Chapter 8 Nina #2
I hung up on him. Linc sat on the barstool next to me.
I couldn’t stand the way his eyes wouldn’t tear away from my face, so I stood to get breakfast ready.
He didn’t need a warm breakfast every day, I thought while pulling cereal from the top of the fridge.
After opening three different cabinets for a bowl, Lincoln caged me in and brought two down from a higher shelf.
“We don’t spend a lot of time here, do we?” His breath tickled the back of my neck, goosebumps rising on my skin.
I shook my head. Lincoln’s fingertips grazed my forearm. The gesture natural, no hesitation or tension. The feeling settled and my spine straightened. His kindness was temporary. It sprouted from his lack of memories. It’d end the moment he remembered.
Once I tapped his elbow, he made room for me to step away. When I looked back at him, bowl in hand, he was grabbing the counter, knuckles turning white.
“Nina,” Lincoln whispered. “Why aren’t there any pictures of us?” His voice was rough and tense.
I almost dropped the bowl. Us. As if that was ever real. Heat rose in my cheeks, and I forced my gaze to stay on the chipped rim of the bowl.
“I—” My throat closed. I didn’t want to lie to him, but the doctor’s words echoed in my mind. “Lincoln, you have that specialist appointment. Let’s talk it out if they think that’s okay.”
He hummed, unconvinced. His brow furrowed as though he was trying to fit me into a frame that didn’t exist. The silence stretched, pressing down on my lungs.
I pointed at the barstools for him to take a seat and offered his coffee mug to him. He struggled to hide the shock when the cold liquid touched his mouth.
“Babe,” he murmured, as if I was a cat about to run out the door at the first chance. “This coffee is cold.”
I nodded. “Exactly. That’s how you like it.”
His brow arched. “I drink iced coffee?”
“No, you like room temperature coffee. Not iced, not hot. Lukewarm, you could say.”
“So, I want my water hot and my coffee cold.” His eyes squinted, little creases forming at the edges.
I rolled my lips to keep the laughter in. “What can I say?” I added. “You know what you like!”
I moved away from him to finish eating, biting back a laugh. He stood and flailed, so I wrapped my arms around his waist just as his body sagged.
He straightened, and his touch lingered on my arm. “Sorry, I felt a little woozy there.” Lincoln’s smile was small and uneven.
“It’s okay,” I said after a second. “That’s why I’m here.”
His eyes softened. “Thank you,” he murmured. His voice wasn’t sharp this time, an edge of vulnerability. It was … human. “For being here. Even if it’s not what you want. I’m—” He exhaled. “I’m so confused all the time. I don’t know how I’d do this, not just alone, but without you.”
Something tugged low in my chest. Lincoln tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.
Knuckles grazed my cheek, but I had to force myself to keep my body relaxed.
His voice assaulted my memories, sharp and arrogant, twisting darkly around his smirk: “That’s a lovely new outfit, Reyes.
Splurged on that one, didn’t you?” Back then, I was the one pushing messy strands behind my ears, making sure he knew no matter what he did, I wouldn’t cower.
I shut my eyes, willing the dimly lit hallways of our old high school to fade away.
“It happened again,” Lincoln said. “You went somewhere and closed yourself off even more. Please, tell me. Trying to put the pieces together makes my head throb.”
He was still holding on to me, a tremor in his voice, cheeks flushed. Stress would aggravate injuries, trigger symptoms. I knew better than anybody. No matter the history between us, I wouldn’t make his health worse. I nodded, placing my hand just above his elbow, hair tickling my fingertips.
“We have a complicated history, I won’t hide that from you.”
“I know you’re worried, but I can take whatever you need to tell me. It’s just … nothing’s really coming to me either.”
I led him to the couch, keeping an arm around his waist. “The doctor said it could take some time. We’ll get more information tomorrow from the specialist.”
His face creased into a smirk, lighting up the room.
We. I grimaced. His dimples deepened without their usual arrogance.
Because my slip of the tongue had turned into a declaration.
Resting some of his weight on me, I helped him sit.
He dropped his head on the back of the couch, eyes closed, the curve of his lips lingering.
“You should sleep. Just let me bring your meds.”
“Let’s sit here for a minute. I just need to close my eyes.” His hand dropped to my knee. “Why don’t you put on some TV?”
I arched an eyebrow. His skin had turned a little pale.
I’d have to take him to Reality Bites tomorrow.
Lynnie had moved my shifts around, even offered to give me time off, but I couldn’t afford two days off in my underpaid job, or use up a favor from my boss this early on.
I felt a twinge of guilt that didn’t belong there. I didn’t even want to do this.
“You’re not supposed to watch TV,” I countered, trying to keep my breathing under control.
But numbers and bills swirled in my brain. Two weeks until I was out of my daily medication. I could put all my would-be rent money toward temporary insurance and have the peace of mind of being covered, should I need an emergency hospital trip. My asthma made that more than likely.
“You can work on your laptop and watch whatever,” he muttered, his jaw muscles strained. “Relax. I’ll just listen.”
They’d told me what to expect—light sensitivity, brain fog, all the other stuff that had been listed in the discharge papers. I knew this wouldn’t be easy. It was a head injury, not just some bruise, but still, my stomach twisted.
“Look at Nina, she bought it. Hook, line, and sinker.” Lincoln’s taunting voice assaulted me.
Maybe every stumble had been a trick. I bit the inside of my cheek.
Don’t, Nina. Next to me, he looked … peaceful.
Unguarded. Helpless. I bit my tongue to keep from asking if he was okay.
Instead, I stood up, cut one of his pain pills in half, then grabbed the remote and sat back next to him.
I placed the medication on his lips, then helped him tilt his head.
His eyes remained closed. “You brought me cold water,” he said, the whisper of a smile showing on his lips, and he placed his hand on my thigh.
“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to, sweetheart.
Whatever you need, though.” Then he squeezed right above my knee.
The pressure almost too gentle. “You do you, I’ll do me. ”
I had to look away from him, or the differences between now Lincoln and before Lincoln would heighten. And one of them was bound to disappear when he remembered.
The neurologist’s office smelled of stale coffee and pungent air freshener.
A nurse had already taken Lincoln’s vitals: blood pressure a bit elevated, pulse normal, pupils reactive.
As we sat in a too-bright exam room, Dr. Steinberg tapped a tablet with her red manicured nails and asked Lincoln to list the months of the year backward.
Dr. Steinberg nodded. “We’re around seventy-two hours post injury. Any nausea, vision changes, ringing in the ears?”
Lincoln shrugged. “No ringing. I feel dizzy sometimes, but it goes away quickly.”
She jotted that down. “And your full name?”
“Lincoln Maxwell Carter.”
I slouched in a chair next to Lincoln, who, even when focusing on the questions, kept stealing glances my way. Especially after I refused to hold his hand.
“Any memory returning?”
He didn’t answer right away. “No … not really. Sometimes, I recognize a name or get this deja-vu feeling, but nothing makes sense yet.”
Dr. Steinberg tapped her pen against her tablet.
“You may continue having gaps or partial returns for a few more days—maybe even weeks. Patients describe sensing something that’s just out of reach or at the tip of your tongue.
We’ll keep monitoring your short-term recall and executive function.
” She sighed. “Is there a reason why you decided to leave the hospital so early?” Her expression was professional, yet not unkind.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“With such a pervasive gap, it’s advisable to stay for a short period of observation.”
I rolled my lips, then hissed, “The doctors insisted on a quick discharge.”
She arched her brow. “Do you remember the name of the doctors?” She looked at me.
Lincoln provided their names. She hummed, made a note, then added, “For his recovery, I recommend light cognitive tasks, minimal screen time, and at least two more weeks before returning to work. I’ll send paperwork to the employer on file to supplement with the ER provided. ”
“I can’t work?” he asked.
“Not yet.” She smiled.
“What about emails and looking at files?” he asked, a bit too eager.
“You’re still easily fatigued, as evidenced by your bouts of dizziness, and your prefrontal processing is impaired.
You need your ability to focus and decision-making intact to fully operate, but reviewing emails and such, for no more than an hour a day should be okay.
Exercise caution if you start experiencing symptoms.”
“I’ll be fine,” he muttered.
“You’re missing a decade worth of memories. This is serious,” I said before I could stop myself. Dr. Steinberg raised an eyebrow. Lincoln’s head turned. “Besides, why are you interested in looking at your emails?”
Lincoln didn’t say anything, his eyes shining in a way that made my heart beat faster. I lowered my gaze. He squeezed my knee with his left hand.
The doctor examined Lincoln’s physical responses. “Physically, you’re doing well, Lincoln. For now, I am not concerned about the memories. Let’s see you again in a week, unless—”
“Doctor ….” He fidgeted, pulling at his collar. His hand moved from my knee, and he intertwined our fingers. I fisted my other hand underneath my tote bag so Lincoln wouldn’t see. “Whatever I’m feeling …. Can I trust it? Are my feelings real?” His gaze flicked to me before returning to the doctor.
The doctor focused on Lincoln’s light-blue eyes, her own soft with empathy. “That’s a valid question, Lincoln.” She smiled. “You’re feeling disconnected from your past. Your brain is working to rebuild connections, and that can make feelings feel … borrowed. But as things stabilize—”
“No, Doctor.” He shook his head. “You misunderstand. My feelings are clear as day.” He inhaled deeply.
“It’s the world around me that doesn’t make sense, and I want …
” He paused, his thumb worrying the nails of his middle and index finger over my knuckles.
“I need these feelings to stay.” He inhaled deeply, shakily.
“I have a sense that … I might lose more than I’ll gain when I remember. ” His unfocused stare was on me.
Dr. Steinberg stretched her hands, palms down, on her desk. “Memory loss doesn’t erase who you are. Your feelings are yours. Trust yourself, often patients find memory loss freeing: the pain leaves; their self-perception becomes clearer.”
The words hit me heavily. She addressed them to Lincoln, but she meant them for me.
If only his memory loss could erase the sharp edges he’d carved into me with every careless word.
His pain had vanished while mine stayed rooted, blooming poisonous in the cracks of me, as if the universe had chosen him for mercy and me for remembrance.
“So be patient with yourself,” the doctor added, then turned to me. “You should as well.”
I nodded, not promising anything.