I stare at him, and I shake my head. “No.” His face tightens and I let out my breath. “I think you were always more than that. You’re a songwriter. You’re an artist. And the tattooed guitar might have caught my eye for a moment, but it would be who you are, not the pretty face you wear, that kept my interest.”
He glances at me, and there’s something new in his gaze. Wild hope that makes my chest tighten in a way that is almost painful. “That might be the most you thing you’ve said since you woke up, Fish.”
That nickname again. I open my mouth to ask about it, but we’re pulling up to the hospital, and he pulls us to a stop, sliding out of the truck almost before it fully stops. I see the grin on his lips when he does.
Slippery fucker likes his games.
***
Dr. Nedleman is fidgeting across from me. It’s the first time we’ve met in the neurologist’ office, and I come in on crutches, leg in a big black boot. It feels lighter than my cast, freeing, and still ungainly. I’ve knocked it on the wall three times already.
Rike sets my purse down next to me, and his blue eyes dart from the doctor to me and back again. Finally settle on me. “I’m gonna give you some time with Nedleman. Do you want to meet in Lindsay’s room when you’re done?”
I nod and flash a grateful, if tired, smile. He leans in, brushing a kiss over my hair, and then he’s slipping out of the room. I focus on Dr. Nedleman and not the feel of Rike’s lips and scratch of his beard.
“Are you having any breakthroughs, Peyton?” she asks hopefully.
“No. I know most of my past, up until I was about twenty. A few years are kinda hit or miss—some stuff I remember, and some I don’t. And then it’s all gone. The past three years. I don’t remember. I know who my parents are and that I have siblings, but I’m not close to any of them. I know I’ve struggled with an eating disorder.”
She shifts in her chair. “Yes. How are you doing with that?”
I shrug. “I haven’t relapsed, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“But you’ve reconnected with Rike.”
I nod. “Not sure what that means. It would help if I knew who I was. And I’ve researched. Retrograde usually means that it’s temporary. Memory should’ve come back by now. So why am I still a blank slate?”
She hesitates. “I don’t know. It’s just as baffling to me as it is to you.” She spreads some documents across her desk. “I’ve studied your MRIs and the x-rays. There was no lasting damage done to your brain. No bruising or bleeds, no permanent loss.”
“Except the memory,” I say flatly.
She nods. “But what you need to remember is that the brain is a marvelous machine. And while yours is a bit faulty at the moment, there is nothing to say that this is permanent. The memories could be triggered by something as simple as smell or touch or a song. The more you’re out there in the world, with the people who care about you, experiencing things and living, the more you’ll remember. It might take years for it all to come back or it could come back tomorrow all at once. We can’t say.”
“And you can’t help, right? I’m just stuck with this.” She looks a little crestfallen, her smile wilting and her eyes dimming a little—almost like a puppy that’s been scolded—and I wave a hand. “Don’t look depressed, Doc. I’m not bitter. I’m just getting used to the new normal.”
She nods, and gives me an uncertain smile. “This isn’t forever, Peyton. And you are making progress. Being with Rike again—that will help.”
I push to my feet, finding an unsteady balance on my crutches. “Thank you, Doc. I appreciate everything you’ve done to help me. If I ever come across someone with memory loss, I’ll be sure to point her in your direction.”
She laughs, and I leave the little office. I get around the corner, and lean against the wall. Concentrate, for just a few minutes, on nothing but breathing.
There isn’t a magic cure. This is it. My new normal. I let out a shuddering breath and shove down all of the fear. Push off the wall, and crutch my way toward the room on the third floor where Lindsay is.
I don’t get to dwell on how terrifying my normal is. Not when hers is so much worse.
The room is covered in flowers, and a trim blonde woman who looks like she could be Lindsay’s older sister bustles by the door with another vase full of white roses, chattering a mile a minute. She sees me and her face goes as pale as the flowers she’s carrying.
“Jim,” she gasps, and a man lurches from the couch, snagging the flowers from her as she sweeps me into her arms, crying and laughing as she holds my head to her chest.
I don’t know who the hell this woman is. I don’t know why I matter to her. But I do know that being here, being held by her while she sobs and smiles at me like I’m the moon in the sky—it feels right. The same way Rike holding me feels right. But where I fight that feeling with him, with her I don’t. I relax, my entire body wilting into hers as my arm comes around her and I cling to her. To the right that she represents.
“Ma. Let the poor girl breath. She doesn’t remember me, and she’s probably wondering why the hell she’s being molested by a southern diva.”
The woman laughs and steps back, dabbing at her eyes. She fixes a bright, watery smile on me and says, “I’m—“
“Jillian,” I say and the whole room stills. I glance around and meet Rike’s eyes, shocked and almost hurt where he’s sitting in a chair near the window. Scott is leaning against it, and his hand lands on Rike’s shoulder, holding him there as I swing my eyes back to Jillian and then to Lindsay. “Not Jillian?” I say lamely.
“You remember me?”
It clicks with a suddenness that makes me sway on my crutches, and Rike is moving, catching me before Scott can stop him. “Everyone give her a minute to breathe,” he snaps, crouching in front of me. I’m perched on the edge of Lindsay’s bed and his hands are tight on my knees as he kneels there. “What do you remember, baby?”
I can’t look around. I can feel them watching me, the hopeful, hungry stares, and I don’t want to admit the truth. I send Lindsay a pleading look.
“Rike, get out,” Lindsay says abruptly. “Everyone. Out. I need a minute with my girl.”
“Linds, not now,” Rike growls.
“Yes, now. I let you play this your way and you fucked it all up. Now get out and let me talk to her.” Rike doesn’t move and she huffs. “Scotty.”
It pulls the other guy off the window ledge, and toward the man kneeling at my feet. “Come on, man. Let her have this. It can’t hurt, and you can get all your answers as soon as she’s done. Come on. Jim. Jilly. Let’s go.” With a little effort and some cursing from Rike, he herds them out of the room, and it’s just us.
She’s quiet for a long minute. We both are.
“It figures you’d remember Ma. You’ve always adored her.”
“I don’t,” I whisper. “I don’t even know how I knew her name was Jillian. She just feels right—the way I feel around you. And it slipped out.” I twist to look at her. “He’s going to expect me to remember everything now, isn’t he?”
“Yes,” she says. “But he’ll take what he gets. We all will. He wants you back, Pey. That’s all any of us want.”
I shift up on the bed, and land on her ankle. “Sorry,” I say, lurching off, and she shrugs. Her face stays blank, except for the flare of sadness that slips over her for just a moment.
“How bad is it?” I ask.
“Bad.”
“I’ve been a shitty friend, haven’t I? I’m so sorry, Lindsay.”
“Don’t. It’s my fault we’re even here. I can’t listen to you apologize on top of that. It is what it is—the hand we’ve got. We’ll play it out, just like we always have.”
I nod, and she tugs on my arm until I’m close enough that she can hug me, and I hold her. Neither of us mentions the tears that are spilled. Neither of us lets go, for a long time.