Chapter 4
“Hi,” I say, my heart racing so fast I can barely form words. “Hello. Sorry.”
He stares back at me, his expression unreadable, and for a moment I wonder if I’m hallucinating.
“Do I know you?” I blurt out.
He frowns. “I’m sorry?”
Oh, it’s definitely him. There’s that voice again, deep and rumbly.
His dark hair is pushed back from his face now, like he recently ran his hand through it, and his sweater has been replaced by a canvas jacket over a dark green hoodie, but his jaw is still hidden behind a thick layer of stubble that barely conceals his full lips.
“You were at the hospital before. I asked you about Goldie Hawn’s hair,” I say, as if this clears it up.
His expression suggests that it doesn’t. His forehead creases, making a hard line over his dark eyes. Had I noticed how dark his eyes were before? Like two chocolate opals staring at me so intensely, my train of thought is momentarily derailed.
“Sorry, this is probably really weird,” I say, waving a hand between us.
“I mean, if you think I’m acting weird because we know each other and I just fell out of my apartment acting like we don’t.
But we must know each other since you were at the hospital, so you probably think I’m weird at this point anyway.
” I laugh, but it fades quickly. A moment of silence passes and I’m questioning my sanity again. “That was you at the hospital, right?”
“I’m the one who brought you to the ER.”
“Really?” I ask. “Do we know each other?”
He frowns at that. “I came home and found you unconscious in the lobby.”
It takes my broken brain a second to realize that by “lobby,” he means the small hallway downstairs with the bad lighting.
“Oh my God, thank you,” I say. “My doctor said if I hadn’t gotten to the hospital as fast as I did, it could have been a lot worse.
Which is really saying something, considering that I have absolutely no memory of the past year.
I don’t remember moving to Boston, or breaking up with my boyfriend, or living here.
I don’t even remember the passcode to get into my phone.
And if that wasn’t bad enough, when I went to go make myself some tea, a mouse ran across my kitchen, so, you know, screaming ensued.
And bursting out into the hallway to ambush my unsuspecting neighbor. ”
The line between his eyebrows deepens. It looks a little like the expression I got from the man downstairs in the purple velvet bathrobe, and I realize that even though Doctor Sweater rushed me to the hospital less than a week ago, this might very well be the first conversation we’ve had.
Somehow that makes this all that much more embarrassing.
“Soooo.” I say the word like it has five syllables. “Off to work?”
This is probably the most insane thing I could say right now, because of course he’s off to work. He’s fully dressed and leaving his apartment before ten a.m. on a Monday.
“Obviously, you’re off to work. Where else would you be going?” I add with another laugh, like this is some sort of long-standing inside joke between us. “I should probably be going, too. Lots to do today. You know, with the whole memory thing. And the phone thing. And the mouse thing.”
His brow skews like it’s now his turn to gauge if I’m kidding or not. And, honestly, I get it. This verbal diatribe has been truly crazy, even by my standards. Is it the head injury? Or the fact that this man looks like a lumberjack fresh out of medical school?
“Okay. Well, bye!” I practically shout, then turn and fling open my door, slamming it shut behind me before I can say another word. It’s as if my broken brain has somehow amplified my penchant for oversharing. Or maybe it’s always been this bad, and I’m only just now realizing it.
Regardless, there is no coming back from this. It’s me and the mouse, together forever from here on out.
Just as I start to work out how to reduce all my movement to off-peak hours, I hear a knock on the door.
When I open it again, Doctor Sweater is there waiting, with one arm braced against my doorframe.
“Hello again,” I say, trying to sound upbeat.
“Would you mind going over all that one more time?” he asks gruffly.
“Oh. Sure.” I clear my throat. “Okay, well, I saw you at the hospital and asked you about Goldie Hawn—”
“Yeah, I remember that part.”
“Right. So just the bit about how my brain was bleeding, and how I don’t remember the last year, and that there’s a mouse in my apartment?”
He frowns. “Yeah. That.”
“I’m seeing a doctor tomorrow about the memory thing,” I reply quickly.
“All I have to do is figure out my phone passcode so I can confirm the appointment. And call to schedule a car to pick me up. And use the Maps app to find a grocery store because there’s barely any food in my apartment.
I don’t even have any tea, and I always have tea when I’m stressed, so that’s probably not helping the situation.
Or the fact that all I’ve eaten for the past few days is Jell-O and dry toast.” Oh no, I can feel tears starting to burn my eyes again.
I try to blink them away and smile. “But it’s totally fine.
Once I eat something, I can handle the rest.”
Doctor Sweater’s lips bend into a grim line. Thank God for his thick stubble. It softens what would probably otherwise be incredibly intimidating.
“So you need a grocery store,” he replies.
“Yes. I need a grocery store,” I say, relieved he’s able to glean that much information from my babble. “Is there one nearby?”
“There’s one on North Street.”
I nod as if I know where that is. Or where I even am right now.
His eyes narrow on me, like he can see how close I am to tears. “Do you want me to walk you over there?”
My heart flutters awake at this reintroduction to hope. “You would do that?”
“It’s on my way to work,” he says. His voice is so matter-of-fact, as if this isn’t one of the nicest things anyone’s ever offered to do for me.
“Are you sure? I don’t want you to feel like you have to escort me, or something. I can even hang back a few steps to give you space.”
“Like… tail me?” he asks, one eyebrow arched on his forehead. It’s only then that I realize how this might be the most unhinged thing I’ve said so far.
“Not tail you,” I say, even though, yes, that’s exactly what I meant. “But follow you. In a way that’s not inconvenient.”
“I wouldn’t offer if it was inconvenient,” he says, finally locking his door and sliding the keys into his bag. “Do you need to grab anything?”
It’s only then that I realize I still have my coat on, with my wallet in one pocket and my keys in the other. I’m also still wearing my red Crocs with my blue hospital socks underneath.
“Nope, ready to go when you are,” I say, working hard to manufacture as much fake confidence as possible. As if this entire outfit is intentional. “I’m Marnie Stephens, by the way.”
At that, he frowns.
I want to ask him if this is the first time I’ve introduced myself to him.
But after almost ten solid minutes of unadulterated insanity, I need to regain some of my pride, shake off the awkwardness.
Or, at the very least, reassure him that, despite the outfit and the verbal diarrhea, I am in fact very normal.
“Ben Morgan,” he replies.
“It’s nice to meet you, Ben Morgan,” I say. Then I salute. With two fingers. What is wrong with me?
He stares back like he’s wondering the same thing.
Forget off-peak hours, I think even as I try to smile. I’m never leaving my apartment again.