Authors: Nazarea Andrews
She
sits there in silence and watches me as I walk out of the deli.
Chapter 12
:
After
Love--to me--
Is challenges and partners
And stories that make my heart skip
It's
laughter
and plans,
And dreaming.
(
Rike’s
poems to Peyton)
I’m
worried about what I’m wearing.
Which,
all things considered, is the stupidest thing in the world to worry about. But
it’s ten and Rike will be here soon, and I want to look cute.
I’m
in a wheelchair, and can’t remember who the hell I am and I’m rocking a cast on
my leg and arm, and I’m more concerned about what an idiot boy who wants in my
pants will think than where I fucking come from.
“
It’s
official, Collins. You’re a fucking idiot,” I mutter,
brushing a lock out of my eyes.
I’ve
put on makeup and my hair, though a bit scraggly, looks cute in its choppy
piece around my face. For the first time in weeks, I feel vaguely human instead
of like some desert island inhabitant.
It
probably won’t last long. I grab my notebook and the phone, and shove them into
my purse, and a knock on the door has my heart jumping into my throat. I blink
and it comes again. This time it’s the kick I need to push myself forward and
swing the door open for Rike.
He’s
got two cups of coffee, and his grin is lazy as it tracks over me. “Why did the
chicken cross the basketball court?”
I
tilt my head, a smile rising, “Why?”
“He
heard the ref calling fowl.”
I
laugh, a surprised burst of noise, and he grins at me. “Good morning,
sweetheart,” he murmurs, and the nerves in my belly dip.
“You
ready?” I ask, and his smirk deepens as he nods.
“Take
these,” he says, handing me the coffees and scooting around me. I catch the
smell of him—crisp and soapy, with a hint of lead and smoke.
“Do
you smoke?” I blurt as he pushes me out of the room.
He
laughs softly, but doesn’t answer my question until we’re at the elevator and
he can look at me. “No. I used to. But now it’s mostly just the smell of it in
my clothes from gigs.”
I
frown. “Gigs?”
He
hesitates. “I’ll show you, in the truck.”
Curiosity
mingles with nerves, and I nod, ducking and sniffing the coffee. It smell
amazing and I make a tiny noise, almost a whimper.
“It’s
for you, Peyton. Although. Next time I hear that noise, I’d like to be balls
deep inside you.” I flush and Rike laughs. “God, that’s new.”
The
little admission overrides my embarrassment, and my gaze snaps to his. “Is it?”
His
gaze brightens, and he leans down as the door opens. Murmurs, “The first time I
made you come, it was against my fingers on stage at Barrie’s.”
I
bite my lip, trying very hard to stay still as that mental image works over me.
“I find that highly unlikely,” I say finally and he laughs at the unsteady note
in my voice. Bastard.
“Sweetheart,
you were always a dirty girl with an exhibitionist streak. It’s one of the
things I loved about you.”
I
flinch at that word. And he catches it. It seems like he catches everything.
Tommy
is at the check-in counter, and he grins when he sees Rike pushing me through.
“He
gonna
bring you home,
Pey
?”
I
nod, and he waves amicably as we exit the hotel. There’s a giant, hulking red
truck, all shiny lines and clean leather interior, and Rike pushes me up to it.
Eyes the truck and me. “I’m going to lift you in. Is that ok?”
When
I'm settled and he's got my wheelchair in the back, he climbs in and reclaims
his coffee. I'm quiet while he drives, watching him and taking in the truck.
It's
clean, almost obsessively so. There is a notebook in the back, with two drum
sticks and an open guitar case. I swivel to look at him, lifting my eyebrows.
He
grins. "We play. Scott more than me—his record label hooked him up with a
band, so he doesn't really
need
me
the way he used to. But I still practice with him and do the occasional gig,
especially for charity events. And I write all his songs, so I work closely
with the band. It's how we met."
"I
fell for a tattooed wannabe rock star?" I demand, disbelief thick in my
tone. He laughs, a burst of surprise. Grins at me, and I shake my head. “You do
realize that this is unlikely—I’m not that type of girl.”
“I
used to think that. It’s why it took me three months to talk to you. Because I
was pretty sure you weren’t the type to fall for a tattooed boy with a shit
past and a guitar. But you were always full of surprises. I think this one
surprised you as much as it did me. Because that’s exactly what you did. Fall
for a bad boy with ink and a song.”
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.”