Chapter 14 Miles
The first thing I remembered was her laugh.
Not the accident. Not the impact. Not the sirens or the surgery or the two days I'd apparently lost to medically induced unconsciousness. Just Charlotte's laugh, bright and teasing, echoing through the fog like a beacon calling me home.
"Mr. Cameron? Can you hear me?"
I forced my eyes open. White ceiling. Fluorescent lights. A face I didn't recognize was hovering above me, male, middle-aged, wearing the carefully neutral expression of someone trained to deliver bad news.
"There he is." The doctor smiled slightly. "Welcome back. I'm Dr. Okonkwo. How are you feeling?"
"Like I got hit by a truck," I managed, my voice coming out like gravel scraped over sandpaper.
"Close. It was a sedan, actually." He pulled up a stool beside the bed. "Do you know where you are?"
I looked around. Monitors beeping. IV lines snaking from my left arm. My right arm was encased in a cast so heavy it felt like it belonged to someone else. "Hospital."
"Riverside General. Good." He made a note on his tablet. "Can you tell me your full name?"
"Miles Cameron."
"And the year?"
The fog swirled. Through it, fragments surfaced: golden morning light, cold air burning my lungs, the sound of her voice calling me. "2024?"
"Close enough." Dr. Okonkwo leaned forward. "What's the last thing you remember?"
I closed my eyes, reaching for the memory.
It came in pieces. Running. The river path.
Charlotte was behind me, her ponytail swinging, her cheeks flushed pink from the cold.
Turning back to tease her about her pace and seeing her face, radiant, alive, laughing at something I'd said.
Thinking, with a clarity that cut through everything else: I want to wake up to that face every morning for the rest of my life.
"Running," I said. "With Charlotte. She was smiling."
"That's good, you're retrieving recent sensory memory, which is encouraging.
The impact itself is usually lost with this kind of trauma, and we'll need to do more thorough cognitive testing once you've rested.
For now, the fact that you're oriented and recalling details from this morning is a positive sign.”
He set down his tablet. "You were in a serious accident, Miles.
A car ran a stop sign while you were crossing the path, and the driver was on her phone.
You sustained a subdural hematoma, bleeding on the brain, as well as internal bleeding from your spleen and a complex fracture of your right humerus. "
The words washed over me, clinical and distant. I heard them, knew what they meant, but they didn't feel real. What felt real was the ache that had nothing to do with physical injury, the desperate need to see her, to confirm that the memory of her smile wasn't just a fever dream.
"Charlotte," I interrupted. "Is she—"
"She's been here the entire time." Something softened in the doctor's expression. "Hasn't left the hospital in two days. She's been asking to see you every hour on the hour." He paused. "I should warn you, she's convinced this is somehow her fault. She's been... struggling."
The words hit harder than any of the medical information. Charlotte, blaming herself. Charlotte, she was suffering because of me. This was exactly what I'd been afraid of. Exactly why I'd tried to push her away.
"Can I see her?"
"That's what I came to ask." Dr. Okonkwo stood. "Are you up for a visitor?"
The smart answer was no. The self-protective answer was no. Every wall I'd ever built screamed at me to say no, to spare her the sight of me like this, broken, weak, tethered to machines like a science experiment gone wrong.
"Yes," I said instead. "Please. Now."
He nodded and left. The minutes that followed were torture. I became acutely aware of how I must look, pale, bruised, half my head probably bandaged, tubes everywhere. The opposite of the man who'd made her laugh. The opposite of anyone worth staying for.
Then the door opened.
And there she was.
She stood in the doorway like she was afraid to cross the threshold, like she thought she might break something just by being here. Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, dark circles shadowing her beautiful eyes.
She wore jeans and a sweater I recognized, the soft blue one she'd been wearing the day she showed up at my door with a casserole and changed everything.
God, she was beautiful. Even exhausted. Even terrified. Even looking at me like I might shatter if she breathed too hard.
"Hi," I said, because apparently my brain had decided to abandon all eloquence.
"Hi." Her voice broke after saying one single syllable.
She moved toward the bed slowly, her eyes staring at every tube, every wire, every visible injury. When she reached my side, her hand hovered over mine like she was afraid to touch me.
But my brain was catching up now, dragging itself through fog toward a question that didn't make sense.
"Charlotte." My voice came out rough, confused. "How are you here?"
She blinked. "What do you mean?"
"I mean..." I tried to organize the static in my head. Something wasn't right. Something about time, about distance, about a phone call I could almost hear if I concentrated hard enough. "We haven't... how did we..."
"That's a long story," she said softly. "And you just woke up from brain surgery."
I frowned, reaching for the thought, but it slipped away like water through a cracked glass. A dull ache bloomed behind my eyes, and the fog thickened, rolling back in and swallowing whatever I'd been trying to piece together. I winced, pressing my head back against the pillow.
"Miles? Are you okay? Should I call the doctor?"
"No. No, I'm fine. Just..." I blinked, the sharp edge of the question already dissolving. The fog was warm, heavy, and it was easier to stop fighting it.
When my vision cleared, she was still there. Still hovering. Still looking at me like I might disappear. The question was gone. But she was here. That felt like enough.
"You can hold my hand," I said. "I won't break."
"You already broke." A sob escaped her, and then she was crying, not delicate tears but great, heaving sobs that shook her whole body. Her hand found mine and gripped it like a lifeline. "I'm so sorry. God, Miles, I'm so sorry."
"Charlotte—"
"I made you go running. I picked that route.
I should have been beside you, not behind you.
I should have seen the car…" The words tumbled out between gasps.
"The doctor said the trauma could accelerate your Parkinson's.
I've stolen time from you. The time we were supposed to have. I did this to you."
I watched her fall apart, and something broke out within me. Not pain or not just pain. Something deeper. The fierce, desperate need to make this stop. To take that guilt from her shoulders and throw it into the sea.
"Hey." I squeezed her hand, weak but insistent. "Look at me."
She did, her eyes red-rimmed and swimming in tears.
"This is not your fault."
"But I—"
"No." My voice came out stronger than I expected. "A person staring at their phone ran a stop sign. That's whose fault this is. Not yours. Never yours."
"You could have permanent damage. Your Parkinson's could be worse. Your memory—"
"Is currently full of you." I held her gaze. "The last thing I remember before waking up in this bed is your face in the morning sun, laughing at me for being slow. You know what I was thinking in that moment?"
She shook her head.
"I was thinking that I wanted to see that face every day for the rest of my life.
" My thumb traced across her knuckles, clumsy with the IV but determined.
"I was thinking about us last week, how you had batter in your hair, and you'd never looked more beautiful.
I was thinking about falling asleep on the couch with your head on my shoulder, and how I didn't want to move for three hours because I didn't want to wake you. "
Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks, but something in her expression shifted.
"I was thinking," I continued, my voice dropping, "about all the ways I wanted to kiss you when we got home.
About how your coffee tastes on your lips in the morning.
About the look you give me when our hands touch.
" I swallowed hard. "Those aren't the thoughts of a man who blames you for anything.
Those are the thoughts of a man who's ridiculously, embarrassingly in love with you. "
That word. Love. I hadn’t said it to her in a long time.
"Miles..." Her voice was barely a whisper.
"I know this isn't how I planned to tell you. I was thinking candlelight, maybe some wine, definitely fewer hospital tubes." I attempted a smile. "But apparently my timing has always been terrible."
She laughed, between sobs and wiping her tears, but a laugh nonetheless. "Your timing is the worst."
"I know. It's a character flaw." I tugged gently on her hand. "Come here."
She leaned closer, her face inches from mine. I could see every freckle, every tear track, every flicker of emotion in those green eyes I loved so much.
"I am not going to lie to you," I said quietly.
"I'm scared. I don't know what damage this accident caused.
I don't know if my Parkinson's is worse.
I don't know what the future looks like anymore.
" I reached up with my free hand, ignoring the pull of the IV, and brushed a tear from her cheek.
"But I know that when I was unconscious, when I was lost in the dark, gripping sand at the bottom of an ocean, I could still hear you.
Your voice. Your laugh. The memory of how it feels when you look at me. Your eyes."
"You are worth something." She whispered between sobs. "You're worth everything."
"Then stop apologizing for loving me." I held her gaze. "Because that's what you're really sorry for, isn't it? For caring enough to be here. For getting close enough to get hurt."
She was silent for a long moment. Then, very quietly: "I'm terrified of losing you."
"I know. I'm terrified of hurting you." I smiled, and it hurt, but I smiled anyway. "Seems like we're both terrible at this."
"The worst," she agreed, but she was smiling now, too.
"Charlotte." I waited until her eyes met mine again.
"I spent five years pushing people away because I was afraid of exactly this.
Afraid of being a burden. Afraid of dragging someone into my mess.
" I took a breath. "But lying in this bed, the only thing I can think about is how much I want to get out of it so I can hold you properly.
So I can kiss you without these tubes in the way.
So I can make you breakfast and probably burn it and have you laugh at me anyway. "
"You always burn the toast," she murmured.
"I do. It's consistent." I squeezed her hand. "Stay with me. Not because you feel guilty or obligated. Stay because you want to. Because this…" I gestured weakly at the space between us. "...is worth fighting for. Even when it's hard. Even when I'm a disaster in a hospital gown."
She was quiet for so long, I started to worry. Then she leaned down and pressed her lips to my forehead, soft, gentle, lingering. When she pulled back, her eyes were bright but steady.
"I'm not going anywhere," she said. "Not now. Not ever. You're stuck with me, Miles."
"That sounds like a threat."
"It's a promise." She smiled, and even through the exhaustion, it was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. "Now shut up and rest. Doctor's orders."
"You're not a doctor."
"I'm a nurse. Close enough." She settled into the chair beside my bed, her hand still wrapped around mine. "Sleep. I'll be here when you wake up."
I wanted to argue. I wanted to keep looking at her, keep talking to her, keep convincing myself this was real. But my eyelids were heavy, and the pain was seeping back in, and her hand in mine felt like an anchor holding me to everything good in the world.
"Charlotte?"
"Hmm?"
"I love you." The words came out slurred with exhaustion. "In case that wasn't clear."
Her laugh was soft, warm, exactly what I needed to hear. "I love you too."
I smiled and let my eyes close. The monitors beeped their steady rhythm. Her thumb traced circles on my palm. And for the first time since I'd woken up in this hospital, the fear felt smaller than the hope.
I was almost asleep when I heard her voice, low and wondering, like she was talking to herself.
"The doctor said something strange when I came in. He said your memories seemed intact, but..." She paused. "Miles, what year did you say it was?"
I was too tired to open my eyes. "2024. Why?"
The silence that followed was heavy. Something was wrong.
"Miles." Her voice was careful now. Too careful. "It's 2026."
It didn't make sense. Couldn't make sense. I forced my eyes open, found her face, and saw the fear dawning there.
"What?"
"You've lost two years." Her hand tightened on mine. "Miles, you've lost two years of memories. Are you sure..." She swallowed hard. "Are you sure you’re okay?"
The fog in my brain turned to ice.
"You do remember, right?" Her voice was barely a whisper. "The reunion. The coffee dates. The cooking. You spoke about us just now."
I stared at her. I knew I did love her, but slowly the memories faded, Why did I say it was 2024?
Nothing. I couldn’t find any memories.
Just a vast, terrifying blank where our story was supposed to be.
"Charlotte," I said, and my voice sounded very far away. "I don't... I don't remember falling in love with you."