Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Ava
For weeks now, it’s become our thing. Every time Trevor works at the shop, we end up having a late lunch across the street at Goodwin’s Diner, where the owners and patrons have surely been gossiping about our frequent meetings.
Meetings where sometimes one of our hands brushes against the other’s when we reach for the saltshaker at the same time.
Meetings where he kisses my cheek before we head in different directions.
Meetings where we both look back at each other when we walk away wondering if and when there’s going to be more.
Meetings where we don’t speak of our past or his memory or anything other than how our day has gone or what we did last night when we weren’t together. Almost like we’re starting over.
After a few of those lunches, we went for a stroll in the park.
On Wednesday, we went to a movie at the multiplex.
Not that I watched any of it or could even give a synopsis on what it was about.
I was too caught up in the fact that Trevor’s left arm was draped casually around my shoulder, his thumb absently rubbing back and forth across my upper arm.
It makes me laugh because… I think I’m dating my husband.
But then I look over at him as he’s filling Carter’s to-go order and it makes me sad. Because it’s not really my husband I’m dating. It’s a completely different version of him. He’s rough around the edges. Not as soft spoken as he used to be. Not as easy going. And definitely not as clean cut.
Still, there’s something about this new version of him that draws me in.
It’s almost as if I like the dark and dangerous side of him.
The way his hair has grown out over the past month.
The way he’s starting to fill out his clothes in a way he hasn’t before because after getting the cast off, he’s spent so much time at the gym.
How his short, manicured beard causes my brain to think naughty thoughts.
The way he lifts a brow when he catches me watching him—as if he’s a bit cocky in knowing these feelings dwell deep inside me.
Guilt courses through me when fantasies of his scruff brushing against my neck, my stomach, my thighs, leave a very discernable damp spot on my panties. It’s still him. But it’s not. I shouldn’t feel guilty, but I do. As if I’m somehow betraying the real Trevor.
My head is all over the place. Can I like him like this? Should I?
One thing I haven’t spoken about in all our conversations is the baby.
Part of me wants to tell him every time I see him.
We’re definitely growing closer. But that closeness is one of a new relationship, not a decades-old one, and I fear it will just scare him off for good. That’s not a risk I’m willing to take.
The other part of me—the part that isn’t overcome by pregnancy hormones—knows that the longer I wait, the worse it may be. But I choose to ignore that inner voice and keep my head in the sand until…
I find I can’t even complete that thought, because when is the appropriate time to tell your husband who doesn’t remember he’s your husband that you’ve been keeping this huge secret while hoping his memory will return so then you won’t feel so guilty because everything will be back to normal and you can live out the happy ever after you always knew you were going to get before that fateful day?
I sigh and rub a hand across my still flat ten-week belly. I saw Dr. Russo yesterday. It was incredible hearing the heartbeat and seeing the baby, who is a lot bigger than the first time I saw it. She ran all the blood tests. I’ll be able to find out if it’s a boy or a girl in just a few days.
I stare at Trevor again. Is that when I should tell him? When I know if he’s having a son or a daughter?
I feel I already know it’s a girl. I even talk to her sometimes. And I’ve written more letters to her after writing that first one. It felt just like starting a new diary.
Maybe that’s how I should tell him. I’ll show him the first letter I wrote to the baby. I’ll show it to him after I get the results of the test.
It’s almost a relief knowing how and when I’m going to tell him, and I seem to float through the rest of the morning feeling a bit lighter.
That is until one of our customers screams, “He’s choking!”
I race around the counter to see Jeremy Fields holding his throat. His face is a horrible shade of dark red and there’s panic in his eyes.
“Do something!” the woman shrieks.
“Call 9-1-1,” I bark at Leah.
There’s a crash behind me. I turn to see Trevor climbing over the counter, upending the snack cart in front of it.
In a flash, he’s situating himself behind the man and does the Heimlich maneuver.
Jeremy’s feet come off the ground as Trevor’s thrusts hoist him a few inches into the air.
After repeated attempts, I’m horrified when Jeremy’s hands fall away from his throat, and he goes limp.
“Fuck!” Trevor yells as Jeremy slips down to the floor.
Then Trevor is kneeling over him, doing chest compressions. After a short time, he opens Jeremy’s mouth, looks inside and uses a finger to sweep it. His head shakes in frustration before he lowers his mouth to cover Jeremy’s and gives him two breaths.
He’s back doing compressions now, dots of sweat seeping through the back of his shirt. “He’s not getting any air.” He looks up. “Is an ambulance coming?”
Leah holds up her phone. “They’re on their way.”
I’m watching in pure terror, as is everyone else in the shop, as Jeremy’s lips turn a deadly shade of blue.
“I don’t hear sirens,” Trevor says nervously. “They won’t get here in time.” He’s still pumping on his chest when he looks up at me. “Get me clean towels, alcohol or hand sanitizer, a straw, and the sharpest small knife you have. Sanitize the straw and the knife with the alcohol.”
I stare down at him, eyes blinking, not believing what he’s asking.
“Ava!” he shouts. “This man is going to die if I don’t trach him right now. Go!”
I’m shaking uncontrollably when I run into the back room and fetch everything he asked for, hoping I’m getting it all. I go back and fall to my knees next to him, pouring the rubbing alcohol onto the knife and the straw and then holding them out.
Instead of taking them, he stops compressions and holds out his hands. “Pour it on my hands.”
I do and he rubs his hands together in a washing motion. Then he takes the small paring knife from me and slices right into Jeremy’s throat without any hesitation.
A woman faints in the corner. Her companion keeps her from hitting the floor too hard. Good thing, because one emergency at a time here.
Faint sirens sound in the distance as Trevor shoves the straw into Jeremy’s throat. He reaches for my hands and puts them along either side of the straw. “Hold this in place.”
My stomach turns and I have to hold down the bile rising in my throat as blood seeps out across my fingers.
Trevor blows into the straw, and Jeremy’s chest rises. Trevor blows again. After several rounds of this, I notice Jeremy’s lips returning to a more normal color. “His lips,” I say with shaky words.
“He’s getting oxygen now.” Trevor wipes sweat off his brow with his sleeve. “He’ll be okay. He’s going to be okay.”
I’m not sure if he’s trying to convince me, or himself.
But the more I stare at him, the more I see it.
His initial nervousness has been replaced by confidence.
The way he’s taking complete control of the situation with zero hesitation.
His hands aren’t shaking like mine are. He’s…
oh my god, of course! He may not remember doing things like this, but somewhere deep in his subconscious, he’s a doctor.
A surgeon. This is exactly what he’s been trained for.
I’m in complete awe.
The sirens get louder. Just as I see the ambulance on the street, Patrick Kelsey rushes through the door. He’s not in uniform. He must have been nearby and seen them coming.
“What the actual fuck?” he says, staring down at my blood-soaked hands while Trevor gives another breath to Jeremy.
The paramedics burst through the front doors just as Jeremy opens his eyes. He reaches for his throat, terror washing over his still-pale face.
“Easy, man,” Trevor says. “Try not to panic. There’s a tube in your throat helping you to breathe. The paramedics are here, and they’ll take you to the hospital.” He touches Jeremy’s shoulder. “You’re going to be okay.”
“Move aside,” one of the paramedics says.
“Holy shit!” the other exclaims.
Police officers come in next. People are crying. Some are clapping. It’s pandemonium.
“People!” Trevor yells over all of it. “Quiet down and give them room to work.”
We all stand back and let Patrick supervise the two paramedics as they do their job.
Kasey Lorenfall, one of the officers, comes over to Trevor and me, probably because both our hands are covered in blood.
Two minutes later, Jeremy is wheeled out on a gurney.
Patrick comes over, shaking his head in astonishment. He claps a hand on Trevor’s shoulder. “I’ve never seen a field tracheotomy done so expertly before.”
Trevor nods, staring at his bloodied hands.
Patrick stays with us as Trevor and I recount what happened to the officers. When they’re satisfied they have all the information they need, they leave.
Trevor covers one of my shaking, bloodied hands with his own. “Ava, go upstairs. Clean up. I’ll close up the shop for the day.”
I can only nod, still stunned at what happened in my little coffee house.
As I make my way into the back, I hear Trevor’s words to Patrick.
“I’ve never felt so fucking alive.”