by Becca Barnes
“What the hell, Gaines? Did you fall into a vat of leftover Neiman Marcus samples?”
He sniffed his shirt and turned crimson.
“Oh, gosh. Sorry, Annie. I read this study about the connection between the olfactory system and memory, and I thought maybe . . .”
“You thought maybe you’d send her back into a cologne-induced coma?”
“I think I overdid it.”
“Yeah, I think maybe you did.” I started giggling.
“I’ll wash it off.” He grabbed a backpack out of the corner, and I realized it was his. His stuff. Because he planned to stay here. With me.
Evan disappeared into the bathroom, and soon I heard the shower turn on. A puff of steam escaped the cracked door, and I pulled my covers up higher. I closed my eyes and tried not to picture him stepping into the shower. Naked. It was like trying to have a conversation with someone who tells you to think about anything but purple giraffes, so of course, you can’t picture anything but purple giraffes. But that was no giraffe in the other room. It was my husband.
My naked husband.
“I brought you a present,” said Jen.
“I like presents,” I said, opening my eyes. Honestly, any distraction right now was a gift in and of itself.
She plopped a large, leatherbound book on the bedside table. I gingerly lifted the cover.
“It’s proof,” she said.
“Proof of—?” But when I flipped the first page, I didn’t have to ask what she meant. It was a photo album, page after page of pictures with me and Evan. Mostly phone selfies but also some artsy shots I’d taken with my real camera.
I gulped.
“I thought pictures would be the one thing you’d trust without question,” she said.
Jen knew me well. I’d been a professional photographer for five years, and if my own shots couldn’t bring the last few months into focus, nothing could.
“How did we meet?” I asked, looking at page after page of us kissing, embracing, laughing, dancing, snuggling.
“You were doing a shoot for one of his houses.”
“His houses?”
“He’s a builder. Specializes in historical restorations for the most part. He hired you through Mandy. He’d contracted with her agency to list the house.”
I nodded. The story added up. My friend Mandy was a real estate stager. I’d shot houses for her agency before.
“When?”
“September.”
I nodded again. That part didn’t make sense, though. It was January now. If we’d met in September, that was four months. Four months. To meet and fall in love and get married? I’d spent six months last year debating whether or not I wanted to get bangs.
The next few pages were from our wedding. I sighed. It looked like it was a small, intimate affair. My close friends and family, and what I could only assume were his close friends and family gathered at sunset on a beach I recognized from Amelia Island. Grief clutched my heart that I couldn’t remember it. My critical eyes took in the lighting, the angles, the framing. But I felt nothing. It was like looking at a client’s proofs.
“It was perfect.” Jen clutched my hand. “You’re going to remember it. All of it. I know you will.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then you’ve still got a husband with the finest arse this side of the Mississippi.”
I laughed and turned the page then busted into giggles and threw my hands over the page. Because that fine arse was there on Fujifilm paper displayed for all to see. In the picture, he was lying on his side, clutching a sheet in a fist. He stared at me over his shoulder and in my expert eye, I could tell he was looking at me, not the lens. The expression on his face made it clear he was barely holding on and wanted me to join him in that bed. Fast.
Jen glanced discreetly away, but her cheeks burned bright.
“Sorry,” she said. “I asked him for an album that had pictures of you together, and he told me where this one was. I didn’t realize it also had pictures of him in the all together.”
“Has my mom looked through it?” Oh, Lord, have mercy. “Or my dad?”
“No, of course not. I haven’t even seen it before. I think these were just some of your favorite shots so that’s why he suggested I grab it.”
“Okay.” I put my finger in the album to mark my spot but closed it.
“Meanie,” said Jen.
“Pervert.”
The shower stopped, and Jen hopped up, grabbing her purse.
“That’s my cue,” she said.
“But, wait. Why don’t you stay and—” Stay and what? Protect me from my gorgeous, loving, devoted husband?
The mood in the room had changed, and Jen had sensed it, too. I had met my husband. Now, I needed to meet my husband.
“He loves you.” She squeezed my hand. “A lot.”
“If I had just one memory, I’d feel better.”
“You do have one memory.” She nodded her head at the empty dinner bag. “He brought you a sandwich. And a keg of cologne.”
“Bye,” I said.
“Bye.” She bent over and kissed my forehead. “I’m glad you’re alive.”
“So am I.”
Three
Evan popped his head out of the bathroom, rubbing his wet head with a towel. A plume of steam rose above him.
“Did Jen leave?” he asked.
“Yeah.” I gestured at the album on my lap. “She just dropped this off.”
“Did she now?” Anxiety creased his forehead. “Did you two look at it . . . together?”
“A bit of it.” I averted my gaze, and he let out a puff of air mixed with an embarassed chuckle.
“Sorry. I should have warned her. I probably should have warned you, too. When she asked for an album, it was the first one that popped into my head, and I haven’t exactly been thinking straight this week.” He stepped out from the tiny bathroom, and only then did I realize that he wasn’t wearing a shirt, only his jeans, and he hadn’t bothered to zip or button those yet.
I might have had amnesia, but there was nothing wrong with my eyesight. And I would have had to be blind as a bat to miss the massive erection that threatened to punch a hole through his boxer briefs at any moment. He caught me staring and looked down.
“Ah, I’m so sorry, Annie. First the pictures and now . . . You must think I’m some kind of sex fiend getting turned on in a hospital. It’s just that I’ve been so terrified that we might lose you, and then with the relief of you waking up today, I think things are . . . working again.”
“It’s fine,” I said, perhaps a little too quickly. It was actually better than fine. Between the hot ass shot and the opportunity to check out the frontal package, I was ninety-nine percent sure I had accidentally wed a Grecian god.
“All right.” He slipped on a shirt and settled into the chair next to me. “Questions.”
“Questions.”
“And chocolate.” He grabbed a Lindt truffle out of his bag and put it on the tray next to the empty sandwich bag.
Strike that. One hundred percent sure.
“Umm”—I patted the album—“how long have we been married?”
“Six weeks.”
“That’s not long.”
“No, we’re newlyweds.” He grinned when he said it, and it was the first time his face had totally relaxed since I’d first seen him.
Newlyweds.
And now we were strangers.
“So we dated for, what, two months?”
“Two and a half.”
“That’s fast.”
“Yep. It was. It was also love at first sight.”
Yeah, well, I had loved lasagna at first sight, too. But I hadn’t married it. Yet.
I opened the album back up and flipped to the front, pointing to different shots while he filled me in on the when and where and what of each one.
“Ringing any bells?” he asked.
“Nothing yet.”
“Well, you heard what
Dr. Anand said. Don’t try to force anything. It’ll come when it comes.”
I zoomed through the wedding pages, unable to look at them again without fear of tearing up. I also flipped past the nude shot of him, hoping to spare us both a moment of embarrassment but instead, the next page doubled it.
“Wait, Annie.” Evan reached out his hand to stop me from looking at the page, but it was too late.
There was a series of timed shots of the two of us. Our legs were twined together like a pretzel, his hand cupping my breast, and his lips dipping down ready to take my nipple in his mouth and suckle it. I had a look of sheer ecstasy on my face.
I had always wondered what it would be like to take pictures of me having sex with someone, but I’d never been brave enough. Or foolish enough, depending on how you looked at it. But brave or foolish, I’d never been with someone with whom I’d felt safe enough to capture our moments of lovemaking. And that’s what these were. I could see it on my face. I loved him.
But I didn’t know him. At all.
“I forgot those were in there. I didn’t mean for you to see those yet,” said Evan. “I’m sorry. This is the last thing you need as you’re recovering.”
“Stop saying you’re sorry. And I’ll be the judge of what I need in order to recover.”
Evan’s face split into a grin.
“There’s the spitfire I know.”
“Well, this spitfire could actually use a nap.”
“Of course. Rest up.” He waggled his eyebrows at me. “I have a vested interest in you getting your underwear privileges back.”
I let out a bark of a laugh. I do believe my husband was flirting with me.
“I’ll be out in the waiting room if you need me,” he said and patted me on the foot.
After he left, I opened the album one more time. The shots after the super smexy ones were of me alone, more classical boudoir. I squinted at the last page. I really needed to find that lingerie I was wearing in them because it made my boobs look spectacular. I fanned myself. This probably wasn’t wise being strapped up to a heart monitor.
I flipped to the last page, bracing myself for who knows what. But it was just a blank end page. I couldn’t help but feel a little let down. I started to close it, but then I noticed that there was a ragged, torn edge sticking out of the spine. I plucked at it and frowned in the direction of the door.
There was a page torn out. I blushed at the mere thought of what could have gotten censored.
Four
“I feel like I should carry you over the threshold or something.” Evan swiped his watch against a keypad by the front door, and it sprang open like magic.
“I installed a smart security system,” he explained. “Never quite envisioned it making it easier to bring my amnesiac wife home, though.”
I stepped through the doorway and breathed deeply, hoping that the smell of home might trigger something, but nope. Pumpkin spice, laundry dryer sheets, the lemon tart scent of freshly-mopped floors. A bit stale from being empty for awhile. But no memories.
“Wait a minute.” Evan dropped my bags in the entryway and scooted past me. “Stay right there.”
He ran to the other side of the living room and walked into the next room beyond, a kitchen by the looks of it. Then he turned around and stepped back into the living room, a look of hopeful expectation on his face.
“Anything?” he said.
“Uhh, no? Am I supposed to—?”
“No, it’s okay. I thought it might jostle something for you. This is where we met.”
“This house?”
He nodded.
“The one you built that I photographed?”
“The one I stripped to the nails and renovated, but yes.”
“And then you decided to keep it?”
“The timing worked out. We needed a place, and we both loved it.”
I looked around. I could see why we both loved it. It was, in a word, perfect.
Light and airy with high ceilings and charmingly refurbished hardwood floors. Every detail, down to the crown moulding, had clearly been chosen with the utmost care.
My mom had tried to talk me into coming to stay with them for a few days, thinking maybe being around their familiar house and my childhood bedroom would help to spur things on in my recuperation. But I insisted on coming home with Evan. If this was going to be a real marriage, then I needed to remember my time with him. And I wouldn’t be able to do that curled up on a twin bed surrounded by a bunch of stuffed animals.
Evan gave me a tour of the two-story Victorian. I’d moved my favorite pieces of furniture in but gotten rid of all the flimsy particle board bookshelves. His office was downstairs with the master bedroom. My office was upstairs with the sparsely decorated spare bedroom. All my family and close friends lived here in Atlanta. Evan’s lived near Knoxville within an easy drive, except for one younger sister who had moved to California. It didn’t look like either of us had stepped foot in that room, save for storage.
But my office. Now that felt like home, no matter the surroundings. I picked up my camera off the desk and looked through the viewfinder, spinning around to frame Evan and focus him in the crosshairs. As he settled into a crisp, clear image, I gasped.
“Hey, save some for me.” He tries to wrestle a grape from my fingers, and when I don’t give it up easily, he plays dirty.
“Stop. Stop, stop, stop.” I can’t quit giggling as he tickles me relentlessly.
We’re on a quilt, and the patches whirl by in a swirl of jewel tones as I collapse onto my back. He sneaks his hand up under my shirt, and I squirm then throw the grape into his gaping mouth. The leaves above are a cacophony of colors. Red, yellow, and orange burst in my vision.
“Fine,” I squeal. “You win.”
The tickles stop as he chews and swallows, but his hand doesn’t move from the spot where it’s nestled just beneath my bra line.
“I haven’t won until you have,” he says.
“Mmm?” I pull his face down to mine and bite his lip affectionately, but with the promise of more.
He unhooks my bra and strokes his thumb under my breast, teasing closer and closer to the nipple. His other hand drifts down and hikes up my skirt, caressing my inner thigh as he goes.
“We haven’t christened the backyard yet,” he says.
“But the kitchen twice,” I murmur.
“Three times if you count the doorway.”
“Fair’s fair. Why should the indoors have all the fun?”
“Why indeed?”
At this point, I’m surprised my tongue can even form words. He’s slipped his finger inside me and drawn it out slowly. Teasingly. Within minutes, I’m in a state of near frenzy as I press against him, begging for more with my every shudder. Demanding it.
“I want you . . . in me. I need you. Now.” I clutch his shoulders, desperate for our joining. But it’s more than that. I want him in me and around me and . . . and I can’t put words on it, even in my mind. There’s no way to get enough of him in this moment. I start to whimper, blind with need, and he leaves a trail of kisses down my neck as he thrusts into me.
“God, you’re beautiful, Annie.” He slows his initial feverish impulsion, and we settle into a sensuous pace that leaves me delirious as we crest over the edge into nothingness and everythingness at the same time.
“I’d call that a win,” I whisper as we collapse in exhaustion. I curl into him. He forms a protective comma around me and pulls the corner of the quilt over to shelter us from the cool autumn air as we fall asleep in each other’s arms.
So that was a memory. I collapsed into my desk chair and tried to figure out what the heck had triggered it. Evan grabbed the quilt off the sofa behind him, in the landing area outside my office, and I let out a hoarse laugh. That would do it.
“You remembered something?” he asked.
I nodded.
“What was it?”
“Let’s just say, apparently you haven’t been derelict
in your husbandly duties.” I felt a stain of color creep into my cheeks. He didn’t press further, but there was a newfound relief in his eyes that wasn’t there before.
“Why don’t you go get settled on the couch downstairs, and I’ll bring you some tea and magazines?”
“I’d call that a win,” I murmured as he left to heat the kettle.
Five
At bedtime, Evan drew me a bath, and I dissolved into it with a sigh. The soreness from my injuries had dissipated to a general stiffness. I was on nothing stronger than ibuprofen now, but the warm water still helped.
He had left my robe and a towel hanging on a hook near the edge of the claw footed tub but with strict instructions that I was not to attempt to get out of said tub without his assistance. At first, I had laughed at his mother hen act, treating me like an invalid toddler. But it was a genuinely steep slope at the edge of the deep cast iron tub with slick tile under.
After I was done steeping, I shimmied to the end of the tub and reached for the towel, but it was just out of my grasp. Hmm.
“Evan?” I called.
He must have been hovering near the bathroom because within two seconds, he answered, right at the cracked door.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine. I just need to get out, and I can’t reach the towel.”
“Okay. Just a second.” The door slid open, and he walked in, averting his gaze as he reached for the towel and robe. He held them out to me while looking the opposite direction. I couldn’t help but laugh.
“I know you’ve seen me naked before,” I said. “I have photographic proof, in fact.”
“I just don’t want it to be uncomfortable and weird for you. Or I guess I should say, any more uncomfortable and weird than it already is. You don’t have those memories back yet.”
Well, not all of them, but the first had been a doozy. And I’d been right about coming to the house. Little snippets—not fully formed memories, more like shadows of them—had danced around in the periphery of my brain all afternoon. But for Evan, it still must have seemed like I had become a sudden stranger as well. I’d been stewing since the moment I woke up over how hard it was to have lost those moments of time. I couldn’t imagine what it was like for him, the frustration and fear that I might never recall us.
