by M. H. Soars
It’s futile to fight, so I let her drag my sorry ass off the chair, my right leg screaming in the process. I fall against Cheryl, but mercifully she’s able to stabilize me. My face is in flames. I feel like a sloppy drunk who can’t remain upright unassisted.
“I hate this,” I say.
“You’re doing great, Blue.”
I whip my face in his direction. “Shut up, Derek.”
He takes a few steps back, twisting his face into a frightened expression. “I better stay out of your striking range.”
Cheryl helps me get to the bars, but since I can only use one arm, she stays on my left, helping me remain upright. Clinging to the right bar, I groan as my leg gets used to my weight again. I’ve never felt more useless in my entire life.
“All right, Saylor. I want you to put some of your weight on your left leg.”
“But I can’t feel it.”
“Indulge me. Don’t worry. I got you.”
I shift my body weight, and by some miracle, I feel a slight tingle on my foot, as if my leg has gone numb but slowly the circulation is returning.
“How is it?”
“I can feel something.”
“Good. Now I want you to shift your weight back to your right leg.”
“Okay.”
“How is your hold? Do you think I can let go?”
Locking my right knee tight and clutching the bar, I tell Cheryl I’m good. She steps away, but remains hovering nearby. My leg trembles slightly, but I don’t lose my balance.
“You’re doing very well, Saylor. Now, I don’t want you to walk, just try to swing your left leg to the side. Do you think you can do that?”
Taking a deep breath, I concentrate on moving my left leg. Sweat forms on my forehead, but the damn limb doesn’t fucking move. Frustrated, I let out a groan, but what I really want to do is cry. This is hopeless.
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. Come on. Try again.”
Leveling Cheryl with a glare, I scream, “I fucking can’t, okay!”
“You’re angry. I get that. But lashing out at me won’t make you play the guitar again.”
I close my eyes and fight the tears that are threatening to spill. I hate being this pathetic. I’m not a weakling, I’m a fighter, but everything feels like it’s too much right now.
“Cheryl, take it easy.”
Great, now Derek is coming to my defense.
Without opening my eyes, I try to move my damn leg, focus every fiber of my being into making the muscle obey what my brain is commanding. I picture myself on a stage, ripping Rita while thousands of fans clamor for more. Of course, it’s all my imagination since I can’t remember what it actually felt like. The bar has turned slick under my sweaty palm, so when my left leg finally decides to move, I lose my grip on it and fall forward on my knees.
I turn to Cheryl. “What the fuck! I thought you were spotting me.”
I don’t understand the shit-eating grin she’s displaying now.
“You did it, Blue!” Derek says.
“What, fall on my face?”
“No. Move your leg and arm.”
“What?” I look down, and sure enough, I’m supporting my upper body with both arms. “How is that possible?”
The moment the question leaves my lips, my left arm slips from under me, making me fall onto my side.
“Ouch. Spoke too soon.”
Cheryl helps me up, still looking super proud. “That was amazing! I’ve never seen a patient progress so fast.”
“Really?”
“Really. You’ll be playing with Wreck of the Day in no time.” She turns to Derek. “Are you still doubting my methods, Dr. Simmons?”
“Not at all. You did well, Blue.”
“When do you think I’ll be able to play the guitar?” I ask.
“That’s really up to you, Saylor. But this exercise just proved your body can become fully mobile again. It’s just a matter of how badly you want it.”
Her words give me hope. “Does that also apply to my memories?”
Cheryl’s smile wilts a fraction. “That I can’t answer. I’m sorry, Saylor.”
I try not to let her honesty drag me into that self-pity hole again. Not having my memories sucks, but if I have to choose between having them back and playing again, I’ll pick playing the guitar.
I can always make new memories.
Three
Saylor
Dr. Laurent told me I could go home today. The news cheered me up, but it also gave me a new bolt of anxiety. I can’t hide the decision I’ve made anymore. It wasn’t easy for me, but with everything that’s going on, I feel I can’t add more stress to my already complicated life. Now I have to tell my husband that I’m not coming home with him, at least not for the time being. My stomach is tied in knots, knowing it’ll upset him deeply. God, I would be devastated if the situation were reversed. My heart might not remember him, but I hate to see him suffer.
Mom already knows she’s taking me home with her, so I asked her to wait until I had the chance to explain to Oliver before she showed up at the hospital. He knocks on the open door to my room with a look of pure happiness on his beautiful face.
“Hey, may I come in?” he asks, still a little shy.
I sit up straighter and smooth my hair, suddenly conscious of my appearance. Despite not remembering actually being married to him, I don’t want to look like roadkill.
“Sure.”
Oliver has a bouquet of beautiful flowers. He’s brought me a fresh one every day he comes to visit. He stops by the side of my bed, leans over, and kisses me on the cheek. I stop breathing for a second and my heart does a backflip. This is the first time he’s touched me since I woke from the coma, and I don’t know what to make of my body’s reaction to it.
“You look pretty,” he says with a cheeky smile. My face feels like it’s in flames so I avoid his gaze, looking at the flowers instead.
“They’re gorgeous.” I make a grab for them with my right arm. I’ve made more progress thanks to Cheryl, but the left arm doesn’t always want to cooperate.
“Ready to go home? I’ve relocated your stuff to Charlotte’s old bedroom. The brat has finally moved out.”
“Oliver, I… we need to talk.”
The levity in his expression leaves his face as swift as a summer storm. “Oh. That expression never bodes well.”
“I’ve decided it’s best if I spend some time with my mother.”
Oliver doesn’t say anything, just keeps staring with an intensity I suspect only he can muster. “What about what the doc said? The little things that can trigger your memories.”
I stare down at my lap. “I thought about it, and you said yourself that we haven’t lived together for that long. My childhood home probably has more details to help me than your house.”
“Our house, and none of those details you speak of involve me.”
There’s no accusation in his tone, but I detect something much worse—hurt. Shit. I was so hoping he wouldn’t take it personally.
“It’s just for a little while until I get to know you better.”
Oliver swallows hard before looking toward the window. “I’m not going to lie to you. I’m not happy about your decision.” He turns to me again with the saddest eyes I’ve seen on him yet. “But I’ll do whatever it takes to make you happy. If that means not seeing your face first thing in the morning every day, I’ll cope. I guess my partner Allan isn’t a terrible second option.”
His lips curl upward. Even when his heart is bleeding, he manages to crack a joke. No wonder I fell in love with him. Come on, heart, kick-start already.
Dr. Laurent comes in with my mother in tow. “So, Saylor, are you ready to go home?”
“More than ready.” I throw an apologetic glance in Oliver’s direction. “I mean, I’m ready to get out of this hospital.”
The corner of his mouth quirks up. “No need to explain, sugar. I know what you mean.”
&
nbsp; He called me ‘sugar’ again. I still need to ask why he likes to call me that. It’s obviously an endearment only he uses. It sucks that I have to dissect every little detail of our interactions, that the questions won’t stop piling up.
“Oliver, would it be possible for you to bring Saylor’s clothes later today? I want her to feel as comfortable as possible,” Mom says with much more kindness than I’ve seen her show Oliver in the past. I guess now that I’ve agreed to go home with her, she has no reason to feel resentment toward him.
“Of course, Miss Carter. I’ll head home now and pack everything up.” Oliver turns to me. “I’ll see in a few, Saylor.”
He leaves the room with shoulders hunched forward, the usual air of confidence I was beginning to associate with him gone.
I did that. I broke my husband.
OLIVER
As I head out of the hospital, I want to punch something. With the foul mood I’m in, I’m afraid if a stranger approaches me, I might bark like a rabid dog. I put my sunglasses on, striding with purpose toward my car.
Of course, it would be my lucky day that the paparazzi decide to make an appearance this morning. I’m sure some fucker at the hospital tipped them that Saylor would go home today. They see me, and like a pack of wolves, they’re on me in a second, flashing their stupid cameras and firing off questions. One of them gets in my path, more determined than the others to get a statement from me.
“Piss off.” I attempt to walk around the guy.
My angry attitude acts like blood in the water, and the other sharks close in. Suddenly I find myself surrounded by a mob of ruthless leeches who only want to get their money shots and sell them to the highest bidder.
“Get the fuck out of my way!” I push the guy blocking my path to the side.
He yells a complaint before getting into my personal space again.
“Where’s Saylor? Is she coming home with you? We heard she’s suffering from memory loss. Is that true?”
That last question makes me pause. We haven’t released an official statement about Saylor’s condition yet, so the fact that this wanker knows brings fire to my veins. I curl my fingers around his shirt, bringing his face close to mine.
“Who told you that?”
“I’m not going to reveal my sources. So it’s true, then?”
“Tell me who’s feeding you information and I promise not to beat you to a bloody pulp.”
The paparazzo squints at me. “You don’t fucking scare me, asshole. Craig was right about you.”
“What did you fucking say?”
“You heard me. Now let go.”
I do, but not before I grab his expensive camera and throw it to the ground with all my strength. It shatters into tiny pieces, giving me at least a sense of satisfaction.
“What the fuck! That camera is worth four grand. I’m so suing your ass.”
I’m keenly aware that the other sharks are more than happy to register every moment of my interaction with their comrade, but I’m beyond the point of caring. My blood is boiling and I have murder in my gaze. I spot the flash memory card among the mangled pieces and step on it, making sure there’s no way in hell he can sell the pictures he took.
“Bring it. I don’t fucking care.” I flip the other paparazzi off. “Bye, bitches.”
They don’t follow me and, looking over my shoulder, I can see why. The hospital has called the cops, the presence of the police cruiser making the paparazzi scatter like the worthless pieces of shit they are.
As I slide into my car, I think about Saylor. Fuck. I hope she stays away from gossip sites and magazines. I can already see the shit storm I’ll have to deal with on top of everything else. Allan is going to have a cow.
Four
Saylor
Mom tries to engage me in conversation, but I’m barely listening to her. I keep staring out the window and thinking about Oliver. Did I make the right decision? Shouldn’t I have at least tried to stay with him for a few days?
I don’t remember being in love with him, but I’ve noticed how my body reacts when he’s near me. Sure, it’s purely physical attraction right now, but don’t most relationships start that way? Ugh! Why can’t I just stick to one decision without feeling so torn? But what if I succumb to the chemistry between us and ruin everything by giving Oliver false hope? The bleak reality is that I may never fall in love with him again.
The car finally stops, distracting me from the inner turmoil boiling inside me. I recognize the street. We’re home. Mom tells me to wait so she can bring the wheelchair around, but the car is beginning to suffocate me. In the past week, I was able to regain most of the mobility of my left leg, so I open the door, getting out of the car before she has the chance to get to me.
My left hand is still pretty much useless, though. Bitterness pools in my mouth. The limb that I need the most is the one taking the longest to recover. Life is so fucking ironic.
“Saylor, I asked you to wait.”
I’m using the car for support because I don’t trust my leg completely yet. “It’s okay, Mom. I don’t need the wheelchair. I want to walk.”
Mom loops her arm around mine and I let her help me walk to the house. I see the ‘For Sale’ sign and ask when she made the decision to sell.
“Just before your surgery.”
I don’t make a comment. I never understood why Mom never sold the house after—
I look up and freeze.
“Saylor? What’s the matter?”
There’s a loud buzz in my ears and I find it impossible to draw air into my lungs. All I can think about is him, how his breath reeked when he tried to kiss me, how his rough hands tore my clothes as if they were made of paper. I curl my hands over my stomach right before my legs give out, Mom unable to prevent me from dropping to my knees. Closing my eyes, I let out a cry that splits my soul in half. For whatever reason, I was brought back in time to a state of complete terror.
My mother is calling my name, but I can’t hear anything over the loud sobs racking my body. Strong arms wrap around my shoulder and I fight the embrace at first, until a familiar scent reaches my nose. I remember that smell.
I open my eyes to find Oliver there, staring at me in panic.
“Sugar, talk to me.” He touches my cheek.
“Ollie, I-I—” I can’t finish the sentence, choosing to melt against his body instead. He hugs me tighter, and I bury my face against his chest. “Please take me home.”
“You are home.”
I shake my head while tremors run though my body. Pulling back, I look at him. “No, our home.”
Oliver holds my face with both hands before running his thumbs over my cheeks, and I realize he’s wiping my tears. I hold my breath as my gaze is ensnared by his. Slowly the tremor ceases and a wave of tranquility washes over me. I feel safe in his arms.
“Anything you want, sugar.”
He helps me stand up and I cling to him shamelessly, without facing my former childhood home. Mom stands not too far from us, staring at me with remorse in her eyes. Her cheeks are wet, and I realize she was crying to.
“Mom, I’m going with Oliver. I can’t stay here.”
She nods. “I understand. I’m so, so sorry, sweetheart.”
“Don’t be. It’s not your fault.”
She shakes her head and I know my panic attack brought back all the guilt she’s been carrying all these years. I hope I haven’t set her back and that she doesn’t shut me out again.
“Please call me once you’re settled. I’d like to come by soon.”
“Yes, of course.”
Oliver clutches me tighter. “She’s in good hands, Miss Carter. I won’t let anything happen to Saylor. I promise.”
“I know. You’re a good man, Oliver.”
I turn to him, noticing how my mother’s compliment affects Oliver. He beams like he’s not used to receiving such praise. I must be imagining things. Surely I told him how wonderful I thought he was many times. I can’t imagine
I would marry someone I didn’t admire.
He takes me back to his car, a sporty number that must be a dream to drive. With his arms still curled around my waist, he opens the door for me. But before I slide in, I look into his eyes.
“Mom is right, Oliver. You are a good man.”
He smiles, even though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “We’ll see if you think the same tomorrow.”
I frown. “I don’t understand.”
He shakes his head. “You will soon enough.”
OLIVER
I shouldn’t have said anything, but I couldn’t let Saylor believe I was some kind of perfect hero, favored by damsels in distress and their mothers alike. I’m rotten, and she needs to know who she’s married to.
But now I find myself worrying about her. I almost lost my shit when I arrived at her mother’s house to find Saylor on the ground, crying as if she was in terrible pain. All my problems took a back seat and I got tunnel vision. All that mattered was Saylor. I don’t know how to broach the subject, though.
She keeps stealing glances my way as I drive, but so far hasn’t said anything. I need to say something; otherwise, I’ll go insane.
“What’s going on in that beautiful head of yours?”
Saylor doesn’t answer right away, just looks down at her lap. I grind my teeth while my knuckles turn white from holding on too tight to the steering wheel.
“I almost punched a paparazzo today,” I blurt out. Fuck it, might as well tell her how royally I screwed up earlier.
“What happened?”
“He got in my face. I didn’t punch him, but I ended up breaking his camera. I’m sure I’ll hear from his lawyer soon.”
“Does that happen a lot?”
“Me having confrontations with paparazzi?”
“No. Them hounding you like that.”
“When I was in Boys Future, it used to be awful. Almost as bad as being chased in the street by rabid fans.”
She whips her face my way, and I reward her with a wolfish grin.
