Chapter 9 #2
Because there’s something about having someone give a fuck about whether or not you eat…
That hits harder than any goddamn memory ever could.
Not just the food. Not just the care.
But the routine of it.
The way she’s already making space for me in her life, in her fridge, like I belong there. Like I’m not just some stray project she picked up and felt bad about. Like maybe I’m more than a walking blank slate with a decent jawline and a broken arm.
Her phone pings a few minutes later. The sound cuts through the quiet hum of the kitchen like a warning shot. She picks it up, checks the screen, eyes scanning fast.
“No one looking for you at Mount Sinai,” she says, not even bothering to cushion it.
I nod, jaw tight, that creeping burn settling back in my chest. Hope taking another hit. Feels like it’s dying by paper cuts.
“Reggie and Martha didn’t get back to me yet,” she continues, more gently. “So we’ve still got a few hospitals to check.”
I try to say something, but my throat’s tight, and I’m not gonna cry over a fucking text message. Not in her kitchen. Not when she’s already done too much for me.
She watches me for a second, reading every goddamn line on my face like I’m a scan she’s trained to interpret.
Then she lifts a shoulder, grabs her coffee mug, and says, “Wanna watch a movie or something?”
I blink. “A movie?”
“Yeah.” She shrugs again, like it’s no big deal, like she’s not throwing me a lifeline with buttered popcorn. “Might jog your memory. Or distract you enough to stop looking like a kicked puppy. Win-win.”
I huff a laugh through my nose, surprised I even can. “You got a preference?”
“I don’t do rom-coms,” she says immediately, heading for the tiny TV like we’re already on the same page. “And if you make me sit through some Fast and Furious bullshit, I’ll dropkick you through the window.”
“Jesus,” I mutter, following her. “Alright. No cars. No kissing. Got it.”
She glances back at me with the ghost of a smirk. “Unless you start remembering something useful, in which case, I’ll make an exception for explosions.”
I sit beside her on the loveseat, still feeling her words settling around me like a blanket I didn’t ask for but desperately needed.
A movie.
Something normal.
Something to make me feel like a person again.
Yeah.
Sounds like a plan.
She puts something on—old, gritty, suspenseful.
VHS vibes but digitally crisp. The kind of movie with shadows and cigarette smoke and too many monologues.
Morgan Freeman’s in it, doing that slow, steady detective voice that feels like a lullaby made of truth and trauma.
Rain-soaked streets. A murder. Another. A whisper of dread hanging over every frame.
And then something clicks.
Not everything. Not some grand, emotional aha moment. Just… familiarity.
I know this one.
The plot unfolds in my head before it hits the screen. Beat for beat. The killer, the twist, the ending. It’s there, right fucking there. Names, faces, even lines of dialogue start forming like echoes.
“I know this one,” I say out loud, sudden and sharp.
Carol immediately freezes like a dog that just heard a gun cock. The remote’s in her hand, and she slaps pause like it owes her money.
“You do?” she asks, her voice tight with something that’s not quite disbelief—but damn close. “That’s great. What do you remember?”
She turns toward me, fully engaged now. Brown eyes wide and soft, like she’s holding her breath. Her knees draw up under her, shoulder brushing mine. She’s close. And she’s looking at me like I just cracked open the fucking safe.
I swallow, throat dry. “The movie. I remember the story. The ending. The scenes. Like… like I’ve seen it ten times.”
“Okay,” she says, voice low, gentle, like she’s coaxing something wild out of hiding. “So… who did you see it with?”
I open my mouth.
Nothing.
The images are there, sure. Crystal clear. The grimy apartment where the killer hides. The final box scene. The goddamn box. It’s all in my head—but the who? The where?
Gone.
“I don’t know,” I say, and the frustration in my chest spikes hot and vicious. “I remember the movie. I remember the whole goddamn thing. But I don’t know why. Or who with. Or where I was when I saw it.”
My hands curl into fists. Not out of rage. Out of desperation.
It’s like trying to hold smoke. I can see the shape of it—but not the source.
Carol reaches out, rests a hand lightly on my knee. “Hey,” she says. Quiet. Calm. “That’s still progress.”
“I guess,” I mutter. “Just feels like a fucking tease.”
She gives me a look—soft, but firm. “Memories don’t come back all at once. They’re not a light switch. They’re like… slow leaks. You remember a movie today. Tomorrow it might be a voice. Or a smell. Or someone’s goddamn laugh.”
I nod, barely.
She squeezes my knee once before pulling back, pressing play. “Now shut up and watch Morgan Freeman solve murder with dramatic pauses.”
And I do.
Not just for the movie.
But because her hand lingered just long enough to make the ache in my chest a little more bearable.
We head to bed.
Same routine as last night—brush teeth, lights off, shuffle toward the mattress that’s way too small for two grown adults pretending they aren’t secretly very aware of each other’s body heat.
But tonight’s different. I’m not bone-deep exhausted, not falling apart from adrenaline crash and leftover street terror.
Tonight I’m aware—of the quiet, of the steady rhythm of a life not on fire. Of her.
I lie down slowly, cast thunking against the mattress like it has a personal vendetta.
I shift, try to get comfortable, swear under my breath when the angle digs into my ribs.
Eventually I settle on my back, propped weirdly sideways, like a broken action figure.
It’s not perfect—but it’s good. Better than good.
It’s fucking heaven.
It’s a roof.
It’s a warm, clean comforter.
It’s air that doesn’t smell like piss and garbage juice.
It’s a bed that doesn’t move beneath me.
And she’s in it.
Carol’s already curled on her side, back to me, like she always sleeps with the world behind her.
Same shorts from yesterday, tiny, soft, barely hiding the curve of her ass.
That oversized T-shirt slips off one shoulder, exposing skin so smooth I’d sell what little soul I have left to touch it.
Her hair’s loose again—golden, real golden, not bottle bullshit.
Soft waves over the pillow like it’s some kind of shampoo commercial, only better, because it’s her.
No bleach. No effort. Just effortless Carol.
She doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move. But I know she’s not fully asleep. Her breathing’s steady, but not deep enough yet. Maybe she’s waiting. Maybe she’s listening. Maybe she’s just... there. Like she always is. Like she keeps being, over and over, even when she has every reason not to be.
I lie there in the dark, not touching her. Not speaking. Just feeling the heat between us.
And all I can think is—
How the fuck did I land here?
And how the hell am I supposed to leave it, when the time comes?