Page 1 of Only You
Chapter One
Washington, D.C.
July 2013
The only accurate way to describe Danielle Richardson would be to call her a dreamer.
For as long as she could remember that’s how she visualised people, places and the impossible things to know at her age. Her eyes were often glued to the TV, wondering what would happen next to the characters because there was never an end, even though her parents tried to convince her otherwise. Dani was sure there was always a ‘next’.
Everyone thought she had learned to think like that from music, the endless possibilities of it. It was the go-to explanation when people asked her about her cello skills or her interest in composition. It was the easiest one, the most reassuring.
The real lesson came from her dreams, the ones she had grown up with for years, always starring her as the same set of characters. It didn’t matter that she didn’t look the same or live in the same place. It also didn’t matter that sometimes – more often than not as she got older – the dreams felt real. She couldn’t relate to people that said they could only remember a few things about their dreams or that the details were often illogical. For her, dreams were other lives and truths and heartaches she was glad to never have experienced herself.
But she always remembered them, even when she wished for nothing more than to forget.
Dani laid on the chaise in a typical university office – the brown furniture, shelves lining the walls, the dull carpets, a certain staleness in the air that mixed with the smell of books – tossing her favourite stress ball and catching it deftly as her counsellor, courtesy of Howard University, took notes. The woman had sand-coloured skin and curly brown hair that Dani would have been envious of before she found out how well box braids suited her. She wore rings on every finger and gold jewellery that contrasted against her perpetual dark clothing. Dani’s favourite feature about her was her poker face, a mildly unamused expression that rarely changed except for the occasional glance over her square frame glasses giving Dani a clue that she was being annoying.
She waited for Dr Castillo to diagnose her latest dream. It was a repeat of one of the earliest she could remember. She was sailing from the Ivory Coast, practising sword fighting on the deck of a ship to pass the time until she arrived in Paris. It was a tamer dream than usual, so Dani appreciated it.
‘And why do you think this particular dream is recurring?’
Dani shrugged. ‘Because that’s what it does,’ she said. ‘It’s a dream.’ She tossed the ball again, catching it effortlessly.
‘Dani,’ Dr Castillo warned. She hummed in reply. ‘I can’t help but feel as though you’re not taking this seriously.’
‘It seems stupid to get worked up over something that only happens in my sleep.’
‘So, you don’t find it strange that you’ve dreamed of yourself in different bodies for years? Like you are disconnected from your own?’
‘There are stranger things in the world.’
‘Even the endings?’ Dani’s hand faltered, a sudden ache forming in her chest, and she barely caught the ball as it fell. Dr Castillo leaned forward, persistent. ‘How does that make you feel?’
Dani drummed her fingers on the green ball.
‘Well, as you know, sleep and death are cousins. My family is very close.’ She almost snickered at the exasperated sigh her therapist released.
‘Dani, you’re stalling. You’ve been in sessions off and on for years for this very reason,’ Dr Castillo pointed out, hints of her Bronx accent slipping in. A telltale sign that she was getting frustrated. ‘I think it’s time for you to be more proactive in your therapy journey. Whatever you’ve been avoiding – whether trauma or an actual mental condition – won’t stop here. It will follow you. The only way to resolve it is to face it. Do you realise that?’
Dani threw the ball again, noticing the time on her watch, and snatched it out of the air. ‘I’ll get back to you on that next month,’ she said, rolling to her feet and rushing out.
‘Dani—’
She rushed out of the room and didn’t look back, only taking a deep breath when she was outside the building. It was always so stuffy in there. She heard her phone chime, and she looked down to see a text from her dad.
Just checking in.
The usual, she texted back before tucking her phone away.
Her phone buzzed again seconds later. Her dad had sent a heart emoji. She sent one back, looking at the time. Her class started in fifteen minutes. Gripping the strap of her bag, she headed over to a building nearby, ready to put all thoughts of therapy aside.
Ten minutes later, she was in one of the classrooms in Lulu Vere Childers Hall with a notebook and pen resting on her desk. More students filed in, but she paid no attention to them as she went over her latest composition, jotting down some questions she wanted to ask her professor after class. She looked up briefly when a guy with brown skin and a low-cut fade with the barest hint of waves carrying a guitar case took a seat at the front of the class. His chocolate brown eyes were thoughtful and focused as he tuned his acoustic guitar.
He’s cute, she thought before turning her attention back to her notebook. She didn’t wonder why he was here; her professor often had guests visit their class.
Just as she thought of him, Dr Allen came in with his usual easy-going gait contrasting the distinguished, salt-and-pepper goatee hinting at his age where his unwrinkled and unblemished brown skin didn’t, and sharp hazel eyes that made him seem more intimidating than he was.
‘Good morning, musicians,’ he greeted in his naturally bellowing voice. ‘Hope you had a great Halloween and didn’t terrorise anyone.’
