Him coming back was all it took to turn her world upside down.
Harper Collins is perfectly content with where her life is at. Is it perfect? No. But she's content. Now a guidance counselor at her old elementary school, a volunteer safety officer...
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OWEN'S WORDS DON'T "SWIRL AROUND" IN MY HEAD they go bang, boom, conflonk because it feels like someone's playing an intense game of racquetball in there. My head pulsates from each blow and I'm starting to wonder if words really do have power
...power to shatter my skull into a million pieces!
And now I have to sit still for an MRI... great!...
The technician is going over everything with me as I try to stop the rubber ball of words from smashing my skull from the inside.
"Do you have any questions?"
I look at the young guy with his dark sleek hair pulled back into a low ponytail. "What about my stitches?"
He raises a brow and smiles a little. "Do you have metal stitches?"
Okay Mr. Technician I've had an awful day, the worst most horrifying day ever... wait how long has it been now? Couple days?
My heart hurts not knowing what's going on outside these hospital walls. All I know is that the number of deaths have been confirmed. Six... six deaths and thirty-eight injured. It could've been more, thank God it wasn't more.
The other technician comes in and begins getting the machine ready. I watch him and try to shut my mind off again. It's a jumbled mess and now I feel like people are playing extreme racquetball.
The older, less... cocky, man calls me over and tells me to sit and lay down. As if my mother took over my body, I flick my hair back in the most dignified manner. The older man chuckles and gives me a broad smile. "I like how you did that. You could be in a hair commercial."
"Thanks." I say and then exaggeratedly toss my hair behind me, dropping my voice a few octaves. "Garnier."
He laughs and the one with the ponytail gives me a flirty smile. I lay back and prepare myself for forty-five minutes of no moving. They give me head phones and the ponytail guy leans over me. "What do you like to listen to?"
I go for a general answer since I know I won't be able to concentrate on anything. "Oldies."
He nods. "A girl with good taste."
He leaves and a waft of spicy cologne tickles my nose making me sneeze. Owen never uses cologne. He doesn't have to. The table slowly starts to pull me in the tunnel and a little fear snakes around my heart. I wonder if they'll find something wrong with me, like my brain, or something weird like... what if I swallowed a magnet when I was young? What if it rips out of me?... What if they forgot a piece of shrapnel?
Give me a break, I've never had an MRI before.
The table stops and I'm looking at a white ceiling that curves around me with a grey strip slicing right down the middle. And of course, my eyes are on the grey strip.
