12. Nash
NASH
The steady rhythm of Eve's breathing fills the quiet hospital room, punctuated only by the soft beeping of monitors and the distant sounds of nurses making their rounds.
She looks so small in that hospital bed, her mahogany skin pale against the white sheets, her curls spread across the pillow like a dark halo.
The bandages on her forehead stand out stark against her skin, a brutal reminder of how close I came to losing her.
Again.
I lean back in the uncomfortable plastic chair, my body protesting after hours in the same position. My phone buzzes against my thigh, and I pull it out, hoping it's my mom finally calling back. Instead, it's a text from Morgan.
Dinner?
I don't know how to tell her Eve's here. I know she's never forgotten about her.
Can't tonight.
I shove the phone back in my pocket and run my hands through my hair, trying to process everything that's happened in the last twelve hours. Eve Turner—my Eve—lying broken in the middle of a street with no memory of how she got there. No memory of anything, including me.
Including us.
Including the way I've spent the last ten years trying to forget the taste of her mouth and the sound of my name on her lips when she came apart in my hands.
The irony isn't lost on me. She finally can't remember all the ways I've hurt her, all the times I pushed her away or said cruel things to protect us both from whatever this thing between us is.
She looks at me now with curious eyes instead of the guarded wariness I've grown accustomed to, and it's both a gift and a torture I'm not sure I deserve.
I pull out my phone again and scroll to my mom's contact. The call goes straight to voicemail, just like it did three times earlier. She's probably elbow-deep in some emergency at the hospital, working another sixteen-hour shift because that's what she does. Takes care of everyone except herself.
"Fuck," I mutter under my breath, then glance at Eve to make sure I didn't wake her. She's still sleeping peacefully, her face relaxed in a way I haven't seen since we were kids. Before I ruined everything between us with my inability to be anything other than a selfish bastard.
I type out a quick text.
Mom, call me when you get this.
Send.
Now I just have to wait. My mom will know what to do—she always does. She'll at least be able to tell Eve's parents for me since she'll see them in town.
Nurses are like that, keeping connections, caring about people long after they should probably let go. It's where I get my saving complex from, though mine's a hell of a lot more twisted than hers.
The truth is, I don't really keep in touch with anyone from Wintervale.
When I left for Columbia, I burned those bridges pretty thoroughly.
Sure, I see Marcus and Jake when I'm home for the holidays, grab a beer and pretend we're still the same kids who used to raise hell together.
Sometimes Tommy joins us if he's not locked up again for whatever petty crime he's moved on to.
But I don't have their numbers saved in my phone. Don't text them or call to check in.
I wanted out of that place so badly that I cut every tie I could, except for my mom. And except for the part of me that never stopped thinking about the girl sleeping three feet away from me.
The girl who trusted me enough to let me stay here, to let me take care of her, because she doesn't remember all the reasons she shouldn't.
I study her face in the dim light filtering through the blinds.
She's always been beautiful, but there's something almost ethereal about her now, peaceful in a way I've never seen.
Usually when I look at Eve, there's this tension in her features, like she's bracing herself for whatever fresh hell I might put her through.
Like she's preparing to be disappointed.
She's not wrong to feel that way.
But right now, without the weight of our history pressing down on both of us, she just looks... soft. Vulnerable. Like the girl I fell in love with when I was too young and too stupid to know what love was, let alone what to do with it.
My phone buzzes again. This time it's Morgan.
Do you need anything?
I stare at the text for a long moment. I know she's probably thinking I'm working late and that's what she's asking.
What I need is for the last twenty years to have gone differently.
What I need is to not be the kind of man who looks at an injured woman with amnesia and sees an opportunity instead of a tragedy.
What I need is to be worthy of the trust Eve's placing in me, even if it's only because she can't remember why she shouldn't.
I'm good. Thanks.
Another lie to add to the collection.
A nurse pokes her head in to check on Eve, taking vitals and adjusting her IV. She's young, probably fresh out of nursing school, with kind eyes and gentle hands. The type of person who got into healthcare for the right reasons, unlike some of us who are just trying to balance the scales.
"How's she doing?" I ask quietly. I can read the vitals just fine, but my head's a mess and she'll know more about the doctors than I will.
"Stable. Her vitals look good, and she seems to be resting comfortably. The doctor will be in around six to do another neurological assessment before discharge."
Discharge. Right. And I said I'd take Eve when the only place I have to take her is to my apartment while I sort out who her fiance is and why I feel so on edge about letting her out of my sight.
Eve's going to leave this hospital, and someone's going to have to take care of her. Someone's going to have to make sure she doesn't push herself too hard while those ribs heal, that she doesn't ignore the warning signs of complications from her concussion.
Someone's going to have to help her navigate a world she can't fully remember.
And I've already volunteered for the job.
The nurse leaves, and I'm alone with Eve again.
Alone with the weight of what I'm about to do.
Because taking her home with me isn't just about making sure she's safe—though that's part of it.
It's about having her in my space, under my protection, for the first time in our fucked-up history.
It's about getting a chance to be the man she deserves instead of the one I've always been.
Even if it's built on a foundation of lies and missing memories.
Even if she's going to hate me when she remembers who I really am.
I can't bring myself to let her go this time. I just can't.
I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees and watching the rise and fall of her chest. Tomorrow, I'll take her to my apartment. I'll show her around, help her figure out what comes next. I'll be careful and patient and everything I should have been years ago.
And I'll pray to whatever deity might be listening that when her memories come back—because they will come back—she'll remember the good along with the bad. That maybe this time, we can find a way to be something other than a tragedy waiting to happen.
The hours pass slowly. I doze fitfully in the chair, forgoing the cot altogether, waking every time a nurse comes in or whenever Eve stirs. By the time dawn starts creeping through the windows, my neck is stiff and my back aches, but I haven't moved from my post. Haven't left her side.
Around six-thirty, Dr. Martinez returns, looking far too awake for someone who probably went home and got a few hours of sleep. He goes through the same battery of tests as yesterday—checking her pupils, testing her reflexes, asking questions about pain levels.
Eve answers everything with the same careful patience she's always had, though I can see the frustration building behind her eyes when she still can't remember basic things about her life. Her childhood. Her family. Where she works or what she does for fun.
Me.
"Everything looks good," Dr. Martinez finally announces. "The swelling in your brain has gone down, and your other vitals are stable. I'm comfortable discharging you with someone to monitor you for the next few days."
He looks at me when he says it, and I nod. "I'll make sure she's taken care of."
"Good. I want to see you back here in a week for a follow-up, and sooner if you experience any worsening symptoms—severe headaches, nausea, confusion, any changes in vision.
" He hands Eve a packet of discharge instructions.
"Take it easy. No strenuous activity. Lots of rest. And be patient with your memory. It will come back."
After he leaves, a nurse brings Eve's discharge paperwork. I fill it out for her since her head still hurts a little and she has no clue where we're going anyway.
"I need to find you something warmer to wear," I tell her once I finish, eyeing the thin hospital nightgown. She needs real clothes and hers were ruined. Not to mention it's November in New York, and while it's not quite freezing yet, it's cold out there. "I'll see what I can scrounge up."
The hospital gift shop yields an oversized sweatshirt with the hospital logo and a pair of sweatpants that will be too big for her but better than nothing.
When I bring them back to her room, she's sitting on the edge of the bed, staring down at her hands with a lost expression that makes my chest tight.
"Hey," I say softly, setting the clothes down beside her. "How are you feeling?"
"Confused," she admits without looking up. "Scared. Like I'm missing huge pieces of myself and I don't know where to find them."
The honesty in her voice cuts deep. It's weird, too, because there were a lot of times that I wished for just this. That I could go back and change everything. But seeing her like this—vulnerable and frightened—makes me feel like the worst kind of bastard that my wishes came true like this.
"It's going to be okay," I tell her, and for once, I mean it. "We'll figure it out together."
She looks up at me then, those warm brown eyes searching my face like she's trying to solve a puzzle. "Why are you doing this? Helping me?"
The question I've been dreading. Because the honest answer is too complicated, too fucked up, too revealing.
Because I've been in love with her since I was old enough to know what love was, and I've spent the last decade proving I'm not good enough for her.
Because finding her broken in that street felt like the universe giving me one last chance to be the man she deserves.
"Because everyone deserves someone in their corner," I say instead, which isn't a lie, even if it's not the whole truth.
She studies me for another long moment, then nods slowly. "Okay. Let me get changed, and then we can go."
The ride back to my apartment in the Uber is quiet at first. Eve stares out the window at the city passing by, her face pressed close to the glass like she's trying to find something familiar in the landscape.
The oversized sweatshirt makes her look even smaller than usual, and I have to resist the urge to pull her closer, to wrap my arms around her and promise that everything's going to be all right.
"So," she says finally, turning away from the window to look at me. "How do we know each other?"
I've been preparing for this question, but it still leaves me struggling for a good answer.
The doctor said it was no problem if I answered her questions as long as neither of us pushed her memories to come back.
How do I explain our history without telling her everything?
How do I give her enough truth to satisfy her curiosity without revealing all the ways I've failed her?
"We grew up together," I say carefully. "Same small town in Vermont. Wintervale."
"Vermont." She tests the word like she's trying to taste the memory. "That feels... right, somehow. Cold. Lots of snow."
"Yeah. Lots of snow."
She hums thoughtfully, settling back against the seat. "That makes sense."
"What makes sense?"
"Just..." She gestures vaguely between us. "There's this connection between us. Like history, you know? I can feel it even if I can't remember it."
The words hit me harder than they should. Because yes, there is history between us. Decades of it. Most of it painful, some of it beautiful, all of it complicated as hell. She's always been able to read me better than anyone else, even when I was doing my best to hide from her.
Even when I was doing my best to hurt her.
It shouldn't do something to me to know that even without the memories she can still feel that thread connecting us. But it does.
"Yeah," I manage. "There's history."
She nods like that settles something for her, then does something that stops my heart completely. She reaches over and takes my hand, lacing our fingers together like it's the most natural thing in the world.
"I'm glad," she says simply. "I feel like I can trust you."
It takes everything in me to hold in my laugh. Trust. Christ, if she only knew how many times I've proven myself unworthy of that exact thing. How many opportunities I've had to be the man she needed, only to choose the easy path of pushing her away instead.
A connection? Yes, absolutely. But feeling like she can trust me? I'd expect her to sooner dive out of this car than say that.
I squeeze her hand gently, careful not to let my grip tighten too much. I don't want to scare her by saying it's a bad idea. "That's good."
But inside, I'm falling apart. Because Eve Turner trusting me is the most beautiful and terrifying thing I can imagine. Because I know—with the kind of bone-deep certainty that comes from years of fucking up—that I'm going to disappoint her again.
The only question is how long I can hold off the inevitable.