“Bora Bora?” He cracked a half smile—the half with the dimple.
I latched onto it like it was a life preserver in a sea infested with head-bashing pipes.
“Fancy.”
“Whatever. You know you’re rich. I am, too. We’re pretty lucky people.”
He scratched at his forehead, between tufts of greasy brown hair. “What do you do, Samantha?” He’d said my name as if tasting it for the first time, rolling it around on his tongue the way I wished he’d roll parts of me. “Sam. Samantha. Jeez. I must have thought you were pretty cute to go for an arrangement like that.”
“Nah. You flirted with me, stole a Picasso, and then ruined my life. Now I’m a movie star.”
“You’re welcome.” His eyebrow cocked. “Movie star? Aren’t you a little short for a movie star?”
I had to grin—he remembered Star Wars, at least. “Laugh it up, fuzzball.”
That earned me a slightly larger smile, with a spark of…interest? I wish. “I do comedies, mostly. Except for one indie darling that came out last year—I’m getting Oscar buzz for that.” I shrugged while I bragged. But I wanted him to think well of me! The way he had when he’d kept shoving Variety in my face every time I was mentioned. He’d been so proud…
“Wow. Lucky me.”
What do you say to that? I was in love with a man who literally didn’t know my name. Tens of thousands of sad songs are written about this very situation. Well, maybe without the words ‘medial lobe damage’. What do you rhyme with ‘damage’? Cabbage? Cabbage stinks, and so did my song.
I yawned, long and thoroughly. My Xanax was wearing off, to be replaced by a tired worry. He asked, “What time is it?”
“After midnight.” I checked my phone, the phone he’d given me. The background photo was a selfie we’d taken on the street one day for no reason. We’d been so happy. I gritted my teeth to keep the waterworks at bay. A wave of memory of our real first ‘date’ slammed into me—the nervous feeling I’d desperately tried to quash so he’d think I was cute enough to make out with in my boss’s office. Yup, I was on a first date all over again. In a hospital room. Worst fucking first date ever.
“It’s late. I don’t have to—” I began.
At the same time he said, “If you need to go—”
Already. It had started. What use had he for me now? I balled my fist and set my forehead on it. He whispered, “You don’t have to stay.”
A shiver quaked through me.
“But…”
My head popped up. His eyes reflected fear, and confusion. “If you want to stay… Is there a patient in that other bed?”
“No.” I smiled and didn’t cry. I’m an adult! “I slept there last night.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
“I’ll stay, then?”
A flicker of relief traveled across his face. Even if he didn’t know me, I was somebody, and that was better than nobody. My hope spun me with dizziness, and I clutched the edges of my chair. “You might need to be filled in on some important details about yourself.”
“Yeah.”
Silence descended. So strange, when just a day or two ago there could never be an uncomfortable moment between us. Even when we fought, the rubber band of love we shared snapped us together, usually in the crotch-al region. “Do you want to see some pictures? I mean, I could be a con artist.”
He laughed and reached up to scratch at his head. “Shit, ow!”
I leaped to my feet to check his head hole. Ugh. “Don’t scratch there! You literally have a hole in your skull.”
“Sexy.”
“I know, right? Now you see why I fight to make this relationship work.” I leaned over him to take a good look—nothing seemed amiss, except for the bandages, tape and plastic tubing. A huff sounded from his nostrils, and I glanced down—I’d stuck my boobs in his face without even thinking about it, and while wearing one of his favorite V-neck tees. Not that I’d been trying for casual hospital sexy or anything. It was totally to comfort him.
I slowly backed away. “Um, sorry.”
“No, no.” He grinned, big, for the first time, his eyes twinkling. “I imagine I’ve told you that you have beautiful…”
“Tits, boobs, knockers…yes, you have. Thank you.” I giggled. Score one for my body.
“You smell nice.”
“You don’t.”
“Hey! Aren’t you supposed to be wooing me?” he said, brimming with indignation.
My smile deflated, Hindenburg-style.
“Shit, I— I’m sorry,” he blustered. “It was a joke. I don’t mean you have to—”
“Buddy, if you think I’m not gonna woo you, you’ve been hit on the head too hard.”
He bit his lip and blinked at me, wonder in the set of his features.
“Is it too soon for head wound jokes?”
“No. I’m…” He took a deep breath then spat it out again. “I can’t imagine how weird and upsetting this is for you.”
“You too.”
“Yeah. I want to remember. This is all pretty nuts, from where I sit. I was a die-hard…um…career man, and now I’m not? There’s this fog. It’s stifling and heavy, and I can’t think my way around it.”
I nodded and took his hand. He squeezed my fingers so fast and hard it cracked the ice around my heart, and nearly did the same to my bones, the glorious man. “I’ll show you pictures!” I said with entirely too much perk.
My phone held the visual proof of the entirety of our relationship. Most recent was the wedding. Nope. I skipped right over those as a vise squeezed my heart like a stress toy. I even heard the squeak. They were too fresh, too beautiful to have him stare blankly at. I chose some pictures of our relocation—we’d moved from Los Angeles to NYC a month or so ago, simply because we’d wanted to. Sam had called NYC home before he’d moved to Los Angeles, and there’s not an actress in the world who hasn’t dreamed of strutting the dirty pavement of the Big Apple. Sure, the grate you stand on for the Marilyn up-skirt experience reeks of urine, but that’s just part of the fun.
He froze, silently gazing at a shot one of our buddies had taken of me hugging Captain Taco, and Sam holding me from behind. He’d picked us both up spontaneously, and our friend had snapped the picture. My face was all laughing mouth and squinty eyes, while Sam grinned into the camera looking like a man who’d won the lottery. I turned away.
Tube-in-head Sam fluttered his man lashes my direction and swallowed. “It appears that I like you.”
I shrugged. What other answer could I give?
“Is that your cat?”
I gasped. “Captain Taco is your cat! And then you gave him to me because you needed to be on the run, but now he’s ours.”
“A cat?”
“Whatever, tough guy. You love that cat. You might love him more than you love me. It’s kinda gross, actually, how sappy you turn with that feline. He sleeps on your head.”
His eyebrows came together in manly doubt.
“See—” I leaned forward to tell him the story he’d once told me. “See, he kind of adopted you at your place in Hollywood. You began feeding him, and he would run inside the house and hide. So you got him a litter box, just to make sure he didn’t crap on the carpets. And then, one day, you brought home Tito’s Tacos, but he got there first. So you gave him a taco and kept him.”
“Awwwwww,” he drawled. “Ain’t that cute?”
“Don’t mock my heart-warming story! Uh, your heart-warming story! I’m gonna tell the cat you said that.”
“No!”
I began laughing, and that brightened his dimple right up. This bastard. He wasn’t supposed to make me fall in love with him again. A nurse rescued me before I lifted his hospital gown, rubbed my face on his belly, and told him that I wuvved my wittle bashed-up Sam so much!
My savior urged us both to sleep and rest, and she said that maybe the tube could come out of Sam’s head tomorrow. I tried to tell myself that a head-tube-less husband was a step in the
right direction. Step one on a staircase to the moon.
Chapter Three
I Would Have Preferred an Evil Twin
Int: Hospital room—day
Angle On: Samantha Lytton reclining on a hospital bed, her flaming red hair fanned out about her in a halo, and her makeup perfect, despite the horrible head injury she’s suffered. Even her brain tube sparkles in the sunlight.
Angle On: Dr Sam enters the room, his scrubs tight, his jaw steely. He flips a page or two in the chart he’s holding and huffs dramatically.
Dr Sam: Ms…Lytton? I’m sorry, but I don’t remember you.
Samantha places the back of her hand to her wrinkle-free forehead.
Samantha: Dr Sam! How can you not remember me? After those nights in Hawaii, under the stars…under the Hula dancers…
Dr Sam: It says here you got shot in Hawaii.
Samantha: In a bikini.
Dr Sam: I still don’t remember you, even though I’m wearing this wedding ring. And this T-shirt that says ‘I’m married to a movie star. Ask me how!’
Angle On: Samantha, a single tear streaming down her soft-focus, glowing face.
Samantha: When I made you that novelty T-shirt, I did so out of passion, my one, true love.
Angle On: Best Friend Ellen rushes into the room.
Samantha: Ellen! My best friend since school, who would never betray me. I’m so glad you’re here to comfort me in my hour of need. I know I don’t look like I need anything, because I’m so implausibly perfect in this situation, but I do. My needs are emotional.
Best Friend Ellen: I’m not here for you, whoever you are. I’m here for Dr Sam, who cured me of my bird influenza, but gave me a bacterial infection of the heart. A bacterial infection…called love.
Dr Sam: Oh, beautiful Ellen. Tall Ellen!
Angle On: Dr Sam pulls Best Friend Ellen into his strong arms, which are on ample display because his doctor coat has no sleeves.
Dr Sam: Oh, Ellen, you’ve diseased my emotions, too. How did I ever live without you? I gave up stealing and became a doctor for you.
Samantha: What? How could the two of you betray me like this after my house fell in a sinkhole, my housekeeper stole my collection of Xanadu memorabilia, and my last movie had Miley Cyrus in it? But this is the worst tragedy of all!
Angle On: Two tears stream down Samantha’s glamorous face.
Samantha: And Ellen…
Angle On: Ellen turns to camera, her long, brown hair whipping across her jaw.
Samantha: Aren’t you…gay?
Audio: Dun dun dun!
Angle On: The happy couple who don’t remember Samantha.
Dr Sam: Not anymore. Not since we were introduced by…your evil twin.
Audio: Dun dun dun!
Dr Sam: Whom I remember for some reason, even though I don’t remember you.
Angle On: Evil Twin Kamantha breezes into the room. The only difference between Samantha and Kamantha is that Kamantha is even more beautiful, because she’s not hooked up to beeping medical equipment. And she’s a blonde.
Evil Twin Kamantha: That’s right, Samantha. You can’t lord your big, fancy acting career over me anymore! I’ve taken away your one true love! He doesn’t even know your name without looking at the T-shirt you gave him.
Samantha: No! Sam loves me, deep down inside. Like, past the kidneys and stuff. I’ll never believe that he and Ellen would turn against me like this!
Angle On: Sam and Ellen fall onto the adjoining bed and kiss wildly.
Angle On: Three tears tremble upon Samantha’s dewy cheeks. Her cherry-red lip quivers.
Evil Twin Kamantha: I will ruin your entire life because I envy your success.
Samantha: You’re just jealous!
Evil Twin Kamantha: Of you? Never!
Angle On: Kamantha throws her head back and cackles.
Evil Twin Kamantha: I’ll hit everyone in your life on the head. That guy at Starbucks who knows your coffee order. Leonardo DiCaprio. Our mother!
Samantha: No! Not Leo! Never Leo!
* * * *
I sat straight up, bumping heads with the woman standing over me, saying something. LaTonya. Oh, no! “I’m so sorry!”
She backed away from me, rubbing her forehead. “It’s okay. You were yelling about Leonardo DiCaprio.”
“Yeah, what the hell is that about?”
Sam’s voice, sounding…jealous?
“I’m sorry, everyone. Xanax gives me weird dreams.”
I took a cursory peek around the room—nope, no soap opera evil twin with my original hair making trouble. Whew.
And no Ellen sucking face with my man. Leftover jealousy seethed inside me, nonetheless. I stretched as far as my limbs would go, the kinks in my back from the crappy hospital bed refusing to unbend.
“They took my head tube out,” said Sam.
I hopped to my feet and hurried to him. More color bloomed in his cheeks this morning, and I’d never have thought that a second head bandage could look so beautiful. “Yay for you!”
His eyes clouded. “So you’re friends with Leonardo DiCaprio?”
OMG he was jealous. Somewhere, in some dark recesses of his body—past the kidneys and stuff—there must be some lingering memory of me, and the joy of that caused me to think the letters OMG as if they were a word. “I wouldn’t call us friends, but he’d probably remember my name. We met him at a party once, and he’d seen What Could Go Wrong?” Sam blinked. “That’s a movie I did. You were there, too. In London.”
“Yes,” he said, his eyes taking on a definite smirk, “I’ve been Googling you all morning.” He held up his iPad—must have been in the bag Ellen brought for us.
I dove into the same to find toothpaste and a brush, which were thankfully present. My heart thump-a-whumped in my chest as I considered what embarrassing or horrid thing he’d read about me on the Internet, which, shockingly, is not a very nice place. I ducked into the bathroom to rid myself of morning breath while he continued talking.
“So you whupped Valerie’s ass, huh?”
I froze, mid brush. Bubbles foamed at my mouth from my laughing—tackling her was one of the better things I’d ever done. Right up until she’d shot me about thirty seconds later.
“Very impressive. And in a bikini.” The word ‘bikini’ came out a little ‘damn, girl’.
I smiled, rinsed then spit.
“I’ve been watching clips of you on YouTube. Acting.”
I pinched life into my cheeks and emerged, breathless, from the bathroom to gauge his reaction. What if New Sam thought I sucked? “Well?” I asked, way too obviously.
“Hmmmmm.” He scratched his stubbly chin and made hemming and hurring noises. “Well, you’re like if Meryl Streep and Monty Python had a baby.”
“I—” I gaped. I considered. I grinned. “Thanks.”
“Seriously, you’re funny. And talented. You’re very…”
I leaned in. Whatever I was ‘very’, I’ll never know, for he clapped his jaws shut and just stared at me, as if measuring my ‘very’-ness. Eventually, he cleared his throat. “We give a lot of money to charity.”
I pulled my visitor chair over to the bed and sat. “Yes. More than we announce. We decided to give away your money. I mean, you never felt too guilty for having the proceeds from your”—I looked to make sure LaTonya wasn’t hovering—“creative job, but you thought that robbing the rich and giving to the poor was a noble endeavor.”
“Well, I am very noble.”
“Sure.”
“Sure?” He faux-pouted, pushing out his bottom lip as if asking me to bite it.
My lust for him, my complete and total sexual frustration welled up, and I gripped the sides of my chair to stop myself from tackling him. It would be so easy. He was already supine, after all. And weak.
No. No! Must not sexually harass amnesiac husband.
“I gave up a…creative job for you. Nobly,” he said with a hint of smile.
“And, in return, I give
up the booty. Also very nobly. And a little sluttily.”
He burst into laughter and sucked in a breath. “Ow! That kinda hurts.” His fingers flew up to his forehead.
“I’m sorry!” I stood and took his hand. “I haven’t even asked how you’re feeling.”
Looking down at our hands, he squeezed mine ever so briefly and said, “Better. No memories yet, but I feel stronger, more awake. LaTonya says I might get to go home tomorrow.”
My stomach flew away. “Really? Maybe…maybe the apartment will trigger some memories. Although, we just moved in. I don’t know how inspiring boxes will be.”
“Maybe the stuff in the boxes.”
“Ah. Yes.” I smiled, shyly, like a total dork.
His mouth pursed as if he wanted to say something else, but he sagged, and I sat down again. Memories of a recalcitrant, withholding Sam returned to me. When we’d first met, and desperately tried to keep our emotional distance, he’d clammed up rather than reveal anything about the secret inner workings of his heart. Over time, he’d opened to me.
Now we were back to square one—me vomiting feelings all over the place while lusting, and him lapping it up while revealing nothing. It was déjà vex.
A knock at the open door— Ellen! She poked her head around the corner. “Hi, Lytton-Bullshit family. I came to check on you, and maybe to see if Samantha needed anything from home.”
I squashed her in my embrace, to the point where she groaned, “Okay, Samantha, Jesus. I’m offering to travel a couple of subway stops, not give you my spleen.”
Sam made a grunty noise. “Have some respect, Ellen. I’m of the prestigious North Carolina Bullshits.”
“I’ll curtsey later.” Ellen pushed my face away. “Hey, maybe you should go home and shower? Your hair could power the deep fat fryer at Denny’s.”
The Wrath of Dimple Page 3
