... I ... in ... the hospital?” The words come out slowly, quiet, and raspy. I’m not even sure I actually said them out loud.

Her eyes bulge. “You don’t remember what happened?”

My head moves side to side only an inch or so in each direction.

“Oh, Peyton.” She reaches for my hand and holds it. “You were hit by a car.”

“Peyton?” I ask.

She leans in closer and places her hand against my forehead like she’s checking for a temperature. I can’t feel it, though. There’s some sort of gauze wrapped around my head. “Yeah, Peyton.”

“That’s your name?” I ask.

A bewildered look takes over her face. “No, that’s your name. I’m Maya.”

“Maya?”

“Nurse!” she yells in a panic, and scrambles toward the door.

Just as she’s making her quick exit, a man carrying two Starbucks coffee cups pushes the door open. They collide, spilling coffee onto themselves and the floor.

“Maya!” The man groans, pulling the crushed coffee cups from his chest.

He’s tall, much taller than she is, with broad shoulders. His eyes are blue, electric almost. Despite their brightness, he appears tired. His dark hair is cut short on the sides, with a little more length on the top. He sports a five-o’clock shadow. I’m not sure if it’s intentional, or he just hasn’t had time to shave.

“She’s awake,” Maya says, pointing in my direction.

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