Two
TWO
RHETT
An angel stares down at me.
“Are you okay?” she asks. Her voice is soft and full of concern.
I open my mouth to respond, but my insides squeeze and my stomach contents rise up my throat. I turn away from the angel to hurl over the sand. The salty water rises up my throat again. I cough, trying to clear my throat as the water and bile threaten to spill out with each exhale. I’m barely able to ease the tension squeezing my lungs. My skull throbs as if it’s been slammed against a boulder, and my entire body aches.
I slowly turn back to face the angel. The sun is perfectly hidden behind her hair, masking her face in shadows. Vanilla and lavender swirl around me, the scent sweet, feminine, and comforting.
“Am I in heaven?” The words are out before I can think them through.
“You’re on Amber Island,” she answers. Her voice is familiar, but I can’t place it.
“Is that a suburb of heaven?”
“I don’t think heaven works that way.”
“And you know that how?” I don’t let her answer before adding, “It’s because you’re an angel, isn’t it?”
A cloud works its way across the sky and covers the sun, lifting the mask and revealing a beautiful woman who looks as confused as I feel.
Her eyes narrow. “I’m not an angel. Do you not know who you are?”
I shake my head, ignoring the trepidation filling my being. I should know who I am. What else don’t I know?
She stares down at me, almost as if she’s waiting for me to sort through my limited thoughts to answer the most basic question.
Nothing comes to me. Instead of dwelling on my growing fear, I focus on what I do know and ask the first question that comes to mind. “Are you a siren?”
She lifts an eyebrow. “No, I'm not. You must have hit your head. Give yourself some time.”
I nod. Closing my eyes, I try to sort through the muddied waters of my mind. But it’s empty. Blank. My nostrils flare as fear threatens to consume me.
After a few more moments, she asks, “Anything?”
“No.” My voice is thick with emotion but I can’t put my finger on which one. Fear? Anger? Frustration? Most likely, all of the above.
“Okay.” She nods. “That’s okay. Sometimes it takes days for memories to return.”
I hear what she doesn’t say: Sometimes the memories never come back.
The throbbing in my arm increases and distracts me from the fact that I have no memories. I look down and notice a slice in my bicep that burns. Blood both dry and fresh covers the skin surrounding it. My stomach rolls at the sight, but with nothing left in it, I dry heave. She gently rubs my back.
“Why can’t I remember anything?” I ask rhetorically. I don’t know who I am, where I am, or how I got here—let alone how I got this nasty cut. I sober as that realization hits me full force.
The angel-siren must read the look on my face. “It’s going to be okay. I can get you the help you need. Tell me what hurts.”
I flip over onto my back and cautiously sit up. “Everything hurts but the worst part is that I can’t think straight.”
Her expression morphs into one of concern. “Are you able to breathe okay?” she asks.
Taking a deep breath, I wince as my lungs scream at me as if that simple action overexerted them. “My insides feel tight when I breathe, but it’s not a struggle.”
“If you don't have trouble breathing that's a really good sign,” she says.
She drops down to her knees and urges me to lie back down. My head spins, so I close my eyes and breathe deeply, in through my nose and out my mouth.
Once the world stops spinning, things come into sharper focus. Specifically, the feel of two of her fingers pressing against my wrist. I open my eyes and ask, “What are you doing?” My voice comes out gravelly and I allow myself to enjoy the feel of her soft skin pressing against mine.
“Right now, I’m taking your pulse.” Her voice turns clinical, and I notice she’s glancing down at her watch. She nods as if she’s satisfied with what she sees after removing her hand from my wrist. She assesses me with a critical eye. When she looks at the gash on my bicep, she doesn’t even flinch at the blood. “You have a pretty nasty cut on your arm, and your torso is bruised and covered in lacerations.”
“Are you a doctor?”
“No,” she says. “But I have active CPR and first aid certifications.” I’m not sure if I should be surprised by this or not. Either way, I’m grateful she’s the one who found me.
She stops what she’s doing and looks directly into my eyes. Something like a memory trickles through the fog of this same woman sitting across from me at a table, her smile wide and her hand in mine.
The serious woman checking me over and the one in the memory—at least, it feels like a memory—do not match up. The girl in my memories is all warmth and sweet smiles; this woman is coming off as cold and callous. Yet I’m somehow almost positive they are the same person.
“Do I know you?” I ask.
The question appears to catch her off guard as her hands halt and her gaze snaps to mine. “The more important question is one I’ve already asked. Do you know who you are?”
I try to think of my name, occupation, anything, but come up empty. Unease and frustration simmer as I try to remember something as simple as my name. I finally say, “No.” Something about her is familiar. Even if I did seem to catch her off guard with my earlier question. There was something there in her eyes, a hint that she does know me. Either way, I’m hoping she can give me some insight into who I am so I ask, “Do you know who I am?”
“Not anymore.” She doesn’t give me a chance to respond before asking, “Do you remember how you got here?” She motions with both hands to our surroundings.
I sit back up, hoping the new position will help clear my head enough to answer what should be simple questions. I’m grateful when the world only sways and doesn’t spin. Once my equilibrium is mostly balanced, I search hard for the answer. The harder I think, the more I realize my mind is more blank than I thought. All short-term and long-term memories are non-existent. I grind my teeth in frustration.
“No.” My tone is gruff. She knows me, and I know her, but I can’t place her. “Do you know what my name is?”
She blows out a breath and stands. “Your name is Rhett Stryker.” That name sounds and feels right. Dusting the sand off her tanned legs, she says, “We better get you to the hospital.”
“Why?”
“Well, let’s see.” She places a hand on her hip and raises her brows. “You have a gash on your arm that probably needs stitches, your torso is black and blue, and you have no memories or knowledge of who you are.” She’s silent for a moment before she asks, “What’s the last thing you remember? If anything.”
It should be another easy question, but I draw another blank. My heart starts to pound frantically as the silence stretches.
“Being in the ocean?” I’m not confident in my answer, because I can’t actually remember, but it does make sense. She narrows her eyes. I try to come to some sort of understanding of my circumstances by piecing together what I can see. I’m in swim trunks, with no shirt or shoes, there’s a strap around my ankle with frayed edges as if it was separated from whatever it was attached to, and I’ve been washed up on shore. “I was surfing,” I say, and as the words come, it sounds right. But I can’t tell if my imagination is conjuring up the image of me paddling into deeper waters or if it truly happened.
“Okay, that’s a good start.” Her brows pucker as if in thought. “Do you think you can walk?”
“Maybe?”
“Let’s give it a go, but first, I’m going to give you a list to remember. Then we’re going to try and get you to walk to my car to get you to the hospital. If you can’t, I’ll need to call the paramedics. Sound good?”
The thought of being placed on a stretcher does not appeal to me, so I mentally prepare for whatever happens when I get to my feet and nod my agreement. “How about you tell me your name and that will be part of my list?” The corner of my lips lift.
A gentle smile breaks through her serious expression.
“That’s fair.” She taps her chin as if in thought. “Okay, here’s the list. My name is Dana. Your name is Rhett. This is Amber Island, and my favorite food is pineapple. Repeat it back to me.”
“Your name is Dana, my name is Rhett, this is Amber Island, and your favorite food is pineapple.”
“Perfect. I’ll ask you again in a bit.”
“Dana.” Her name is out of my mouth before I can stop it.
“Yes?” she asks.
“I just wanted to see if saying your name again sparked any memories.”
She tilts her head to the side, her brow scrunching adorably. “Why did you think that would spark a memory?”
“Because when I looked into your eyes just a few minutes ago, it felt like you’re someone who’s important to me. Is that a crazy thought?”
Her sharp intake of breath brings more questions to the surface.
“So we do have a history, don’t we, Little Siren?”
Her wide eyes immediately narrow into slits. “Little Siren?”
“You don’t like it?”
“It doesn’t fit. Sirens are deadly.”
“Well, my siren is life-ly.”
“And that’s not a word.”
“It is now.” I wink. I don’t know if this is how I usually act or if it’s something about this woman, but I can’t help myself. These little moments between us help me push down my pain and frustration.
“Okay, Webster, let’s get you to the hospital before you spout more nonsense you’ll regret.”
I’m confused again. “Webster? I thought you said my name was Rhett.”
She tries to hide her smile with her hand, and that minor action has the tension draining out of me. “You know, Webster’s dictionary?” She wrinkles her nose. “Or maybe you don’t remember. Either way, Webster’s dictionary is what most English-speaking people use to define words or check if a word is actually a word.”
I mutter, “Clever girl.”
A slight blush blooms on her cheeks before she drops down low enough that I can sling one arm over her shoulders. She stands, and I force down the numbness in my limbs. The tingling sensation in my legs becomes nearly unbearable, but I grit my teeth and propel myself up until I’m standing at my full height. My choices are to press past my limits or be taken in by the paramedics. Dana gives me a few moments to adjust, then we shuffle along, and I allow this little siren to take me to safety.
“How far is your car?” I ask.
“At my place. Not far from here. Besides, I want to take you there first anyway to?—”
“So, you’re already taking me home? You haven’t even bought me dinner.”
Any playfulness in her expression vanishes. “I have antiseptic and bandages to treat your arm back at my cottage. It’ll hold you over until we go to the ER.”
“What if I don’t want to go to the ER? What if I’d rather just stay with you?” I wince as the pain in my sides protests.
“See?” She lifts an eyebrow, and something tells me that when I knew this little angel-siren, I liked her sass. “You need the ER. I’m not giving you a choice. Less than ten minutes ago, I thought you were a corpse.”
Her cavalier tone surprises me and I trip.
“Sorry.” She grimaces. “That came out a lot more insensitive than I meant it to.”
“It’s fine.”
We walk in uncomfortable silence. Well, she walks, and I limp. Seagulls fly above us as the waves lap at the shoreline.
“This is me,” Dana says as we approach a light purple bungalow.
She leads me up to the covered porch, and I sit on the wicker loveseat. She grabs an afghan from her porch swing and tucks it around my shoulders. When she enters the house, I assume it’s to grab medical supplies. I take in my surroundings, hoping that maybe something will look familiar. A half-empty mug of coffee sits on a small table next to an open Bible.
She’s made highlights and notes in the margins. Something inside me tells me that the Bible is important to me just like it appears to be important to her.
Before I can think more about it, Dana comes back out with a first aid kit and a towel. She kneels in front of me and sets out her supplies. After arranging the blanket so she has access to the cut on my bicep, she meticulously cleans and bandages it.
“This looks deep. You’re going to need stitches.”
“Great.” I grimace.
"This is all treatable. You’ll get back to yourself in no time. Hopefully, your amnesia is only temporary.” She brushes my hair away from my forehead and looks me over. Her face is mere inches from mine, and I have to ball my hands into fists on my lap as the overwhelming urge to touch her takes over me. I don’t know what our history together looks like, but I can’t deny the pull I have toward her now.
I close my eyes and try to concentrate on something else.
“I lost my surfboard,” I say suddenly as that memory returns to me.
“But you still have your life. Why did you go out alone? You could have been eaten by a shark with all this blood.” She winces again. This time when she speaks, there’s no accusation in her tone just a new gentleness. “Sorry, I keep sounding a lot more insensitive than I mean to. Do you remember anything else?”
“No.” It’s still frustrating not having many memories, but remembering losing my surfboard gives me hope that things are looking up.
“The waves have been rough the last couple of days,” she says. “More than likely, they got the better of you and took you into some rocks.” She runs the tip of her finger over a tattoo on my uninjured bicep. “I don’t remember you having this.”
Her touch on my skin ignites something primal. Instead of focusing on that, I try to recall anything about how or why I got the tattoo. As expected, no memories surface. “I wish I could tell you something about it. But I’m drawing a blank.”
Clearly, she used to care about me. There’s a pull deep inside me that says she was—is—someone important to me. Yet she’s acting guarded around me. “What were we?”
Her eyes snap to mine. She clenches her jaw and that same frigid attitude from before seeps into her expression. “A fling.” She makes a face as if it hurt to say those two words.
Even without my memories, I know there is no way what she’s saying is true. Emotion clogs my throat.
I grab her hands. “Dana.” The moment our skin connects, warmth spreads up my arms and through my chest. She pulls away, her eyes widen, and I know she felt the same spark of electricity I did.
Her eyes widen before those soft pink lips pinch closed and she goes back to tending to my injuries.
Dana carefully places a large bandage over the nasty cut on my bicep. I don’t miss how her hands tremble or the slow breath she releases as if she’s trying to regain control of her emotions. She has the same effect on me that I appear to have on her.
“Tell me the list,” she says, her voice shifting from shaky to professional in the span of four words.
I try not to dwell too much on the slight flush on her cheeks or how incredible she smells. Instead, I focus on my answer. My memories prior to twenty minutes ago may be gone, but thankfully, my brain has been sharp since laying eyes on this little siren.
“Your name is Dana, my name is Rhett, we are on Amber Island, and your favorite food is pineapple.”
“Good, your short-term memory seems to be working fine so far.” After tending to the rest of my injuries, she says, “Okay, that will do for now since the bleeding has mostly stopped. But we should probably get you a shirt…” She trails off, appearing to take me in as if it’s the first time she’s seeing me.
In an attempt to impress her, I tighten my abs and flex both arms, immediately regretting the latter when I feel the drying gash on my bicep crack. It’s worth it as I watch her eyes go glassy and her attraction to me becomes almost tangible. The burn of my freshly opened flesh wound pales in comparison to the inferno her gaze leaves behind as it travels across my skin. She pays special attention to my shoulders. From my peripheral, I can see what looks to be the tips of a black wing on each shoulder. The longer her eyes travel, the harder I find it to keep my hands to myself.
“Dana,” I say, my voice husky.
Pink tinges her cheeks. “I’m going to get you a shirt,” she says, though it sounds like it’s more to herself than me. She darts back into her cottage for a few moments, then comes back out carrying a shirt.
“Here.” She hands me a navy blue button-down shirt that obviously belongs to a man. She eyes it, then my arms, and rips both sleeves off.
“Is this an old boyfriend’s shirt?” I try and fail to sound nonchalant as I shrug out of the afghan.
“Who’s to say it’s not my current boyfriend’s?”
An unexpected jolt of jealousy thrums through me. “Is it?”
Dana makes a noncommittal sound and ignores my question as she carefully slides the shirt over each of my arms and up my back. Her fingertips graze my ribs and waist, leaving goosebumps in their wake, before pulling the shirt around my torso and trying to button it. I wince. The shirt is too tight. The boyfriend must be closer to her size than mine. And for some reason, that’s a small comfort. Then I realize she hasn’t yet answered my question.
“Dana, do you have a boyfriend?” I repeat my unanswered question.
She steps back, raising one of her perfectly sculpted eyebrows.
“Dana, I’m not in any shape to block blows from a jealous boyfriend.” I point to my arm.” I don’t think he’d take lightly to me wearing his clothes.”
She rests her hands on her hips. “You don’t need to worry about someone getting jealous.” Then she mutters something under her breath that sounds like, “There's no boyfriend.” But I can’t be sure I heard her correctly.
I’ve been in Dana’s presence for less than thirty minutes, yet she’s found a way to shake me to my very core. I shouldn’t be jealous or feel so possessive or territorial, but the thought of Dana with another guy has my blood pressure rising.
I have no business entertaining these thoughts or embracing these emotions. Especially when I can’t even remember her.
Dana watches me quietly for a few moments then stands.
“Are you ready to go?” she asks, grabbing her keys and wrapping her arm around me.
“Yeah,” I mutter.
I limp down the steps relying on Dana for extra support. We get in the car, and all the way to the hospital, I hope that no matter what happens I can keep Dana in my life. I don’t need my memories to recognize what an amazing person she is. That she’s not someone I ever want to take for granted. But something in my gut warns that I may have done just that in the past.