Round 39
ROUND THIRTY-NINE
ROSE
Car lights flash across the front of the house, illuminating Ollie’s living room and flickering off the screen of the laptop unfolded on the coffee table in front of me.
My heart doesn’t speed when that happens anymore.
My hands don’t sweat. My brain hardly even pauses to pay attention to the fact that my solitude is about to end.
Sitting on the floor in the gap between the couch and the table, with Poppy happily snoozing in my lap, a smile creeps across my lips, and contentment becomes a soft, warm blanket draped over my shoulders.
Geez, it feels good to not be so scared all the damn time.
I’ve been working on Cliff’s invoices all afternoon, balancing his accounts and recovering from a small few unfortunate phone calls I had to make, chasing up overdue amounts, and copping a mouthful from the old biddies who think payment is optional.
And then came the lectures about how I should be ashamed of myself, because I’m just that scammer girl trying to wring insurance dollars out of poor Barbara…
I’ve yet to file a lawsuit, but okay.
Still, I allow their ugliness to roll off my back, and now that I’m done with Cliff’s stuff, I search the internet for, well… me. For women named Rosaline. Grandmothers named Rosaline. Women who’ve been hit by a car and are now suffering retrograde amnesia. Women with friends named Liam.
Obviously, my investigative skills need work.
Ollie’s footsteps pound up the stairs outside, his heavy gait a habit, I know, to kick dirt and snow and whatever other unwelcome thing off the bottoms of his shoes before he comes in. Then he slips the key into the lock and nudges the door open.
I draw my focus away from the laptop and get caught up in his blue-eyed stare. His perfect kindness. His undying ability to come home in an amazing mood, no matter how long he’s been working, or how tired he is, or how stressful his day was.
He just smiles, all the freakin’ time.
“Hey.” He crosses the threshold and closes the door behind his back, striding through the room and dropping keys and his empty travel mug on a side table.
Then he comes around the couch and perches on the edge, his legs sandwiching me in.
Leaning forward, he presses a kiss to the top of my head.
Then another to the back of my neck. The side.
My cheek. He scoops Poppy out of my lap and wakes the poor she-devil from her nap. “What are you working on?”
“Did you know I need a court order stating that I’m mentally capable and that I should be granted a new identity?
That the authorities must prove they’ve done their due diligence, searched all over, scoured missing persons lists, and, only then, and only with a social worker from the hospital on my side, can I get a new social security number and documents so I can get on with things? ”
“Yeah?” He nuzzles Poppy’s neck, scratching her soft, brown-speckled fur. “How long does all that take?”
“Months.” I push backwards, draping my arms over his legs and resting the back of my head against his torso. “At least six, and that’s with a sympathetic judge. Could be twelve if anyone decides to make things difficult.”
“Are you in a rush?” He reaches around me carefully and sets the cat in my lap, then he cups my face and tilts it back until I’m looking at him upside down. “You have everything you need right now, don’t you?”
“I still can’t open a bank account. I can’t get a license. Can’t sign a lease.”
“Why do you need a lease?” His brows pinch together, a frown marring his otherwise constant cheerfulness. “Where are you going?”
“I can’t live in your house forever. You can’t possibly tell me this is what you’d had in mind when you first brought me here.”
“What didn’t I have in mind?” He releases my face, only to scoop his arms beneath mine and pull me onto the couch beside him.
My legs drape across his, the cat dizzily turning and spinning on the rug, searching for her seat.
Too observant, he picks her up and places her on my belly.
“Are we fighting again, and I didn’t even know it?
Because I gotta be honest, it feels a little unfair when you rope me in to these things and don’t even warn me. ”
“No, we’re not fighting. But we’re basically at three months now.”
“Which, I seem to recall, was a date we would celebrate… ish,” he adds for clarity, gritting his teeth.
“I don’t mean to make light of all the things you’ve lost. But I remember that three months was our target date, where we could consider this somewhat permanent.
There’s still a chance everything could come back, but in case it doesn’t, you wanted a hard date for when you could get on with your life.
” His eyes flicker between mine. “You want to leave?”
“I want to not be a burden,” I counter. “I want to be able to meet you on your level. To be a regular, functioning member of society where we can date and talk about normal things, like what we’re planning to do on the weekend, and oh, do you remember that time when you were a kid and you did that thing that everyone giggles about now?
” I shake my head. “Because no, Ollie, I don’t remember that thing I did, because I don’t remember anything at all.
But did you know relationships that started during, or shortly after, a traumatic event are far more likely to fail? ”
He studies me, his lips quivering with a ghost of a smile. “What?”
“I think it’s safe to label my incident a traumatic event, which means these stats will apply to us.
Did you know trauma-relationships are rife with instability, unhealthy attachment behaviors, higher rates of mental health crises, but lower rates of help-seeking behavior, and are overall less fulfilling for one or both members of the relationship? ”
“Er… well…” He swallows. “Sure. I guess I knew that.”
“Well, I don’t want to be the reason we fail, Ollie! I don’t want to be a freeloader taking up space in your house because you invited me to stay that one time almost three months ago, and now you’re too polite to ask me to leave.”
“So, you think we’ll be happier and better if a judge lets you sign a lease, then you can move out and leave me?”
“Yes!”
His brows wing high on his forehead.
“Well, no.” I sigh. “I don’t know. I just know I’m the trauma and chaos in this relationship, and you’re the amazing man intent on saving me all the time. And even if you do it all with a smile and good manners, that doesn’t mean it’s okay or fair to you.”
“Right.” He nods, jutting his chin forward.
“I see. So you’re making decisions for me, arguing with me, but I’m not actually invited into the discussion.
” He scoops poor Poppy up again and places her on the floor, then he crawls over me, crowding me until there’s only an inch or two between the tip of his nose and the tip of mine.
“It sends me fucking insane when you berate and make yourself feel like shit because of a conversation you have in your own head based on the things you think I would say.” He nips at my jaw.
“It’s the most annoying thing about you. ”
“Ollie—”
“Most dudes are out here worrying about the fights they have with their girls. The bickering and shouting and verbal sparring, because maybe he’ll say something in the heat of the moment he’ll regret.
Or she will. Or maybe someone will snap and throw something.
And no matter who started it, the relationship suffers.
” He pushes me all the way back until my head is on the armrest and my legs tangle beneath his body.
“Meanwhile, I’m hurting your feelings without even being involved. Feels unfair.”
“That’s my trauma.” Like I’ve made a solid point, I harrumph. “If I were a normal human being, that wouldn’t happen.”
“Sure. But if you move into your own place—after petitioning the courts for a new name—that would fix all this, right?” He nibbles on my collarbone.
My neck. My jaw. “I can’t wait to see how you would hurt your own feelings when you’re stuck at your own place, all alone and sulky and too shy to ask me to come over. ”
“You’re mocking me.”
“Yeah.” He pulls back just far enough to show me a wide, bright smile. “I am. It’s fun.”
“You’re a jackass.”
“Mmhm. And you’re a pain in my ass. So it works out, huh?” He shifts his knee between my legs, inching his thigh closer until I’m straddling his leg. “Did you break something today? Drop a mug? Smash a window?”
“What? No!”
“It’s just that, you usually get in your feelings about this stuff when you screw up. To me, a broken mug is hardly worth mentioning. To you, it’s enough to make you consider stepping in front of Barbara’s car again.”
I narrow my eyes and ignore the electrical pulses angling toward his knee. The cunning bastard. “I’m tempted to take a stroll on the road right now.”
“Right. What did you break?” He slides his tongue across my lips. Tasting. Tormenting. Humming his appreciation. “Start a fire in the kitchen? Eat an entire box of cookies?”
“No!”
“So what is it, Rose?” He hooks his finger in the top of my shirt, tugging it down to reveal the same old cotton bra I’ve owned since the hospital. “Did Poopy take a shit on my pillow?”
“Her name is Poppy! And I didn’t break anything. I didn’t lose anything or catch anything on fire, or do anything wrong. I just think it would be best if we could be together… apart.”
“I respectfully disagree. And disrespectfully?” He latches on to my peaked nipple through the fabric of my bra. “I say fuck no. I’m not letting you leave.”
“That sounds like a threat.” God, I’m such an asshole. “Abusive much?”