by Carian Cole
I blink at him, processing all those details. “I thought that was all from your inheritance, or from your parents.”
“No, we stuck most of my inheritance in the bank. My parents helped us out a little when we had the baby, but that’s it. We bought all this with money you and I made with our careers.”
“Oh.”
Smiling, he reaches for my hand across the table. “It’s okay to not know, Em. It’s not like I walked into your hospital room with our bank statements and stacks of receipts and royalty reports.”
“I guess I just didn’t realize that your music made so much money.” I was under the impression that most musicians struggled financially. Not all make it big. Asher doesn’t look or act like a millionaire. Other than the short tour he went on recently, he’s been with me every day.
“Good music and hard work does.”
I sip my water. “It’s a lot to take in. You don’t really act like a rich person.”
I wonder if I did. Was I snobby? Demanding? Materialistic? Content? Did I clean my own house? Did I go to spas?
“We never let the success change us. The money and the cool stuff were only exciting for a little while. Once we bought all the things we really wanted or needed, we just stashed it all in the bank. We donated a lot to charity and animal rescues. All the years I was alone, I wrote music, toured, and sat here in the house with our daughter. I hardly spent a dime on myself.”
“And you paid for the hospital,” I add. “That must’ve cost thousands upon thousands of dollars. I’m surprised you’re not broke.”
He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t even care. It was for you. I would’ve lived in a tent in the parking lot to take care of you.”
The intensity in his eyes confirms every word is true. And I believe without a doubt that he would’ve given up everything—money, fame, even his life—to make sure Ember had everything she needed. Even if she wasn’t capable of ever knowing the sacrifices he made or the lengths he went to care for her.
Isn’t that what true love is? Doing something for someone with absolutely no expectation of receiving anything back in return?
“Ash…”
“Ready for dinner?” The waiter interrupts, putting a new plate in front of me. “Can I get you anything else?”
“I think we’re good,” Asher replies. “Everything’s delicious.”
Asher picks up his knife and fork and starts to cut into his steak. “Teriyaki chicken and steak stir-fry,” he says, gesturing toward my plate. “Your favorite.”
Oh, no! Not chicken! I can’t eat a cute little chicken…
Forcing a smile to cover up my horror, I pick up my own cutlery, thankful for the rice and vegetables.
“Mmm…” he groans over his own food. “Delicious.”
I launch into idle chat about my range of motion improving and the garden statues I ordered online with Sarah’s help, distracting him as I avoid the poor little chunks of chicken on my plate, hiding it under rice and veggies.
I feel like maybe I’m being abnormal.
I feel like a child hiding my food.
I feel like my perfect date just hit a speed bump.
I feel disappointed.
Chapter Twenty-Four
After dinner, we move across the deck to the velvet couch for dessert. The candles are still burning, their almond scent carried by the breeze.
When the waiter serves us vanilla mousse with a red, heart-shaped cookie sitting atop, I’m glad I didn’t eat much of my dinner. I have lots of room for yummy sweetness.
In between bites, I pet the soft peachy-fuzz fabric of the couch. It’s luxurious, the plush fabric changing to a dark blood red beneath my fingertips.
“Where did you get this?” I ask. “It’s pretty.”
“It’s from our recording studio downstairs. It used to be in my mom’s office years ago, but we took it when she redecorated. She wrote her entire first erotica series sitting on it.”
“Interesting. It does have a sort of sensual feel.”
The corner of his mouth quirks up. “It does.”
The waiter comes back one more time to take the last of our plates and surprises me with a cup of my London fog tea.
Smiling, I take it eagerly from him, relieved to have something familiar.
“I didn’t want you to miss your tea,” Asher says. “I gave him detailed instructions on how to make it.”
“Thank you. Everything was delicious.”
I hate to lie on our special date. But he looks so happy, and he obviously put a lot of effort into making sure the chef made all of Ember’s favorite foods. I don’t want to ruin the night for him. Haven’t I ruined enough of his life already?
He takes off his jacket, leans back against the couch and puts his arm around me, gently coaxing me to nestle into his side. I wonder if he feels the subtle tremor of comfort and familiarity thrumming through us like I do.
It’s these moments of déjà vu that give me hope, no matter how fleeting and minuscule they are.
We watch lightning bugs flitter around in the bushes, and he sighs contentedly, pulling me closer. I feel it too—it’s a beautiful night. The solar lights scattered around the flower gardens glow like random hidden stars. The trickling water of the fountains calms my discomfort from dinner. Asher presses a kiss to the top of my head, his lips lingering in my hair, his breath warm against my scalp. He caresses my fingers with his, his palm engulfing my small hand.
Fascinated with the tattoos covering his arms and hands, I follow the designs with my fingertip, inching over his wrist, up to his taut forearm to where his sleeve is rolled up.
The tips of my fingers skate over small dents in his muscular forearm, and like a magnet, they pull my hand back. A tingle burns in my skull as I squint at his arm in the candlelight.
Hiding beneath the inked dragon portrait are five concave dimples in his skin, each fading off into thin, two-inch-long lines of raised flesh.
“How did you get these?” I ask, preparing myself to hear about a horrible dog attack.
“Let’s not talk about that now.” He gently moves my hand away.
Maybe it’s the amnesia—the constant need for life information—or maybe it’s the burn in my head that I can’t deny is usually a sign of some kind of memory trying to squirm out, but I need to know what those scars are.
“Tell me.” I touch his arm again. “Please.”
“Em, it’s nothing. Just old scars. Let’s enjoy our night. Look how pretty the stars are. You used to call them the diamonds of the dark. You wrote a song about them—”
I can’t think about songs and music now.
“Asher, don’t distract me.”
“I’m not.”
I turn to face him. “You are. Didn’t we talk about everything? Before? You said we were best friends.”
He nods, his dark eyes meeting mine. “Yes. Always.”
“Then why won’t you treat me that way now? You say you want me to remember. You say you want ‘us’ back, but how can we if you won’t answer questions I have?”
His jaw muscles twitch, and he lets out a deep, defeated breath.
Taking my hand, he positions my fingers over each scar, and my blood goes cold before I even fully understand why.
His voice is low, pained, dredged up from a dark place. “The scars are from your fingernails.”
I quickly pull my hand away. “I hurt you? Why?”
He told me we never fought. Why would I gouge my nails into his arm deep enough to inflict permanent scars?
“No, baby…you’d never hurt me. It happened the day you fell. You were walking too close to the edge, and you got dizzy. I grabbed you when I saw you go down, and all you could do was grab on to my arm.” He swallows hard. Tears form in the corners of his eyes. “I tried to pull you up. I tried so fucking hard.”
My heartbeat reverberates loudly in my ears as the tears slide down his cheeks.
“You kept slipping…I couldn’t pull you up. Ther
e was nothing for me to grab on to. You were so fucking scared. I’ll never forget how you looked at me, how much you trusted me to save you.” He sucks in a tortured, ragged breath. “I begged you to hang on to me—I didn’t care if you pulled my skin off to the bone as long as you didn’t fall—but everything happened so fast.” His voice cracks over the last word, and it tears my heart to tattered shreds.
Envisioning the accident, piecing it together from his words, is making my entire body tremble. “Oh my God,” I whisper. “I didn’t know.”
I never realized he was right there when it happened, trying to save me. Or that he had to watch me fall.
“It’s my fault,” he rasps. “I should’ve—”
“No,” I say quickly. I won’t let him say such horrible things. “It’s not your fault. Have you been thinking and believing that all this time?”
His hands shake as he grabs a napkin off the small table and wipes his face.
Yes. He blames himself for what happened. To Ember. To me. To himself and his daughter.
God. How awful to be missing his wife so much while she lay in a coma for years, all the while blaming himself. It’s unthinkable the pain and grief he must have been living with.
“Is that why you never gave up?” I ask as delicately as I can. “Because you felt responsible?”
The color drains from his face. “I never gave up because I love you. But I didn’t just feel responsible. I am responsible.”
“There’s no way that can be true. You have to know that.”
He shakes his head and angrily tosses the napkin onto the table. “It is. I’m your husband. I’m supposed to protect you. From anything and everything. I should’ve moved faster. I should’ve been strong enough to pull you up.” Leaning his elbows on his legs, he stares down at the ground, hiding his face behind the curtain of his hair.
“Asher…” I touch his cheek and force him to look at me. “You’re human. I can’t remember that day, but it sounds like it was a horrible accident with no time at all to react.”
His dark-brown eyes bore into mine, the golden flecks extinguished, melted into the ebony iris. The sadness and turmoil brewing in his expression speak for his silence.
Ember is the only one who can fix this for him and take it all away. Since she’s not exactly here, I’m going to do it for her. I owe it to him, and to her, and to whoever I am, to try to make this right. This kind of guilt can’t be left lingering between us.
“You have to let that go, Asher. It wasn’t your fault.”
“Em…” He covers my hand with his, pressing it against his cheek.
“I mean it. I don’t blame you in any way. I know you’d never let anything happen to me.”
The darkness of despair in his eyes shifts to a soft longing, and he cups the side of my neck with his large palm, gently pulling me to him.
Our lips meet in a soft, uncertain way. Unexpected but not uninvited. I slide my hand to his shoulder, beneath his thick, wavy hair, resisting the sudden desire to wind my fingers into the softness of it. Breathing softly, he moves his lips to my cheek, then slowly to the spot under my ear, his cheek pressed against mine. It’s gentle and intimate in a way that makes me dizzy and utterly still.
My breath comes out in a whispery shudder when he tightens his hand against my neck and drags his lips back to mine. My fingers clench into him in response, nails pressing into the fabric of his shirt. His shoulder is like a rock under my hand. Tilting his head, he kisses me fervently, deeper, as if he’s desperate to meld us together.
I feel it too, a sudden surge of too much space, too much air between us. When his tongue slips across my lips, warm, wet, and lemony from his iced tea, my breath catches in my throat with a mew.
Heart thudding… It’s no surprise when fight or flight thoughts sprout up and take over my mind.
Worst. Timing. Ever.
Is it desire or fear causing my heart to beat like the wings of a trapped bird?
Is this kiss ours? Mine and his?
Or is it theirs? Hers and his?
Shoving the doubts away, I open my mouth to him, and our tongues kiss and caress. A low moan hums from his throat, and I’m breathless for more of him, more of the heated euphoria tingling down my spine and to my thighs.
Kissing Asher Valentine feels righter than anything I’ve ever felt.
As if reading my mind, he clutches the back of my neck, and his other hand lands on my waist, pulling me closer. His mouth completely owns mine, his tongue swooping in with another pent-up growl.
Something hard clashes against my teeth, and I pull back in surprise.
“Sorry.” He grins. “Tongue ring.”
“What?” I shake my head to clear the swoony haze.
I must look utterly confused because he sticks his tongue out to show me a metal bar through his tongue.
I’m taken aback by how scary it looks and confused as to how it isn’t painful. What if it falls out while we’re kissing?
“Can you take that out?” I ask.
He shakes his head.
“It’s permanent?”
“No, I can take it out, but I’ve had it for so long, my mouth feels all screwed up without it. I can’t talk right, or sing. Or kiss…”
“I’m not sure if I like it or not.” I quirk my eyebrow up.
“You actually bought it for me. Your name’s engraved on it.”
What kind of woman buys a tongue bar for her husband?
He inches closer, and I put my hand on the middle of his hard chest.
His smile fades. “What’s wrong?”
I’m not sure. So many feelings are swirling around inside me.
I blink back the sting of tears in my eyes. “Nothing. I think I’m just tired. I should probably go back to my room.”
“Please…don’t go. It’s still early, and I like sitting out here being close to you.”
“With me? Are you sure?” There they are, the words I didn’t want to say. I hate when I do that.
Lines appear across his forehead like a roadmap. “Of course with you.”
Chewing my lip, I wonder if I needed more time in the hospital where I was shielded from the real world. Maybe I’m just not ready to try to live a normal life. Maybe my brain is a lot more screwed up than the doctors realized.
Or maybe I don’t belong here at all.
I’m confused by everything. I don’t know what’s normal.
The familiar emotional hurricane spins up inside me, tearing apart my heart, ravaging my mind, and scattering pieces of me into a heap of confusion. I could fall into the black hole of nothingness again. Where I’m no one, and time stands still with butterflies.
I might burst into tears. I might laugh hysterically.
Breathe. Focus on now.
“Em?” His worried eyes search mine. “Are you okay?”
I nod.
“Are you upset I kissed you?”
“No,” I whisper. “I like when you kiss me.”
“We don’t have to stop,” he says softly.
“I know. I just—”
“Or we can sit and hold hands and talk. I just want to be with you. That’s all.”
I want it all. The kisses and the handholding and the talks. I just don’t want to constantly be overshadowed by the past.
“I want to be with you too,” I finally reply. “I’m really trying. So much of tonight was perfect. I love everything you did to make it special. But…”
He slips his arm around me again, pulling me into the safe haven of his shoulder and his cologne. Sighing, I rest my head against him, wishing there wasn’t a past and only a now and a tomorrow.
“But something’s wrong,” he says quietly.
“No, not wrong. Just…new.”
He strokes my hair absently. I close my eyes and enjoy the delicious tingles it sends from my scalp to my toes.
“Then we should talk about it, like you said earlier. We should just throw everything on the table and figure it out, ri
ght?”
“Right.”
“You can talk to me about anything, Em. Whatever it is, we’ll get through it. I promise.”
Promises. What are they worth, really? Years ago, I promised to love this man no matter what, and then I fell and smacked my head and totally forgot our life together.
I sit up to face him. “Tonight was supposed to be like a real date, a new start for me and you.”
“Exactly,” he agrees.
“But it really wasn’t. It was Ember’s favorite foods.”
“I wanted you to have things you like. I was trying to be thoughtful.”
“Those are things she liked. Not me. I don’t eat chicken.”
He blinks in confusion. “You don’t? Since when?”
“Since I saw this adorable little pet chicken on the internet. It wears sweaters and sleeps in its owner’s bed. It has a personality. I know all animals do, but I just feel attached to that chicken, and now I can’t imagine eating one. Ever! And there it was, all over my plate.”
He stares at me with a half-smile on his face. “You fell in love with a little social media chicken?”
“I guess I did.”
“Oh, babe. I didn’t know.”
Had I ever told him about my obsession with the sweater and hat-wearing chicken? I don’t think I did.
“I know, but sometimes I feel like everyone is thinking about the old Ember. What she liked and wanted. I feel forgotten. And the tongue ring… I’m not really sure if I like it, but she did. I don’t want to think about her name on a piece of metal in your mouth when you’re kissing me. It’s like everything is haunted by your ex. If this was any other date between two people, this wouldn’t be okay.”
I sound crazy and irrational, but yet, it is how I feel.
He lets out a low breath. “I never meant to make you feel that way. But I don’t have an ex, Em.” He dips his head to look me in the eye. “You’re the only one. You’re Ember. You’re not two different people.”
Tearing my eyes from his, I stare at the little butterfly ring on my finger. Has it always been a symbol of what was to come? The caterpillar turns into the butterfly…but what happens to the caterpillar? Is she just gone? Or is she now the butterfly? Are they different beings, or just one, sharing a life?
