by RC Boldt
"Why don’t we start with planks first? Your shoulder’s in good shape now. Plus, planks will help your core and upper body strength."
My response is rushed with eagerness to satisfy this urge to do more with my body. "Okay." I jump up from my seat, my muscles already buzzing with excitement.
As he guides me to the deck floor, his gaze is watchful. He calls out the time for each plank, and I’m both proud and surprised that I’m successfully holding the position for at least sixty seconds.
Dr. King surveys me for any indication that I'm in pain or overdoing it before finally calling it quits.
His tone is gruff, words curt as always, but they still manage to send warmth coursing through me. "That's enough for today, Plank Princess.”
My arms are sore, as are my abdominals, but it's a good kind of sore. Not the kind where I compromised my healing.
Mouth curving into a proud smile, I grasp the hand he offers to help me up. "Perhaps I'll eventually graduate to Plank Queen."
Something indecipherable gleams in his eyes, sending a delicate shiver tiptoeing down the length of my spine. It's only now that I realize he’s still holding my hand. My breath catches in my throat and a tiny surge of panic lances through me because I don’t want him to let go.
It's the strangest thing, how natural it feels to touch him and be touched by him yet not in a doctor-patient way. The pad of his thumb skims over my hand, and my nipples draw tight beneath the layers of fabric of my tank top and shirt while goose bumps line my skin.
When my body jerks slightly with a jolt of awareness, he feels my reaction and instantly drops my hand before stepping back.
He grips the ends of the towel around his neck, his brows pinching together as he averts his eyes.
“Good job on your planks. You can add those in with your walks on the beach. We'll slowly go from there, adding some more strengthening exercises.” Turning abruptly, he heads for the door to the house. “I’ve got to shower before I tackle work for the day.”
He disappears from sight, his bare feet padding near soundlessly along the hardwood floor.
And once again, I'm left wishing for more time with him while also realizing that once my memory returns, my time here will abruptly end.
Conflict wars within me. A betraying wisp of a thought echoes in my mind with the wish that my memory would continue its delay.
With that thought dawns the realization that maybe I'm not a good person at all.
Chapter 19
DR. LIAM KING
I’m not usually a fan of cold showers, but right now, it’s as if my skin has erupted into flames that need to be immediately doused.
Christ, she’s got me so fucked. On top of being beautiful, those guileless eyes of hers, so clear and blue that watch me with a hint of wanting, are driving me out of my goddamn mind.
But now, after seeing her physical reaction to me… I let out a grunt and rest my head against the shower wall. She may be a smaller-breasted woman and get away with wearing a tank top beneath her shirts, but today, those nipples of hers made themselves known.
They pressed against the fabric, tight and perfect, practically begging for me. I could’ve raked my thumbnail over one and put my mouth on the other, sucking it into my mouth.
Fuck me. I widen my stance, my balls already aching, my dick thick and heavy in my hand. My thighs flex when I fist my cock at the base, give it one pump, and run my thumb over the veined head.
With my eyes closed, I brace my other hand against the cool tile and continue stroking my length. It’s wrong on so many levels, but all I see is her. Her peering up at me innocently. Her, with the tightest nipples I’m dying to suck on. Whose mouth I’d love to taste.
Christ, I’m in pain, my dick harder than it’s ever been. My hand pumps faster, my mind locked into a fantasy. She’d be spread out before me, her pussy on display, wet from me tongue-fucking her. Her breasts free and nipples standing so proudly and puckered from where I sucked on them.
My cock throbs with the fantasy of burying myself balls deep inside her. My strokes speed up as I think about what I’d do to her. How I’d start off with the broad head of my cock at her pussy lips, getting them wet with her slickness. Then I’d tap the head against her clit.
I can’t suppress my groan. “Fuck.”
The mental vision of her sprawled out on display sends another surge of arousal strumming through me. I’d toy with her, delivering light taps to her little clit with the head of my cock until she’s writhing, begging for my dick.
My pumps grow more frantic as I imagine pressing the head right at her entrance and inching inside so slowly, reveling in the sensation of her pussy stretching to accommodate me until I bottom out.
“Liam.” I imagine her whispered plea, and it has me working my dick like a madman.
Fuck, fuck, fuck! I come so hard my legs grow wobbly as I pulse my release, letting it get washed away.
Chest heaving with harsh, labored breaths, a slight shudder rolls through me as I stare at the water circling the drain.
I’m so goddamn fucked.
All over a woman with no recollection of her own name.
Eleven Years Old
I had a nightmare last night. It was the first one in a while.
In the morning, Papa and I usually have breakfast together and then drink our tea. He likes to sit and talk with me before we start our day.
I think he knew something was bothering me. I wasn’t sure if he’d think I was being a baby about it, but I went ahead and told him about the nightmare.
I dreamt of my dad. Well, it was more of a flashback, I think. I remembered how he tried to force me to like playing baseball and soccer, telling me I couldn’t keep my nose in a book all the time. That it was the reason I had no friends and why other kids made fun of me.
Mama raised her voice at him, and they started arguing. And it was all my fault.
He was disappointed in me. He wanted a son instead of me. Or maybe even a daughter who was exactly how he wanted.
And I wasn’t it. Not by a long shot.
He never cared that I was at the top of my class. That I won spelling bees or read at a much higher grade level.
He never cared about any of it. I think that was why, after a while, he just gave up. He stopped trying to be my dad and just went through the motions. He’d get up for work, kiss Mama goodbye, pat me on the shoulder, and leave for the day.
Mama always came to my school awards ceremonies. She always clapped the loudest when my name was called and smiled the biggest.
Daddy couldn’t be bothered.
I don’t think he ever really loved me, but Mama tried her best to make up for it.
When I told Papa about this, his face looked like it turned to stone. Then he set his teacup down and took my hands in his.
He told me that he didn’t like to speak ill of the dead, and he also didn’t want me to believe that violence solved all problems. But he said he’d give anything to have a moment with my dad and give him a piece of his mind and maybe a punch or two to bring him to his senses.
Then he told me that I was wonderful and worthy whether I loved to play sports or wanted to read to my heart’s content.
He looked me in the eyes when he said this, and not once did he look away.
My dad never bothered to talk to me, and when he had something quick to say, he wouldn’t even look me in the eyes.
Anyway, Papa acted a little shy when he asked if I needed a hug, but when I said yes and I jumped up from my chair, his eyes had that look I really love.
He stood and wrapped his arms around me so tight. And he said, “Little One, never doubt your worth or how much you are loved ever again.”
It makes me teary eyed just writing that, but it’s beautiful too.
Mama, if you’re up there watching over me, I hope you know I’m grateful for Papa. He’s the best dad I’ve ever had.
I love you, Mama, and I miss you. Forever and always.
Chapter 20
HER
A knock sounds on the front screen door, echoing through the house while I’m outside basking in the sun.
“¡Hola, Doctor King!” a woman calls out. “Siento molestarle, pero tuve un pequeño accidente.”
Dr. King’s deep voice mingles with the creaking of the screen door as he welcomes her inside. “Está bien. Entra y te curaré.”
There’s no urgency in his tone, so I assume the little accident she had isn’t life or death.
I immediately go still, every molecule of my body frozen in place where I sit on the chaise overlooking the beach.
Because I know what they just spoke of.
“Hello, Dr. King! Sorry to bother you, but I had a little accident.”
“It’s fine. Come on in, and I’ll get you fixed up.”
I know Spanish? Holy shit. My mind races, and I try to recall where I learned it or even when, but once again, I come up empty.
Dammit.
Light footsteps patter on the floor, following his heavier ones. His voice carries through the home as I listen to them step inside one of the patient rooms.
“Necesitas ser más cuidadosa cuando rebanas tus mangos. ¿Qué te dije sobre el uso de esos cuchillos sin filo? Sé lo que Santa necesita traerte para Navidad.” You need to be more careful when you slice your mangos. What did I tell you about using those dull knives? I know what Santa needs to bring you this Christmas.
Without realizing it, I murmur to myself, “Santa necesita traerme de vuelta mi memoria.” Santa needs to bring me back my memory.
Moments later, their voices emerge from the room and spill into the hallway near the front door. Appreciation laces the woman’s tone, her gratefulness evident.
“Muchas gracias, Doctor King. Te traeré algo de mi ceviche.” Thank you so much, Doctor King. I will bring you some of my ceviche.
“No es necesario, pero soy un hombre lo suficientemente listo para no declinar.” That’s not necessary, but I’m a smart enough man not to decline.
His tone catches me by surprise. It’s devoid of the entirety of his usual gruffness. Is it because he’s interested in dating her? An odd sensation unfurls in the pit of my stomach. It feels oddly similar to…jealousy.
Why the hell would it matter if he’s spoken for? I don’t even know the man. I don’t even know myself, for fuck’s sake.
Dropping my chin to my chest, I pinch my eyes closed as a brutal combination of helplessness and isolation bombards me.
I don’t know who I am, where I’m from, or even if I’m spoken for. I’d like to think I possess some intuition and would know if I were in a relationship. I imagine that if I were, he’d be searching for me, not leaving any stone unturned. Yet, each day, Dr. King tells me that no missing persons alerts matching my description have been listed.
With a sigh, I tip my head back against the chaise. My eyes fall closed as I soak up the vitamin D he prescribed. Even while the warmth of the sun penetrates deep and I attempt to calm my tumultuous thoughts, anxiety worms its way in, sending a contrasting chill surging through my veins.
It reminds me that, at some point, I’ll have worn out my welcome and Dr. King will ask me to leave.
It’s only a matter of time.
Chapter 21
HER
Frustration plagues me even in my dream state as if some place deep in my psyche already knows none of these flashbacks will provide any clues to my identity.
As the scene unfolds in my mind, tension grows so vivid and tangible that my muscles harden to stone and my heartbeat turns erratic.
As I stare down at their dead bodies, barely able to remain upright, I’m conflicted by a sense of both rightness and shame.
I got into this mess on my own. But that doesn’t mean I’m trapped.
If Papa could make a change, then so can I.
My father was a loyal man. An honorable one. Even if he doubted himself and punished himself for his past, in my eyes, it never detracted from the man he made himself into.
The man he made himself be for me. For his only child.
I only ever wanted to make you proud, Papa. But now I’ve made a mess of things.
I shoot upright in bed, chest heaving in labored breaths and cold sweat clinging to every inch of my body. My tank top clings to me like a wet rag, and I shiver, goose bumps rising along my skin.
My fingers twitch as though they distinctly recall curling around a weapon.
But why? Why was I there? What was I even doing?
Questions pummel me, but I’m unable to uncover any answers buried inside my useless brain. Dropping back onto the mattress, I stare sightlessly into the darkness of my room.
The more my brain replays snippets of memories, the more confused I become.
Am I a danger to Dr. King?
Am I a danger to myself?
It takes forever to fall back asleep…without any answers once again.
Twelve Years Old
Today was mortifying.
I got my period, and I bled through my favorite pair of shorts. I’m already not excited about this whole womanhood deal.
Papa helped me by telling me that it should be okay if I scrubbed everything under cold water, and I think the stain might actually come out all the way. He offered to cut up one of his cotton T-shirts for me to use as a pad while he ran to the store for me, but I told him I’d just use wadded-up toilet paper.
When he came back from town, he had the largest assortment of things. There were a ton of different brands and pads to choose from and different chocolates—of course, he chose the organic ones—and some anti-inflammatory teas.
Then he told me to take the day off from chores and asked me if I had any questions about what was happening with my body. Papa had taught me about some of this before, so I didn’t really have any questions. He seemed to think I’d want to be left alone, but I asked him if he could take the day off from chores, too.
We hung out, and he made me hot tea and even gave me some chocolate before lunch. He ended up sharing a few stories about when he was a boy and grew up in the orphanage with his friend, Mikhail. Some of it made me sad for him because he never had a real family, but a bunch of his stories about him and Mikhail were funny.
Papa made me feel better without really doing much. When I thanked him at bedtime, he had smoothed a hand over the top of my head, and his eyes crinkled like they do when I tell him something funny or that I love him.
He reminded me that when I turn seventy and get married—ha! He always says that :) —that I better have a good man who treats me with respect and kindness and understanding, especially during my menstrual cycle.
I wonder if I’ll be lucky enough to find a man like Papa someday.
Chapter 22
HER
“Did you take your Moringa seeds?”
Dr. King eyes me over the rim of his cup. Guanabana smoothies are a staple for him each day.
There’s a guanabana tree in the side yard, and he’s taught me how to pick the ripe ones. According to him, guanabana fruit is full of antioxidants and is also said to be ten thousand times stronger than chemotherapy.
I turn away to hide the wrinkling of my nose while I concentrate on peeling the mango skin. “Not yet.”
His survey of me is tangible, skittering over my skin in an electrically charged awareness. “I know they have a bitter aftertaste, but they help with inflammation and promote healing.”
I grimace as I continue peeling the mango. I know Dr. King only offers recommendations that are beneficial to my health and well-being. He’s given me no reason to doubt him, especially since he practices what he preaches and takes the Moringa seeds after he finishes his daily workout.
One strong, tanned arm reaches past me for the upper cabinet to my right. He grabs the small, airtight stainless steel container and draws it out of my line of sight. The sound of the lid popping open reaches my ears a moment before his palm enters my line of vision. Two seeds sit in
the center.
A heaving sigh falls from my lips like a recalcitrant child, but when I reach out to pluck them from his hand, he draws his hand back.
My eyes snap to his in question, but he lifts his chin, gesturing to my hands, which are now slightly damp with mango juice.
“It might affect the taste even more. Just go ahead and open.” He brings his palm up closer, and I open my mouth, automatically closing my eyes to brace for the taste.
Two seeds drop onto my tongue, and I close my lips, chewing and swallowing as fast as I can. I open my eyes as soon as I do, only to discover Dr. King still standing closely. His gaze flicks between my mouth and eyes, possessing an intensity that has my lungs stuttering on an inhale.
I duck my head, forcing my concentration back to my task. I know it’s futile to think there’s more to his regard than just doctorly concern or interest. But the truth of the matter is, there are rare moments I’m offered a tiny glimpse of him that I’m not privy to any other time. When his expression, though unreadable as ever, isn’t quite as hardened or distant as usual.
It’s why I’ve come to anticipate breakfast time each day. Not only for the freshly sliced mango and pineapple and having quiet moments in his presence as we eat outside on the deck. Not just for the view of the Pacific Ocean as the morning sun brightens the sky.
It’s because of him. Because of that tiny crack in his normal gruff demeanor at the start of each day.
He seems to enjoy my company more in the mornings, while most evenings are quite the opposite. Instead, at dinnertime, I get the impression he’s desperate for a reprieve from my presence.
