by Rye Hart
“I've got just the thing,” she says brightly.
Marianne takes my arm and leads me through the store until we reach a rack that's stuffed with cashmere sweaters. She urges me to touch them and they're so soft, like clouds against your skin. Marianne's words, not mine. Still, I can't say that her description is that far off the mark. They feel nice.
One of the sweaters in heather gray catches my eye. I remember Sydney used to like black and gray clothing, but I'm not sure what she likes anymore. I imagine her style and tastes have changed over the years. Still, it's a start.
“The price is a bit steep,” Marianne warns me.
“I'm good for it.”
I don't even look at the price tag, since it's not even an issue for me. Whatever I can do to make Sydney comfortable, I'm going to do it.
“Money isn't an issue for me,” I say.
The magic words every salesperson wants to hear. The look on Marianne's face is almost orgasmic, with wide eyes and her mouth open in the perfect “O”.” She glances at me again, clearly surprised. I don't dress the part of millionaire for a reason. I don't like the attention or the assumptions that come from it. Plus, my jeans and t-shirts are more comfortable, more me. “What size is your special friend?” she asks, again teasing me about the word friend.
The question catches me off guard and I'm not sure how to answer it. I look at the tags on the shirts, those are easy enough – small, medium, large, etc. But a specific size? I'm clueless.
“Probably a small? Maybe a medium?” I say hesitatingly. “She's got some curves though, so maybe larger?”
“You have no idea, do you?” Marianne asks me, clearly amused by my befuddlement.
“I don't,” I say, shaking my head. “Not really.”
“That's certainly going to make things difficult,” she ponders. “Though we have a generous return policy, so if something doesn't fit, you can always bring it back.”
Music to my ears. “I'll talk a small, medium and large sweater then. All of them in gray, please.”
“They're $300 a piece,” Marianna says, blinking up at me. “That would be – ”
I hand her my card. “Nine hundred dollars. I'll need some pants, and maybe a few more shirts to go with them too,” I say. “Just pick some nice things out. You have a nice style, so I'll trust your judgement.”
“What size pants?”
I stare at the pants in her hands and see that it's not a small, medium, large sort of thing. There's a number, and unlike with men's pants, it's not the size of the waist. It's merely one number. In this case, she's holding a size four, which sounds incredibly small to me.
“I honestly have no idea – ”
“Here, what if we got her some jeggings instead,” she says, putting the jeans away.
“Jeggings?” I scratch my head. “I have no idea what those are.”
“Stretchy jeans,” she says. “A mix between leggings and jeggings.”
“Huh, okay.”
She pulls out a few pairs for me, and I tell her to give me all three sizes – small, medium and large in those too. With that, I let Marianne run off to pick out a couple more outfits, some socks, a pair of shoes based on an estimated size. I have no idea what I'm doing here, but thankfully I've found a decent salesperson who does the work for me.
“You sure price isn't an issue, Mr. – ”
“Just call me Jack,” I tell her.
“Jack. Fitting,” she says.
I have no idea what she means by that, but the way her cheeks flush, she seems to mean it as a compliment. I think.
“And no, price isn't an issue,” I say.
Katya is leaning against the counter, watching us with pure envy in her eyes. Her perfectly manicured nails clack against the countertop, and with each item that Marianne rings up, Katya seems more and more disgruntled. Again, I assume they're paid on commission and considering my total, it's one hell of a sale. I can understand why she's disgruntled about it.
“Here's your receipt, Jack. Please make sure you hold onto it to return the items that don't fit,” she says as she writes something at the top. “And this is my cell phone number in case you have any questions or need anything else. I'm happy to help you, Jack.”
I have a feeling she's giving me her number for other reasons – not strictly, just to be helpful. She's a cute girl, I'll give her that, but I won't lead her on. I'm not interested in dating anyone – especially a good girl like Marianne. I'd just fuck her up big time if I got involved with her. Just like I did with Sydney.
“Thanks, Marianne,” I say, taking the paper from her and shoving it into my pocket.
It's almost noon, and Sydney is being released soon, which means I need to hustle down to the hospital. Now, with bags full of clothing, I can at least bring her back to my home. There, I can tell her the full story and we'll be able to sort everything out.
Hopefully, she'll stay with me until she heals, but in the end, it's up to her. Given our past, as soon as she remembers me, there's a good chance she'll want to run like hell. I can hope things turn out differently, but I have a feeling she'll head for the hills.
Not that I can blame her.
ooo000ooo
“You ready to go home?” The nurse asks her just as I step inside the hospital room.
Sydney glances at me, and the look in her eyes is one of fear of the unknown. I'm sure this all still feels so foreign to her, and I can't blame her at all. The fact that I'm taking her out of the hospital and taking her to my home – a man she doesn't even recall – has to be more than a little disconcerting.
It's almost unfair. Which gives me yet another reason to feel like an asshole.
I hand the bag of clothes over to Sydney and she looks at it, then up at me.
“I wasn't sure what size you are, so I bought one of every size. Just to be safe,” I tell her. I scratch my head. “We can return whatever doesn't fit.”
The nurse's smile falters and the light of suspicion blossoms in her eyes as she looks at me.
“Doesn't she have clothes at home you could have brought with you?” she asks.
I look back at her. “Sure, but I wanted to get her something nice,” I say. “After everything she's been through, she deserves it.”
A lie, but a harmless one. Tara, the nurse, smiles brightly at me. I guess my answer somehow appeased her and allayed her fears.
“You sure have found yourself a good one,” she says, patting Sydney on the arm.
“Thank you,” Sydney says quietly, uncertainty coloring her every word.
She can't meet my eyes, and I can't bring myself to meet hers either. The lie has gone on long enough. As soon as we're at my place, I'll tell her the truth. I have to. It's like this tremendous weight bearing down on me and I can't deal with it much longer. She deserves the truth – and I need to get out from under this oppressive weight.
Sydney gets up from the bed and walks to the bathroom with the bags in her hand. I want to offer my help, but I'm not sure it would be welcomed. So, instead of saying anything, I just hold the door open for her instead.
“Just call out if you need me,” I tell her. “I'll be right out here.”
She nods but doesn't speak to me. She's hardly said anything to me these last few days, except to ask questions. Questions I don't have the answers to. The door closes behind her, and Tara tells me to buzz her if we need anything before leaving the room herself.
It's all so ordinary. So normal. A husband taking his wife home from the hospital, to care for her. To help nurse her back to health and get her back on her feet. Except I'm not her husband, and she's going to realize that sooner or later. Probably the moment she steps through the front door and realizes that none of the things in my house belong to her. My place isn't exactly domesticated. It's rugged bachelor chic, I like to call it.
After Tara leaves, the room is uncomfortably silent. I sit on the edge of the bed looking around until finally, I can't stand the silence anymore. Sydney is
in the bathroom for a bit longer than expected, so I knock gently.
“You okay in there, Syd?”
“I'm fine,” she says.
That's what all women say when things are certainly not fine. Nothing is fine and I know it. I flop down in the chair by the hospital bed and stare up at the television. It's muted, but there are subtitles. Some shitty daytime talk show is playing. Something Sydney wouldn't be interested in. Or would she? Hell, a lot has changed since we were together. Maybe this Sydney likes Maury or Dr. Oz, or whatever the hell is on. How would I know?
The bathroom door opens and Sydney steps out in the cashmere sweater, dark denim jeggings and black boots. The outfit fits her. She looks good in it. Her skin is still paler than normal, and her reddish-brown bob hangs loosely around her face rather than it being styled like normal. Her green eyes are bright and large – larger than I'd ever seen them before.
“The sweaters still had the tags on them,” she says. “Were they really three hundred dollars apiece?”
Shit. In my rush, I'd forgotten to remove the tags. Not like it really matters, I guess.
I shrug. “They're real cashmere,” I say. “I thought you'd like it.”
“I do, it's just – do you – I mean do we – have that kind of money?”
I stifle a chuckle. “I'm, or rather we, are comfortable,” I say. “Yes. There is nothing for you to worry about.”
“I can't imagine how much all this cost,” she says.
“There's more in my truck too,” I say. “Figured you'd need a few new things. At least, until we figure things out.”
“Figure what out?” Sydney asks.
“We'll talk about it once we get home,” I say.
I stand and take her hand, bringing it to my lips. I have no intention of coming onto her, not without her remembering me. Not without her consent or some signal that she's into it and wants the same. And especially not without her still thinking of me as her husband. No, the truth has to come out first. Anything else would be wrong and immoral. I'm a lot of things, but I'm not immoral.
Still, I find it hard to resist pressing my lips to her skin, so I settle for her hand.
“Let's get you home.”
CHAPTER NINE
SYDNEY
The ride home is quiet. I take in the scenery that flashes by on the outside of Jack's truck. At times, a familiar feeling hits me, but it's nothing more than fleeting. An image pops now and then, but nothing concrete, and certainly nothing recent. I get the sense that it's mostly childhood memories coming back to me. Apparently, I've been to Aspen a few times as a child. I somewhat remember those experiences and recall that they're long in the past. There’s nothing recent enough in my memories to make it feel like home to me.
“We're going to stop in at Daisy's. She's going to want to see you,” Jack says. “She's really worried about you.”
I notice he's gripping the steering wheel hard enough to turn his knuckles white. It's as if he's stressed about something. I don't know how to talk to him, or even what to say, so I don't even try. It goes without saying that I have no idea who Daisy is, but when we park in front of the small cafe, a feeling of deja vu hits me. I sit in the truck for a minute and just stare at the front of the building and the sign.
“I've been here before,” I say, mostly to myself.
“Yes, many times,” Jack says quietly. “Do you remember anything specific?”
“Pancakes. And coffee. Really good coffee,” I say as a small smile touches the corners of my mouth.
“And pie,” Jack adds.
“Pie – yes.”
I close my eyes and try to remember the last time I had a piece of pie here. Years ago, or so it seems. Maybe if I go inside, it'll help. I tell him that and Jack gives me a smile and a quick nod of his head.
He quickly climbs out of the truck and rushes around to my side to open my door for me. It's a steep drop from the seat to the ground, and he holds a hand out to help me down from the truck. Looking down at the snow and ice beneath my feet, my mind races and whirls with a thousand thoughts and emotions – most of them based in fear.
My throat clenches up and I start shaking, some irrational terror gripping me tightly. I don't know where it's coming from or why I'm so scared, but I am. My breathing starts to grow ragged as my pulse races and I cringe when I hear the quiet whimpering coming from my mouth.
“It's okay,” Jack says, in a calm, soothing tone.
He takes me by the waist, lifting me from the seat as if I weigh nothing and puts me on the ground. My feet find steady, solid footing, but that's not the reason for the panic attack. Something else triggered the reaction. The memory hovers just out of sight, at the corner of my mind. When I turn to find it, it disappears again, only to reappear in the corner of my mind once more. It's frustrating as hell.
Jack continues to hold me steady, his arms around my waist, as if he's afraid I might fall. Our eyes meet, and I can't help but smile. His hands keep me steady and safe. I look up at him and something tells me that as long as he's here with me, it's going to be okay. I'm going to be okay.
He leans close, and I think he may kiss me, which surprisingly, given the circumstances, isn't something that freaks me out as much I would have thought it might. I close my eyes and prepare for his lips to touch mine, but instead, he whispers in my ear.
“I got you, Sydney,” he says softly. “Nothing will happen to you as long as you're with me. I won't let it.”
He hugs me close and kisses my forehead. Wrapped up in his arms, I feel a warmth spreading through my whole body. I snuggle close to him, with his giant coat wrapped around me since that's the one piece of clothing he forgot to bring me. I feel like a child wearing her dad's clothes, but it's nice and warm. More than that, it's comfortable. Familiar, in a way.
“Ready for some real food instead of that garbage they call food at the hospital?” Jack asks, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.
I can't help myself, I actually smile. A genuine smile. My tummy growls at the mere thought of pancakes and pie.
Jack holds my hand as we enter the cafe, and an old woman with a kind, familiar face rushes toward us, tears in her eyes. She takes my face into her hands and kisses both my cheeks. I don't know this woman, but I somehow feel comforted by her presence. It's strange, but it's so – familiar. Much in the way Jack is familiar to me.
“Lordy, I thought we lost you, Sydney,” she says. “I'm not sure what either one of us would have done if that had happened.”
I blink at her, trying to place her name. I remember her, in fuzzy, fragmented images that float through my mind. But, that's of a younger version of the woman in front of me. The woman I remember still had black hair back in the day, not gray. Wrinkles had formed around her eyes and lips, aging her by at least ten to fifteen years.
Jack speaks up for me. “Her memory is still a little sketchy.”
“Ah, you don't remember me, do you, dear?”
“I do, mostly,” I say.
I feel incredibly self-conscious. It's frustrating when you're trying to remember someone or something, but you can't. There's like a mental block. A wall. No, a door. A closed door with a lock on it. No matter how hard I try to force it open, to let me access those memories, it's no use. I can't get to them.
“It's me, Miss Daisy,” she says, taking my hands in hers. Her skin is so warm and soft, and the smell of coffee filters through the room, reminding me that we're there for pancakes, pie, and that delicious coffee.
“Come on, let's get you some food,” the woman named Miss Daisy says. “Maybe my cooking will help you remember.”
Jack and I sit down across from one another in a booth with a red and white checkered tablecloth that seems hauntingly familiar. Daisy brings us each a cup of coffee without even us having to ask. It's like she just knows what we want. Of course, if I've been here before, as Jack says I have, maybe she does already know what we want.
I bring the mug of coffee to my lips and inhale
deeply. The aroma delights my senses and brings me back to another time. Closing my eyes, I inhale the rich French roast again and savor it. It feels like home.
“You introduced me to this place, you know,” Jack says. “I never would have found it if not for you.”
I open my eyes and catch him staring at me. His blue eyes sparkle and a smile pulls at his lips behind that thick beard of his. His face is beginning to etch its way into my memories. I'm starting to feel like I know him. But, why or where we met still eludes me. As does marrying him.
“Oh yeah? Tell me all about it,” I say.
I take a sip from my warm mug, wrapping my hands around it, relishing the heat, as steam rises from dark liquid.
“Not much to tell. We were young and in love, your parents brought me out here with you on a ski trip,” he says, a light of fond nostalgia in his eyes. “I think you forced their hand about that. I seem to recall that they didn't seem too pleased about it.”
He chuckles lightly, but his eyes hold some sadness within them. I want him to tell me all about it. I want him to tell me what makes him happy, what makes him sad, but there's just too much and I'm starting to feel a little overwhelmed by it all.
So instead of pressing, I let him go at his own pace. He takes a sip of his coffee and leans back in the booth, a faraway look on his face. I can see that he's reliving some old story. One I hope he shares with me.
“We snuck out one night while we were here. You drove your dad's SUV and brought me here for a late-night snack. I remember you said you ate here growing up, with your parents, and wanted to share it with me,” he says. “It was the sweetest damn thing, Syd. I remember how nice it felt to be brought into your world; made to feel a part of it.”
His eyes glaze over as if he's traveling back to that time. Then he looks at me, a small smile touching the corners of his mouth and continues, reaching out to touch my hair.
“You used to keep your hair long back then. It was all the way down to your waist, and you'd twirl your hair as we talked,” he says. “And we spent hours at this table, talking about everything from our dreams to school to our parents. We shared so much of ourselves with each other here at this very table.”
