He’s moved everything that I didn’t take. Everything I didn’t think I would need.
Clothes hit the floor first and after I flip through the old notebooks, looking for my physiology notes, the ed up in the same place.. Maybe, just maybe, I wrote her last name down or have a referral from the football staff.
There are two broken trophies at the bottom of the drawer. I stare at the t-ball trophy from when I was four. I didn’t understand my mom passing away, I just knew I missed her and this trophy was shortly after she passed away.
I dig through stacks of old toys and sports equipment dad is saving for when the grandchildren get older. I rummagethrough boxes like something important has to be hiding in here.
What was her last name? How do I not remember?
Annika. Just Annika. That’s all my brain will give me.
I sit back on my heels in the middle of the room, surrounded by push toys, singing stuffed animals and a ball pit. As I drag my hand through my hair, I remember the way she looked at me while tutoring me in college. Like I was some kind of experiment she couldn’t decide whether to admire or dissect.
She chose to dissect.
Did I dismiss her?
Did I treat her like the rest of the world—just another girl orbiting the football team?
Maybe that’s why she’s always had a pissy attitude with me.
Maybe I earned it.
The thought sits heavy on my chest. I look around at the mess I created, as I pick up a notebook and file through it one more time.
Witt’s voice drifts from the hallway. “Did you get into a fight with a raccoon?”
“Something like that.”
He steps in and leans against the white doorframe, arms crossed. Clothes are everywhere. Empty boxes strewn all over and papers scattered across the floor. Witt raises a brow. “So much for a playroom.”
I glare at him.
“Dad said when the grandkids get older, this is where they’ll come to destroy things.” He toes some clothes out ofthe way, stepping farther into the room. “Looks like you beat them to it.”
I stand up, kicking a shoebox.
“I’m looking for something.”
“Yeah, I couldn’t tell.” His voice is steady and dry. “This looks more like emotional instability.”
“I’m trying to find the last name of someone.”
“Should I be worried?” he asks. “Who?” My younger brother has this way of not talking and just staring until someone else fills the void, so this seems out of character.
“My therapist or performance coach.”
He scoffs, “I know her name.”
“What is it?”
“Anna Morrow.”
“No shit, Witt. Not helpful… at all.” I blink and stare at him. Obviously I know her professional name. “I need her old name.”
He studies me like I’m joining a cult. Witt analyzes everything, just like Annika.
“From college. Back then she went by Annika.”