Page 65 of After We Fall

I swallow and jut my chin out. “I wasn’t aware of your schedule, Luke. I’ll make alternative arrangements for Bianca’s drum lessons.”

Luke snaps his head up, his eyes searing into mine with confusion and possibly a bit of pain.

“What’s this?” Meredith asks.

“Bianca expressed an interest in the drums. Luke was generous enough to purchase a used set for her and give her some instruction.” I clasp my hands together, albeit with a light grip to avoid upsetting the hep lock.

“Penelope . . .” Meredith draws my name out slowly, her gaze darting from Luke to me. “I have a connection who could help us find an instructor. I’ll see what I can work out.”

Luke annihilates the gum in his mouth. “I guess that’s it for me,” he murmurs. He shakes Harlan’s hand, then leans in to kiss Meredith on the cheek. With one scan of my body from head to toe, he slaps the footboard of my bed, his palm stopping flat on the thick plastic. “Feel better, Penelope.” As he moves toward the door, he drags his hand across the edge of the bed with one final brushstroke.

The beauty’s in the wild.

Luke said those words to me in the chapel a little over a week ago.

And as I smooth out a rough spot on my blanket, I try desperately to ignore the piece of beauty walking out of my room.

17

The daughter of a lion is still a lion.

That’s what my mother told me.

I wonder what she would think of me now, curled on my bed at the ranch, closed curtains holding back the late afternoon light, while I sport stitches, a sling, and a feeling of foreboding.

She and I were polar opposites. My mother, the artsy woman in broom skirts who sashayed through life looking for rainbows, gave birth to a steely daughter obsessed with responsibility and details. We fit together to create an intricate picture. She wasn’t irresponsible—she just valued beauty more than concrete answers and planning. I wasn’t uptight with her—I just valued the tangible more than the imagination. Puzzle pieces that needed each other.

I once asked her how I could come from a creative mother and a performing father. My existence never quite made sense to me.

“The daughter of a lion is still a lion,” she said. “That’s true of you and me.”

Somehow, my free-flowing mother, who belonged in a field of flowers with a daisy tucked behind her ear, raised me to be proud of who I am. Her strength looked different than mine, but she gave it to me all the same. It came in the form of a single parent who lived paycheck to paycheck, used the bus system, and took her daughter to free community theater. It came in the form of a woman who worked overtime to purchase a used clarinet so her daughter could play in the school band.

My mother also understood that her logical, brainiac, organized daughter needed to balance her fierce left brain with a capacity for ambiguity, creativity, and grace.

Yes, her strength looked different from mine. But it was strength all the same.

The daughter of a lion is still a lion.

I sigh, brushing my hair back from the wound at my forehead. I’ll need that strength for this recovery.

Scanning the room, I smile, thinking of the other things she gave me.

Filling my bedroom are vivid colors, flowers, and sunshine. Flowy chiffon curtains dust the windows. Tie-dyed hues adorn a throw rug. Pillows with varying concentric shapes perch on top of a bright pink bedspread with retro daisies.

In the midst of my math team craze, science fair wins, and academic honor rolls, my mother’s hippie decorating style rubbed off on me. I can’t explain how my decorating choices coexist with my power heels and pencil skirts. I only know that after a stressful day, I crave this cocoon of color, comfort, and hope.

Which is why I am now curled in the fetal position, grasping for the safety of my world.

It’s also why, when a knock sounds at my door, I jump.

No one’s allowed in my room.

When I lived in apartments of my own, the living room, kitchen, and dining room reflected the latest fads from HGTV. But a closed door to my bedroom kept my psychedelic secret.

“Penelope.” A deep voice pushes through the door with three more knocks.

Luke? Until this moment, I’ve been licking my emotional wounds from his visit to the hospital two days ago. But just hearing him say my name causes relief to wrap around my heart and squeeze.