Before You Wake

By Cheyanne Young

The day after Millie's crush asked her on a date, a comatose teenager arrives at the hospital where she volunteers. He's labeled as a John Doe, but Millie would recognize Wesley anywhere. Thanks to a teensy misunderstanding by an elderly nurse, everyone thinks Millie is Wesley's girlfriend.

 

As Wesley's condition worsens, Millie spends all her volunteer time at his bedside, reading him Jane Austen and waiting for him to wake up. Then his group of friends show up, including Sloane, a beautiful and charismatic girl who instantly takes a liking to Millie. His friends think she's Wesley's mysterious new girlfriend that he mentioned before the accident. They invite her out with them, and Millie seizes the moment. She's never had friends like this before and it feels great to be included.

 

The longer Wesley's coma goes on, the more attached she becomes to his friends and her shiny new life in the popular crowd. Millie knows she'll have to come clean before he wakes up, but she's in too deep, and her lies have become the foundation of the very real friendships she's made. Revealing the truth now would cost her everything. But keeping her secrets will cost even more.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Quinnova Press
• Release date: Jun 7, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201229276

Cheyanne Young

Cheyanne Young is a native Texan with a fear of cold weather and a coffee addiction that probably needs an intervention. She loves books, sarcasm, and collecting nail polish. After nearly a decade of working in engineering, Cheyanne now writes books for young adults and is the author of the City of Legends Trilogy. She doesn’t miss a cubicle one bit. Cheyanne lives near the beach with her daughter and husband, one spoiled rotten puppy, and a cat that is most likely plotting to take over the world.

Book preview

Chapter One

Come on, Honey. Let’s get you some pie. Rosalie gives me a quick pat on the shoulder before swinging open the ancient chrome door of Ruby’s Diner. There’s nothing a little pie can’t fix.

Ruby’s Diner is a relic of the sixties that always smells like syrup and coffee. It’s right across the road from The Trinity Acute Care Center, which is a tall, sloping building with glass walls and ornate fountains and emergency vehicles coming and going. Walking across the street to get a slice of pie always feels like slipping through a portal that takes you back in time.

Rosalie and I settle into our favorite booth, the corner one near the jukebox. It features red pleather seats that have recently been reupholstered so there’s no cracks that dig into your legs like the old booths. But that’s not the only reason we like it here.

Lookin’ good boys, Rosalie says, blowing a kiss to the oversized poster hanging on the wall over our booth. Though they’re right near the Starrville city lines, Ruby’s diner and Trinity hospital are both technically in Salt City. As a supporter of Salt City Panthers football, the diner proudly displays a poster of this year’s varsity team. The team made it all the way to state this year and even though football season ended four months ago, the whole town is still talking about it.

The poster is green and yellow, with a group picture of the team in the middle, and individual pictures of each player all around it. When Rosalie brought me here to celebrate my first day of volunteering, she’d led me to this booth and told me the eye candy made it worth sitting in the back.

I’d called her a creepy old lady objectifying teenagers, but she just laughed. Now it’s our thing.

Who will you be crushing on today? I ask her, forcing a smile as I look at the team and try not to think about Shirley.

It’s been a rough day, she says. Why not all of them? Except yours, of course. I’d never daydream about your Wesley.

I roll my eyes and study the narrow dessert menu that’s always on the table, wishing I couldn’t feel my cheeks flooding with heat. Of the dozen photos of meaty, game-faced football players, Wesley Reyes is by far the cutest. His honeyed eyes are softer than his teammates’, and there’s a hint of a smile on his full lips, although I’m pretty sure the players weren’t supposed to look happy in these photos. Game faces make them more intimidating. Wesley’s subtle grin paired with his tan skin and shaggy dark hair that makes you want to run your fingers through it leaves no doubt that he’s the most attractive guy on the poster. I’ve got that boy’s face memorized. I see it in my dreams, and in reality, too, sometimes when I’m awake, bored at home or when I’m eating lunch alone in my new school.

We order coffee and two slices of chocolate pie, after much deliberation, because all the pies at Ruby’s Diner are delicious and probably overflowing with unhealthy sugars and fats. My grandma was a health nut and she would have hated this tradition. I don’t feel guilty about it, though. Grandma cared so much about health and exercise, but in the end, the great permanence of death came and took her anyway.

Rosalie watches me with the same look she gives family members of our sickest patients. When our pie is placed in front of us, she takes a quick bite and then goes back to pitying me.

The first one is always the hardest, Millie, but you can take comfort in knowing you made Shirley happy in her final moments. She loved having you read to her.

I nod, but conflicting emotions swirl around in my chest, and I swallow hard. I remember the chapters I read to Shirley and the comments she made. The laughter we shared. Those five minutes where we kept repeating the same sentence in our crappy British accents because we were so bad at pronouncing the word aunt in a way that didn’t sound like the tiny insect.

After watching my grandma get sick and slowly fade away over a month in intensive care, I was so grateful to Rosalie, who spent time with her while Mom was at work and I was at school. She’s the head of the TACC Angels, a volunteer department she founded thirty years ago. I’d been so charmed by how her charismatic personality made my grandma smile and brightened the lives of all the patients in the hospital. What Rosalie was doing every day was a form of magic. I wanted to be a part of it.

I’ll be fine, I say as I stab my fork into the pie and let it sit there hovering in the air. It just sucks. Shirley was nothing like my grandma, but she still kind of reminded me of her.

Rosalie sets down her fork and reaches for my hand. Don’t let it break you, sweetheart. Take the memories you had with her and tuck them away as a good memory. And then come back to work and do it again and again.

Rosalie is technically my boss, but she’s also a mentor and kind of a parent all rolled up into one person who is also my friend. I might have sworn off friends recently, but I don’t think Rosalie counts in that regard. She’s old. Old people can’t possibly betray you the way teenagers will. At least I hope not.

Thank you, I say.

She nudges my plate closer to me. Eat up, girl. Shirley would want you to enjoy every single bite.

I dive into my pie. Rosalie and I have shared more than a dozen slices here in our favorite booth. She usually finds some insignificant event she thinks we should celebrate, like the completion of my first volunteer shift, or the time I got an A on a physics test I was worried about because I was new to school and wasn’t caught up yet. Sometimes she’ll appear in the breakroom after our shift is over, eyes wide and sparkling, and whisper the word pie? until I agree to go with her.

Rosalie may be in her sixties, but she has the spirit of someone much younger.

The bells on the door jingle and smack against the glass as a group of huge guys come barreling in, startling me from my thoughts. Their loud voices carry across the diner.

Rosalie and I look over to the newcomers, six guys in total, all wearing Salt City letterman jackets. They file into two neighboring booths, and the teenage waitress who has been pushing back her cuticles with a wooden coffee stirrer this whole time rushes over to be the one to serve them.

Oooh, Rosalie murmurs. Our hunky eye candy in real life. What a treat! She glances up at the poster. Are those the same guys? They’re certainly big enough to be varsity.

I nod slowly, a bite of chocolate pie sitting in my mouth. I noticed him the moment he walked in behind Brock Huffman, who was also easy to identify. Brock is the Panthers’ quarterback, and because of this great honor, his photo is twice as big as the rest of them. He’s over six feet tall with dark hair, striking dark eyes, and a smirk that looks identical in real life to the one in his photo. But behind him, a little shorter, but wider in the shoulders, is Wesley Reyes. I watch him sit near the wall and grab a menu. The other two guys in his booth are talking animatedly, but Wesley focuses on the menu, his brow furrowing.

His features are more handsome in real life. I can’t tell from here, but I know from the poster that his eyes are golden like the honey in the bear-shaped jar next to the salt and pepper shakers. He’s not as big as the other guys, which probably makes him a quick sprinter in his position as running back.

I realize I’ve been staring for way too long and I jerk my head down, forcing myself to take another bite of pie.

Someone is blushing, Rosalie says quietly, her voice teasing. Is that Wesley? Looks like him.

It totally doesn’t matter, because we don’t know them and we won’t be talking to them, I say, giving her a look. Rosalie is so high spirited I wouldn’t put it past her to walk right over there and say, Here’s my friend Millie Price. She has a huge crush on you.

Rosalie chuckles, her shoulders relaxed. Do they go to the same school as you?

I shake my head. I’m in Starrville, and our football team is the worst.

With a population of 3,400, Starrville is mostly a retirement town, which is why my grandmother chose to live here. Our school is much smaller than Salt City, and although some of the guys are cute, they’re nothing compared to the ones sitting across the restaurant. Not that it matters. After winning State, the Panthers football team is basically Texas royalty. If Wesley doesn’t already have a girlfriend, I’ll eat my own scrubs.

Rosalie changes the conversation to talk about the herbs she’s trying to grow in her kitchen, and I let my gaze wander to their table far more than I should. The waitress brings sodas for everyone except Wesley, who ordered a coffee. I take a sip of my own and try not to see that as some sign from fate. Most people my age only like the fancy iced stuff, not a good old-fashioned cup of joe. Honestly, I used to prefer the iced coffee too, but I’ve recently become addicted to the brew at the hospital, where it’s the only drink that’s readily available and can stave off the chill from the overly air-conditioned hallways.

Something seems off with Wesley. Everyone else is loudly talking, shoving each other, or flirting with the waitress. Wesley seems isolated, despite sitting right next to them. His gaze lingers at the menu in his hands, but it looks as though he’s lost in his own thoughts instead of trying to choose something to eat. I look at Rosalie and nod eagerly to show that I’m paying attention, but really, my focus keeps drifting to the guy I’ve secretly crushed on for weeks, even though I’ve never seen him in real life until today.

A sugar packet smacks me right in the face.

What the hell? I pick it up and scowl, not because Rosalie just pelted me with sugar but because I was dumb enough not to notice.

Millie, you’re dripping drool all over the table, she says, pointing to an imaginary spot in front of me. I look down anyway, just to make sure she’s exaggerating. She is. You should go talk to him.

Not happening, I say. Not in a million years.

We were just talking about the boy and then he shows up, Rosalie says. Seems like fate to me. You should go say hello instead of sitting here dreamily staring holes into the side of his head.

She’s right—not about the talking to him but about my uncontrollable staring. God, what if one of his friends looked over here and saw me gawking? I need a cold shower. Or, at the very least, some water splashed in my face.

Let’s go, I say quickly, bolting out of my seat. I sling my purse over my shoulder and tuck my paperback under my arm. I have to pee first. I’ll meet you outside.

I take the long way around the diner to bypass the booths of football players and then slip into the bathroom. Standing in front of the single framed mirror, I stare at my reflection, and tell myself to let it go. I turn on the faucet and splash water on my face. The cold shocks my system, and after a few pats with the scratchy hand towels, I feel better. Maybe we should choose a different booth next time Rosalie decides we need emergency pie. We should stop obsessing over a poster of hot guys. Now that I’ve seen them in real life, it just seems creepy. On the poster, Wesley is handsome and imaginary, but in reality, he is a living, breathing person. A person I’ll never actually meet.

With my resolve set, I step out of the bathroom.

And run straight into Wesley.

The narrow hallway splits apart at the end, men’s restrooms to the left and women’s to the right. Wesley’s face is lit up from the glow of his phone, which he manages to hold onto after we collide. I think my body hit his shoulder, but it all happens so fast that I’m not really sure of anything. I stumble backward and smack my arm into a framed poster of Clint Eastwood.

Shit, I’m sorry, Wesley says. His voice is even better than I’d imagined. Like honey filtered over a slight southern accent. I’m surprised I can hear him at all over the pounding of my heart. You okay? He shoves his phone into his back pocket and then looks me over. My entire body burns from his gaze, even though he’s just checking me for injuries. It’s not like he’s staring at me the way his teammates stared at their waitress.

I’m good, I say. But there’s a pain radiating from my elbow, and I turn my arm up to look at it. The corner of the poster frame must have nicked me because a tiny puncture on my skin turns red.

You’re bleeding, Wesley says. Hold on.

I freeze in place, my arm held out in front of me. I’m pretty sure if Wesley had said, You’re bleeding, now start hopping on one foot and sing the National Anthem, I would have done it. I am losing all normal human cognitions in the moment because holy crap, Wesley Reyes is standing right in front of me. He knows I exist. He’s talking to me. He is not just the hot poster boy anymore.

He takes something out of his front pocket. It’s a zippered pouch, dark blue with a bear mascot on it, which is weird because he’s on the Panthers team. Opening it, he shuffles through some first aid supplies and then pulls out an alcohol pad, tearing it open with his teeth.

I try not to stare at his lips, but I don’t try very hard.

You carry a first aid kit with you? I ask. I almost can’t hear the quiver in my voice.

Not usually, he says, setting the kit on a nearby water fountain. My kids gave it to me earlier today. I coach a youth league football team.

Oh. That’s all my brain can come up with as his hand reaches out to me.

He takes my arm and cleans off the blood with the alcohol pad. The strong sterile smell fills my lungs and snaps me back to reality a little bit. My heart is still pounding, and I’m pretty sure my legs have morphed into jelly, but I am acutely aware of this boy’s presence in front of me. He focuses on my arm, cleaning off all the blood, and then he opens the bandage he’d also pulled from the little first aid kit. I hold my breath while he peels off the backing and presses the bandage to my skin, his calloused thumbs sliding to press it into place.

It’s possibly the most erotic thing I’ve ever experienced.

Good as new, he says, releasing my arm. Our eyes meet and he bites his lower lip. Well, almost new.

I glance at the bandage. There are little Ninja Turtles all over it. I want to say something flirty, poke fun at him for having kid bandages in his first aid kit. But when I open my mouth, all that comes out is, Thanks.

His lips tip up just a bit, making the smallest and quickest smile I’ve ever seen on anyone. Then he’s back to that stoic expression he had when I was watching him sitting with his friends. I want to ask him what’s wrong, why he looks so defeated when he’s got everything in the world going for him. I would even settle for telling him good luck on his final exams, or to have a nice weekend, or anything. Keep talking my brain shouts.

I hitch my purse up on my shoulder and then remember my book. Do you see a book around here? I ask, stepping back and surveying the floor. I must have dropped it.

Wesley drags air in between his teeth. Uh oh, he says, retrieving my book from a place in the corner. When I dropped it, half the pages got crumpled when it hit the floor. My first aid kit can’t fix this, he says as he tries to fold the pages back. I’ll buy you a new one.

No, it’s fine, I say, taking the book. Now it just has character.

Wesley’s eyes light up when he sees the cover. "Pride and Prejudice? I have to read that book."

For school? Yes! I found an excuse to keep talking. Seriously, is there anything Jane Austen can’t do?

Nah, he says as he tucks the first aid kit back into his pocket. My best friend is obsessed with it and she’s been telling me to read it for years. I lost our fantasy football game to her this year, so my punishment is that I have to read it. She’s been hounding me for months.

That’s hardly a punishment, I say, holding the book up as if the worn-out paperback is evidence of something awesome. I tap the cover. This is the best book in the world.

He grins and whatever was bothering him earlier has completely vanished from his eyes. I hope you’re right.

I stand a little straighter. When it comes to Jane Austen, I am always right. I give him my best flirty smile – who am I right now? – and head outside to meet Rosalie.

Chapter Two

Friday is filled with pop quizzes and tests, and I’m more than eager to finally get to my English class at the end of the day. English is my favorite subject because it doesn’t involve math (which I consider a literal evil) or memorizing dates about boring historical figures, or trusting a lab partner to mix chemicals in a way that won’t burn a hole through your lab notes. English is also the only class in my new school that doesn’t force some kind of stupid group work on us.

I don’t have to make friends in English class. I don’t even have to talk to anyone. Mrs. De la Cruz’s curriculum requires a lot of reading, which makes her class my favorite. Her classroom is decorated in warm colors, with posters of classic book covers lining the walls. She always has a cinnamon scent melting in her wax warmer and trendy coffee shop jazz music playing at a low volume in the background.

When the bell rings, Mrs. De la Cruz rolls a library cart full of books to the front of the classroom. Great news, she says over a few grumbles from the students who don’t care for book reports. You’ve finished all the required reading for the year.

Then why is there a stack of books in front of us? some guy calls out without raising his hand.

These are young adult books, all published within the last few years, Mrs. De la Cruz says, beaming as if she’s just thrown us a lifeline. Now that required reading is finished, you get to pick something fun and current. Your report will be two pages minimum, due at the end of next week.

I raise my hand. Do we have to choose from these books or can we pick anything?

Whatever you like, she says. Her eyes narrow a little. But no Jane Austen.

I start to protest and she shakes her head. Widen your horizons, Millie.

The girl sitting next to me leans over. Bummer, she whispers. I love Jane Austen.

Regan introduced herself to me on my first day back in January. She’s short and curvy, with long dark hair that’s usually pulled into a low ponytail. She is the only person in the school who still tries to be my friend, despite how much I go out of my way to ignore her. My polite but unfriendly personality has worked at keeping everyone at bay, everyone except for Regan.

I used to have a best friend. Janelle. But she taught me a lesson in Dallas. If you let yourself get close to someone, they will use all the things they know about you to their advantage. People my age don’t care about friendships. They care