Chapter 45
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Leon
“Are we all set?” Erika claps her hands together, looking around the hospital room, double-checking that we’ve packed all of my belongings.
It’s been a week since I woke up, and today I’m finally going home. With my bladder retrained, I can now piss on my own, but damn, it’s felt like one of the longest weeks of my life.
Although I’m going to miss waking up next to Erika’s smile every morning, because since I woke up, she’s been by my bedside, staring at me as if willing me to remember her.
That first night, I didn’t think she was going to come like she said she would after our first text conversation until, at seven o’clock in the morning, she crept into my room and wrapped her hand around mine as if she had always been there.
I didn’t let on that I was already awake.
I also didn’t respond when she whispered she was sorry it had taken her so long to show up and that she had to change out of her scrubs before coming to see me.
Then there was a moment of complete silence, as if the world didn’t exist outside the four walls that kept us apart from everyone else.
When she snuggled into me, she apologized for staying away and said she was here for me, for better or worse.
Vows we must have said when we got married.
Things that I have no memory of, and that aggravates me more than I’m comfortable with.
It disturbs me how powerless I am against the thick cobwebs that stifle my mind, their sticky Velcro-like grip, clingy and adhesive, that I can’t untangle myself from.
It couldn’t get any worse. A whole week has passed, along with three therapy sessions where I talk through my thoughts and emotions connected to my memory gaps. Despite how gentle the therapy is, I still don’t remember anything about her before the accident in Bora Bora.
I lift the four photograph albums Erika made this week and run my hand over the words on the cover: ‘Our Story’.
Not only has Erika worked a sixty-hour week, but she’s also visited me every day like clockwork, made the photo albums of us, me, our friends, reliving stories from our past, retelling events, funny moments, the places we’ve visited, the treks we’ve gone on together, parties, people we’ve met, and every time she unpicks those stories, I can see them vividly, minus her.
No soft blur.
No faint echoes.
Nothing.
It’s strange to me that she’s physically here in person but no longer part of the story of my life mentally. And I hate it. I hate not knowing, the uncertainty, or the extent of my memory loss.
At times it’s overwhelming, and yesterday, I had, what I can only describe as a panic attack.
It was as if I had been hit by a supersonic tidal wave of shock at having a wife, then grief for all the great things I’ve been told we’ve done together, but can’t recall, combine that with the sadness and frustration I’m holding inside, and it’s all becoming too big to contain.
When the nurse saw me struggling to breathe, she talked me down off the ledge, then explained that it was normal to feel overstimulated. My brain is trying to take on too much information at once.
Dr. Gilbert also broke it down for me in simple terms, explaining that my brain is at war with itself.
While the main part of my neurotransmitters is sending and receiving signals at the right time and in the right pattern properly, the other small part of them is too weak, too slow, and out of sync, so my neurons are failing to fire.
Those neurons are the tricky little fuckers that are causing my memory issues, and every morning I wake up, I pray that the day will be better, and that a shimmer of the past will appear. But still, nada.
I’ve kept my feelings to myself because I see the pain in Erika’s eyes, lingering there like a bad smell; she’s hurting, frustrated with herself, as if offended by my cluelessness about who she is.
Although I can see precisely why the old Leon fell in love with her. She’s fucking perfect.
“C’mere.” I beckon Erika to come to me as I set the photo albums back down on the bed.
Looking nervous, she pushes her hands into the back pockets of her tight jeans, which make her look like a supermodel. With legs for fucking days, I keep pinching myself, asking myself how I got so lucky.
Erika and I haven’t kissed or hugged properly, only the ones I wake up to, and as soon as she senses me waking up, she disappears faster than I would like, as if she doesn’t want to shape my feelings or overstep. In fact, I love any and all affection she’s willing to give me.
I make the first move, offering her my hand.
Tentatively, she places hers in mine, and I pull her toward me. “Thank you,” I say, looking deep into her beautiful eyes.
“For?” She looks confused, brows dipping.
“For this week, the stories, the photo albums. I’m very grateful.”
“You’re very welcome.”
“You look tired.” I point out, noting the dark circles under her eyes.
“It’s been a long week,” she sighs, her shoulders relaxing like she’s been desperate to tell me that, the weight of the week and the stress now a shared burden.
“You still look beautiful.” She works so hard. Too hard.
Pink blotches fill the apples of her cheeks. “Thanks, and I think you’re really handsome.”
She thinks I’m handsome. I like that. A lot.
“Is this confession corner?” I ask.
“If you want it to be.” She swallows hard as if she’s waiting for me to say something radical and life-changing, but instead, I lead with something I have wanted to tell her for a few days.
“I really want to kiss you.”
Tilting her head to the side curiously, she asks, “You do?”
“I do.” I’ve imagined what her lips would feel like on mine more times than I think is healthy.
Reaching up, I tuck a lock of hair behind her ear and cup her face.
My heart pounds because I don’t know if kissing her might spark a recollection.
All I know is that I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want her.
That doesn’t make sense, considering I’ve only known her a week, but while my mind might not know her, my body seems to.
“Kiss me.” She breathes out her words almost inaudibly, staring at me longingly.
Millimeter by millimeter, I close the gap and press my lips to hers.
My mind spins with the sudden thrill of touching her.
I pull her in, threading my arm around her waist, and open my mouth slightly. When she responds, I deepen our kiss and touch my tongue to hers, just enough to taste her, enough that it has me wanting more.
There’s no rush, no desperation, but it’s a kiss that has my cock bouncing in my boxers, and it hits me that while she might have kissed me many times before, for me, this is the first time. A moment I will remember forever.
Eventually, we break away naturally, and when we do, I rest my forehead on hers, breathing her in, loving that my lips now taste of her lip gloss—strawberry, I think. “You taste nice,” I confess.
“I’ve missed this,” she says on a shaky breath. “I miss you.”
I bundle her in my arms, rubbing her back, holding her as close to my chest as I can get her. “I’m so fucking sorry. I didn’t want this for any of us, baby.”
She leans out of our embrace quickly, laying her hands on my shoulders to push me away, her eyes wide, then asks, “What did you just call me?”
“I don’t know.”
“You called me baby.”
“Did I?”
“You call me that all the time.” She blinks up at me, gifting me the biggest smile, as if I calculated the mathematical equation that could solve world peace. She’s happy.
“Maybe you’re starting to remember?” she suggests, sounding hopeful.
I wish I was but it doesn’t trigger anything in my mind. “Maybe.” I give her false hope.
“And maybe when we get you home, maybe being in your house will help, too,” she sounds giddy with excitement.
If only it were that simple.
“Your driver is here, sir.” Stash, my new bodyguard, who has sat outside my room since I got here, informs us it’s time to make a move. “I’ll take your belongings down, but I’ll wait for you outside the door.” He grabs my things and leaves us alone again.
“Are you ready?” Erika asks expectantly, looking ten times happier than she did before our kiss.
She thinks I’m remembering.
For her sake, I really hope I am.