Chapter 15
When I wake up, there’s a warm body wrapped around me.
One heavy arm is holding my hip in place and one leg cages me to the mattress.
A soft, regular breath tickles my neck, and I’m comfortable.
Cosy. The soft brace is much better to sleep in, or maybe it’s the feeling of Ash sleeping with me. Or the overwhelming feeling of home.
I don’t want to move. I don’t want to face the day, be reminded every second that I have a faulty brain and a broken body.
So I don’t.
I slow down, I take it easy. Pushing the questions away, I close my eyes and I snuggle into Ash’s embrace. Uncaring of the time, of the weather, and of the day.
Ash is where I belong, no matter my relationship with him. No matter the year.
When I stir and turn onto my back much later, something is off.
I’m alone in bed, and knowing Ash got up and left me here alone stings.
I flex the fingers of my right hand, bending the wrist back and forth expecting a different kind of pain to hit me, any pain other than the one in my chest. I guess I have to agree with Doctor Parker: I’m doing great, just my brain is crap.
When I finally leave the soft bed the house is silent. I don’t waste time exploring further. My first and only mission is finding Ash.
With bare feet and boxer shorts, I walk through the hallway and downstairs, sleepy eyes scanning the space.
When I reach the kitchen the smell of coffee hits my nostrils and I have to pause operation Ash.
Without thinking, I open a cabinet where a collection of mugs of various colours and shapes stares back at me.
I pick the only black one and start the espresso machine.
And maybe it’s a mixture of somnolence and old habits that lead me and my mug of coffee through the doors leading to the patio.
I’m about to slide it open when I catch Ash on his way back inside.
“Good morning!” Ash greets me with a smile.
“You smoked?” I ask, and I’m not sure why exactly.
Guilt paints Ash’s features and his eyes lower. Clearing his throat, he blinks. “Yeah, sorry. It’s been hard.” And then, Ash looks up. “You remembered?”
I study the planes of his face, dread and hope warming his cheeks. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be remembering, so I shake my head.
Ash opens his mouth and then closes it again. He spots the black mug I’m holding and he takes a step back, letting me out on the patio with him. “Sit with me?” Ash holds a chair out for me.
It’s a simple offer, and I’m curious how many times we have sat at this very table together, sipping our drinks early in the morning or late at night.
It’s almost a relief to see that England has decided to welcome me home with overcast skies and a drizzle.
Ash and I sit in silence, staring at the red bricks of the house behind ours.
After weeks of sun whilst I was trapped in the hospital, I’m thankful for the familiar weather.
“How did you know which cabinet?” Ash is tapping his fingers on the table, avoiding my gaze but I know he’s referring to the black mug I’m holding. I take a sip of coffee and savour the way it shoots adrenaline and anxiety straight to my veins.
“I didn’t.” I pause. “I don’t.”
Popping his tongue, Ash argues, “But you do.”
“Mmh.” I guess?
“And you also knew I’m not supposed to be smoking,” Ash adds.
“Why did you stop?” I ask, and when Ashley doesn’t reply, I look up.
Blue eyes are looking at me patiently, offering understanding and all the time I need to catch up with myself.
I’d do anything for you, he’d told me at the hospital. I know it’s the truth.
“The kid?” I guess and it’s a safe one.
Ash hums. “And you.”
“Me?”
“You’re very opinionated when it comes to kissing, Ford.”
I don’t mean to blush but it happens anyway. I hide it behind the black mug, pretending to care about the dark liquid.
“I am?”
Ash chuckles, crossing his legs and looking in the distance. Maybe he’s searching for the person that I was before the accident.
“‘Less cigarettes, less coffee.’ You said. You were withholding sex. It was a tragedy.”
I believe him. No matter how sexy having a cigarette glued to his lips made Ash, I’ve always openly disapproved of his nasty habit.
And yet. Something else gets my attention.
The thought of Ash and I having sex is like caffeine.
Cortisol shoots through my veins, and my heart quickens, my temperature rises.
Shifting on the chair, I lean forward to place the mug on the table. My hands are shaking.
“That’s your coffee mug,” Ash mentions as calmly as possible. “You only use it for coffee.”
I gaze at Ashley but his blue eyes are closed now and the light breeze is blowing his hair everywhere. Instinctively I check my wrist for a hair elastic but instead I only find the soft brace, reminding me that I have no idea what I would have done had I even found an elastic there.
“Do I drink coffee often?” I ask, wanting to know just how precisely Ash has me memorised.
“Ever since I got us the espresso machine. I couldn’t bear the granulated coffee anymore,” Ash explains.
I stare at him, wondering how much of Ash I have lost. How many insignificant details 2024 me knows about Ashley Bergman. Now I only have one question, though. I ask it before I lose courage. “Do you kiss me when I drink coffee?”
Ash’s eyes snap open and he focuses on me. “Ford. I’d kiss you if you had shit in your mouth.”
“Fucking hell. Ash.” I pretend to gag and make a move to stand but Ash grabs my arm, pulling me down.
“Sorry, you’re right, that was gross. Your one truth for my one truth?”
“Coffee is nasty. Are you sure I actually drink this shit?” I say.
Dropping back onto the chair, I listen to one of the few sounds I’m sure I will never forget: Ash’s laugh.
It makes his head tilt back and his eyes crinkle in a young and carefree expression.
I have seen this laugh before and I have known Ash long enough to recognise when he’s being fake, polite.
Something inside of me wants to roar with how real this laugh is.
Clutching at his chest with one hand, Ash sinks lower in the chair and his long legs stretch before him.
He’s wearing a wrinkled white t-shirt and a pair of green pants that somehow matches the green mug he is holding.
He’s not wearing shoes but is wearing a pair of grey socks. Ash is always wearing socks.
My fingers ache to reach for him and feel the muscle of his thigh, smooth the folds of his shirt and tuck the messy strands back behind his ears. We’re not even close, yet Ash is everywhere, all I can see and breathe.
I lean closer, needing to cut the space between us. Without looking at Ash, I breathe, “And now?”
“What now?”
“Would you kiss me, now?
“Ford.” It’s a whisper but a faint light sparkles in Ash’s eyes as he looks up to me.
He runs a hand through his hair in an attempt to tame it but it does nearly nothing.
It falls right back in place, all over his forehead and cheeks.
It makes me smile but my lower lip is shaking, and I briefly fear he won’t do it.
How wrong I am. Straightening his back, Ash stands up and moves to kneel before me. We’re not eye to eye and it’s weird having to look down to see him. It’s usually the other way around.
Slowly, Ash cups my face in his hands and angles his chin up. Then it all happens too quickly. Our noses are brushing and Ash’s impossibly close, and finally there’s no distance left between us. His mouth tastes like coffee and like cigarettes but I quickly find that I don’t care.
All that matters is Ash: the smell of his skin, the firm fingers on my jaw, my neck.
The tongue he pushes inside my mouth possessively.
My left arm is heavy when I force it up on Ash’s shoulders, and I sigh in relief the moment my hand can grab a hold of his long hair.
I gather as much as I can without actually pulling and Ash pants against my lips.
I hug my right arm to my chest, hating the distance that the sling forces between Ash and me.
I need another good arm to keep him close, to make sure he stays here, knelt before me to touch and care for and kiss.
And kiss once more. I wish it’d never end. I wish I’d never forgotten.
It’s the only kiss we share that day.
After we make our way back into the kitchen I feel sweaty and feverish.
When I admit that I cannot make it back upstairs, Ash offers to bring a mattress downstairs so we can camp in the living-room.
I almost accept, before we both share a look and realise the bathroom is upstairs: stairs can’t be avoided.
Ash jokes I can go in the garden if I need to and I shove him away.
My indignation only draws him closer and the internal battle is written all over his face.
I hope he will give in, hug me and peck my lips again.
It would be much easier, waking up to a relationship that only requires one to say yes. Instead, Ash is letting me choose this. He steps back putting some distance between us, and his expression turns serious again, something I hardly find fitting on him.
“Why don’t you take a nap on the couch, then?” he suggests and I am happy to lay down and forget about forgetting for a while.
That’s how we spend our first full days at home, together. I walk around the house, trying to remember. When I don’t, Ash is there to catch me every time.
I give up sleeping in the guest room, claiming the left side of our bed.
My side. I ignore Ash’s grin when he settles on the right side, arms open and waiting for me to snuggle in.
There is nothing I want more but I still wait a full ten seconds before rolling over.
Every night, Ash’s arm settles carefully around my brace and his cold feet chase mine until I agree to share my warmth.