Kinsley

Brakes screech. A bright light blinds me. Fast forward time to the moment they eased me out of the medically induced coma. All I hear are beeping machines. My body is a deadweight thanks to the medication coursing through my veins. I can feel the scratchy hospital gown against my skin. Smell the antiseptic aroma.

It makes me sick.

"Kinsley! Wake up!"

Tristan's voice tears my consciousness from the scene playing in my head. Instead of smelling the pungent antiseptic, I can smell the lingering scent of Tristan's coconut vanilla candle. I feel my soft blankets and the sweat drenching my body.

Propping myself up on an elbow, I run a hand through my sweaty hair. I survey the room. Relief floods through me, allowing my shoulders to relax. Fear relaxes its grip on me.

I'm not in the hospital, having post-accident injuries treated.

Wiping away a damp strand of hair from my forehead, I smile weakly at Tristan.

"Thanks," I say. "For waking me up."

"No problem," she replies. Her Scottish accent is prominent. I failed to notice it on Saturday because my mind was so scattered.

Despite our awkward first meeting, the second one went okay. Tristan and I spent the day together yesterday. We sat around the dorm room and talked. Mariana joined us later in the day. We then ordered pizza.

Neither of them pressed for information about why I was crying Saturday. The topics stayed pretty mundane. There was banter about hockey. Discussions about which programs we're in. Tristan's majoring in psychology. Mariana in political science. They were surprised about me being in vet school. Not too many people make it into the program.

Although we get along well, I plan to keep them at arm's length. The pieces of my heart are fragile. Thinking relationships could sew them back together is an illusion. One that will harm me in the end.

Besides, I could never replace Mads.

Pulling her bottom lip between her teeth, Tristan glances out the window. Minimal light seeps through the glass. When I look at the clock, I see it's five-in-the-morning. An hour before our alarm was supposed to go off.

I can't prevent myself from feeling guilty.

"That was quite the nightmare," Tristan says. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Talking is the best way to solve problems. Especially internal ones that cause turmoil. But I'm not ready to tell her what happened. I don't know if I ever will be. The effects of PTSD have given me the inability to trust. To open up to others.

"No," I reply, shaking my head. "I'd rather not."

"Okay," she says. Her voice is soft. "I'm here if you ever need me."

A small, genuine smile crosses my face. It surprises me—the smile. "Always need a test subject, right?"

I'm joking. Somewhat. My messed-up mind would fascinate Tristan. She would love to dissect it. Knowing I have PTSD, anxiety, and mild depression would... Well, she'd be all over me. There are so many questions she'd ask. So many answers I couldn't give. Which is why I'm hiding my medication. It's tucked away, safe in the bottom drawer on my side of the desk. Hiding it prevents questions from arising.

Laughing at my partial joke, Tristan shakes her head and stands up, stretching her tired muscles. "We're only allowed to use test subjects from class."

My mouth pulls to one side as she yawns, rubbing her tired eyes. "I'm sorry for waking you," I say.

Tristan waves off my apology. "It's fine, Kinsley. The cafeteria opens in half an hour. Arriving early is better than arriving late. The options are better in the morning. Trust me, French toast is much better than flavour-lacking oatmeal."

I wrinkle my nose. Yuck. I hate French toast. All it is is bread drenched in egg, fried, then topped with syrup and berries. I tried it once, but all that sugar coated my teeth. I felt sick after.

Tristan laughs at the look on my face. "Okay. No French toast for you. How about an omelette? I would recommend the spinach and mushroom one."

"That sounds better," I nod, tossing the covers aside. Suddenly, I'm hungry.

She grabs her phone and shoots off a quick text before dropping her hand to her side. "Do you like coffee?"

"Yes." I nod, wondering why she's asking. I head over to our shared closet, opening it and surveying my clothes.

She lifts her phone again. "What kind? My boyfriend is picking up Timmie's. He'll grab you one, too."

"The vanilla cold brew, please," I say. "Tell him I'll pay him back, though."

Tristan waves off my words. "Please. You don't need to pay him back. He offered to buy you one, too. Look."

She walks over to me and holds her phone close to my face.

Sure enough, one text says Does your roommate want one, too?

"Oh," I say. "Uh, okay. Thanks."

"No worries," she smiles. She tosses her hair over her shoulder. "Cole's meeting us here before we head to the cafeteria. After we're finished getting ready, we'll meet him back here, then head to the cafeteria. How does that sound?"

Anxiety tugs at my nerves. I shove it away. Well... I try to. Having someone make plans for me isn't something I appreciate. Even if they're trying to be inclusive. It feels out of place. Anything out of place is triggering. I like solidified plans I'm familiar with.

"That s-sounds good," I stutter, turning to the closet. From it, I remove a pair of jeans and a baby-blue crewneck sweater. Next, I gather my underwear and bra. A pair of Converse.

If Tristan notes the stuttering, she says nothing. Instead, she excuses herself to the bathrooms, which are just down the hall. She exits with a bag in hand, leaving me staring into the closet.

Sighing, I run a hand through my hair. It falls around my shoulders. It tangles with my lashes.

Spending time with Tristan and her boyfriend isn't a good idea. If I become attached... If a friendship forms between any of us...

No.

I won't allow that to happen.

This will be the last time. I'll meet her boyfriend, thank him for the vanilla cold brew, and that's it.

After I've gathered the rest of my necessities, I follow Tristan out the door.

The promise I've made myself weighs on my heart, but I know it's only for the best.

One moment can change anything.

Potentially losing another friend, another person I care about, would be detrimental to my mental health.

I couldn't handle another loss.

* * *

Getting ready for class takes twenty minutes. Soon enough, we're back in our room, waiting for Cole to arrive.

"What was seeing Noel like?" Tristan asks.

For the past ten minutes, she's been gushing about Noel McLean. According to Tristan, he's a country heartthrob. A star on the rise.

I can't say I disagree with her. Part of the reason I stayed so long at the pub was to listen to his music. His voice is amazing. Imagining him on stage in front of thousands of people isn't too far-fetched.

"Typical," I shrug. "He, uh, saved me from being hit by a bike."

I hate admitting Noel saved me. While he was looking out for surrounding people, I was too busy staring at my phone. It was a mistake on my part. I'll never admit that aloud.

Tristan dusts some setting powder over her freckled cheekbones. She's doing in her makeup in our room because the lighting is more natural. "That doesn't sound typical."

She has a point. The situation wasn't typical. The conversation and actions, however, were.

Noel was... pushy. I didn't like his wandering eyes. Not only did he stare at my scars but also at my body. It made me uncomfortable.

"He couldn't keep his eyes to himself," I mutter, scrolling through my text messages. Grandma and Grandpa arrived in Winnipeg late last night. They're planning to call me later tonight.

"And that's a bad thing?" Tristan asks. "I'd love to have Noel McLean's eyes all over me."

Her comment upsets me. "Aren't you dating Cole?"

"Yeah," she nods, applying lipstick that matches her hair colour. "And Cole's great. But Noel? Goddamn."

My grip tightens around my phone. You date someone for a reason. She should be focused on those reasons. Not on another man. It's fine to think someone else is good-looking, but to fantasize about him? I don't agree with that.

Before I can say anything, there's a knock at the door.

Tristan springs to her feet and saunters over to the door, opening it.

Over her shoulder, I see a tall man with black hair and warm ivory skin. He's wearing a toque, paired with dark jeans and a white long sleeve. A tray of drinks balances in one hand.

"Cole," Tristan smiles. Avoiding contact with the tray, she leans up and kisses him on the cheek.

"Tris," he smiles. "Brought you ladies your morning caffeine boost."

I blink. His British accent is thick. His voice deep. I wasn't expecting him to be British.

"Oh!" Tristan exclaims, ushering Cole inside. "Cole, I'd like to introduce you to Kinsley. My roommate." She turns to me. "Kinsley, this is my boyfriend."

Smiling, Cole steps around Tristan and holds out his hand. The tray balances in the other.

"Cole Robinson," he clarifies. "The British one."

Unlike the man I met in the parking lot, Cole only has one dimple present. It's on his left cheek. His jawline is soft, but his cheekbones are sharp.

"Kinsley Hastings," I reply, taking his hand. "The one from Winnipeg."

Cole's body stiffens. Only for a fraction of a second.

A crease forms between my brows. What did I say? I hope I didn't offend him.

"She met Noel last night," Tristan says, sidling up to Cole. "How's he doing?"

What?

"You know Noel?" I ask.

"Yeah," he nods, handing me my cold brew. "He's my best mate. We've known each other since high school. And, to answer your question, Tris, he's doing well. He's out for his usual morning run."

Tristan pouts.

I have to look away. Something tells me the flirting between Noel and Tristan is endless, despite Cole being in the middle. I hope that's not the case. For Cole's sake. As the boyfriend, you're not supposed to feel like the third wheel. Or vice versa.

I take a sip of my drink. It's smooth, just like I remember. Last time I went to Tim Hortons was years ago.

"That's, uh, cool," I say.

Cole nods. Although he has brushed his hair back, a strand falls across his forehead. "Did you meet him at Saturday's show?"

"Yes," I nod, stretching the truth. Cole doesn't need to know the details. "We ran into each other after the show."

Tristan eyes me, her head cocked to the side. Thankfully, she says nothing.

Cole takes a sip of his steaming drink. "He's bloody talented, isn't he? Shame I missed the show. We'll all have to attend one next time. You, me, Tristan, and Mariana."

I take another sip of my drink. Discussing outings isn't something I want to do. So I change the subject. "Thanks for the coffee."

Cole cocks his head to the side. It's only a slight movement.

I turn my face away, hiding the scars and pain. If my eyes are the window to my soul, Cole must hate what he sees.

"No problem, love," he says. His voice is soft. Almost understanding. "Well, should we head to the cafeteria?"

"Yes!" Tristan replies. "I'm starving. Are you ready, Kinsley?"

With another sip of my drink, I nod.

* * *

My first semester is packed. I'm registered as a full-time student and enrolled in five courses. They include Clinical Presentations I, Clinical Skills I, Professional Skills I, Anatomy and Histology, and Animal Behaviour.

On Mondays and Wednesdays, I have CPI from seven a.m. to ten a.m., a break in between, and then CSI from twelve-thirty p.m. to four-thirty p.m.

Tuesdays and Thursdays aren't early mornings, but they go late into the evening.

PSI runs from eight-thirty a.m. to ten a.m..

Anatomy and Histology is pencilled in at ten-fifteen a.m. Fridays are my lenient days. My Animal Behaviour class is the only one, and it starts early in the morning, giving me the rest of the day off and a longer-than-usual weekend.

While I'm not sold on my schedule, my liking for the classes overpowers the ungodly times.

As a bonus, no one knows about my past. No one knows I'm a girl who spent a year in physical rehabilitation to repair my shattered body, only to be released with a broken, irreparable soul.

To them, I'm not someone who sank into depression and dove into denial. I never avoided problems that needed to be dealt with. I never let them fester.

My reputation as the girl who lost almost everyone she loves is void.

Among my classmates, I'm another student trying to find her place in this big world. No judgemental, pitying stares are cast my way. No one questions how I'm doing. If the struggle is weighing me down.

The accident is never brought up. That means my defensive side stays dormant. Not once do I make the situation awkward or push someone away.

However, something contradicts this newfound peace.

After classes are over, when I'm sitting in the library working on homework, something happens.

I have this powerful urge to call my parents and Jessa. I want to tell them about my first day on campus.

The longing is so strong the motion happens subconsciously. Without thinking, I reach for my phone, unlock it, and type in my old home number.

Just before I hit the "call" button, I realize what I'm doing.

The phone slips from my hand, clattering against the table as I stare at the palm of my hand, overwhelmed by emotions.

Every time I think I've overcome the shock value of sadness, it knocks the wind from my lungs.

I can never tell my sister or my parents about my campus life. They can never tour campus or meet any of my fellow peers.

Mads will never come to the pub with me. She'll never brag about her campus, telling me Vancouver is better because it's not as cold.

And Aaron, sweet Aaron...

He isn't here.

Tears burn my eyes.

I need to leave.

Realization forces me to my feet.

Too fast.

My chair goes tumbling to the linoleum floor with a loud bang. I can feel eyes on me, but I ignore that sensation. Instead, I gather my belongings, stuffing them into my tote bag.

When that's done, I rush out of the library and into the evening air. Halfway down the sidewalk, I stop and press my back against the wall of the building, closing my eyes and taking several deep breaths.

Every therapist I went to told me things would get easier as time went on. That old wounds would heal, and I would accept the losses dealt to me.

They were wrong.

I've accepted what's happened, but nothing's gotten easier.

Even though I'm doing this for the people that lost their lives, it still hurts like hell. I still feel like I'm suspended in the vehicle, suffering from white-hot pain in my knee and blood leaking from my body.

Pain is ruthless.

Grandma once suggested maybe I've fooled myself; made myself believe I've accepted this when I haven't.

That maybe this illusion is why things keep getting harder and harder for me.

But I disagree with her.

I've accepted this new life I never wanted.

It's why I'm here.

Had I not accepted it, I'd still be at home. I'd spend my days locked in my bedroom, staring at the wall. Numb with pain.

I take another deep breath.

No matter how hard this is, no matter how many times I need to cry and give in to the pain, I have to push through.

For them. For my parents and Jessa. For Mads. For Aaron.

Even if it means I have to fake a smile or fake being happy.

I will fake it until I make it.