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Opening her eyes, Lyla Garrity stared up at her ceiling in the darkness. She didn't bother to turn her head; she knew the glowing green numbers on her alarm clock would be at exactly half an hour before it was set to go off. She'd always been like this, waking suddenly in the early hours of the morning. When she was in middle school, she'd put a lot of effort into trying to go back to sleep, but now she had embraced the habit. The peace and quiet gave her the chance to go over the plan for the day in her head, make sure she hadn't missed anything.

Or it used to.

After Jason's accident, these peaceful hours had become torture—seeing him fall on the field in her mind's eye, over and over again, seeing him in that hospital room, so damaged and trying so hard to fight it. She'd lain here weeping for him, for her, for their life together, too many mornings, trying to cry all the tears for the day so all she had to show everyone, to show Jason, were her smiles and her bright hope. But surrendering herself to her grief and her fear had taken a toll on her, too, and eventually she had told herself firmly that this indulgence had to stop.

This morning, in the dim grey light before dawn, she fixed her eyes on the ceiling and imagined what this day would have been like if Jason had never tackled the player in that game.

She would have gotten up and dressed in her cheerleading uniform, which lay over the back of her chair, carefully laid out so it wouldn't wrinkle. She'd have snuck out the front door and met Jason, waiting in his truck outside, far enough down the block so her parents wouldn't see him. Lyla pictured his green eyes and his smile, lighting him up from the inside out. He'd have a big stack of offer letters on her seat, and while he drove to school, she would sort through them, making faces at some, giggling in glee at others. They would talk over the merits of each potential offer, always going back to Notre Dame as first choice. Lyla would wonder what it was like in Indiana this time of year, and Jason would talk about the snow and the changing colors of the leaves and the pumpkins.

In school, they would part for their day, coming together again in the cafeteria for lunch. Lyla would walk tall, knowing that every girl in school wanted to be her, knowing that none of them had any idea what a joy it was to be Lyla Garrity, in love with Jason Street.

She blinked back tears. The light was coming through her window more brightly now, and it was harder to hold that shadowy fantasy in her mind. She was still Lyla Garrity, in love with Jason Street, she reminded herself, and what made him special was still there and more important than ever—his heart, his spirit, his enthusiasm. He had faced the realities of his present. Possibly a little too thoroughly. Lyla was still convinced that with enough effort, maybe some surgery, he would walk again. She wanted him to be convinced, too. Jason had never failed to win whatever he set his heart on. He had won her, hadn't he?

Instead of a what-if, she imagined them instead ten years in the future. Married, with Jason having made a full recovery and gotten into Notre Dame after all, just a year later than they had anticipated, and well into an NFL career. The man who had made a miraculous recovery, leading the Cowboys on a sure run to the Super Bowl, the announcers would say. And Lyla would watch the games with their daughter in her arms, a little girl with round cheeks and a bouncy dark ponytail and green eyes, and with their son in her belly, perfectly timed to be born just after the Super Bowl.

Yes, she told herself firmly. That was possible. If she believed hard enough, if Jason believed hard enough, that future was still possible. Never mind what the doctors said, never mind that Jason occasionally lost heart, never mind that Panthers football was moving on without him week after week when this should have been his year, their year.

The alarm beeped softly next to her, and she reached out a hand to turn it off. If she was a little slower to get out of bed than she had been, if the cheerleading uniform was put on with less care, if she spent fewer minutes looking in the mirror to make sure she had everything just right—since the person who mattered wouldn't be there to see her anyway—Lyla wasn't about to acknowledge it. Meeting her own eyes in the mirror, she whispered, "Everything is going to be fine. You'll see."

She was still Lyla Garrity; he was still Jason Street. Nothing could change that.