I sigh, shaking my head, remembering the exact conversation at the start of her third-grade school year this past August.
“What I said was, ‘I would convince your dad to allow it.’” I knew it wouldn’t be an easy feat. Blake, for whatever reason, hates music and is adamant he doesn’t want anything to distract our children from their education. He and I disagree wholeheartedly on this. We disagree—a lot. Music is often a lifesaver for my sanity, so I understand our child’s need for it. It is often times an outlet—an outlet I feel she needs. I know I do. “Did you say something about it to your father already?” I cringe at the tone of my voice. I didn’t mean for it to come out the way it sounded. Harsh. Accusing.
“Well, yeah. I wanted to start lessons this week.” Her arms fall away from her chest only to be placed on her narrow hips. She’s like me in this way. When she wants something, she wants it’s now, five minutes ago. “Why?” she demands.
Lord help me.
Had I not been able to convince Blake, I had still planned on letting her do the lessons. I just wasn’t going to tell my husband. But I can’t tell her any of this. She doesn’t understand the trials and tribulations of marriage—and she shouldn’t at her age. I pray when she grows up and decides to marry things will be different for her than they have been for me.
I shake my head of these thoughts. I have no business thinking like that and every reason to be grateful for my two girls. And I am grateful—very grateful but sometimes . . .
I sigh, letting my thoughts die with the air coming out of my mouth. “I’ll talk to him,” I finally tell her as I stride over to stand in front of her. I place my palms on each side of her cheeks, then tilt her head slightly up. After I plant a chaste kiss on her forward, I say, “I’ll find a way for you to take the lessons.”
Her frown turns into a small smile. “Thanks, Momma.” I drop my hands, taking a step back.
“Grab something to eat before it’s time for you to leave for school,” I tell her. “Your dad will be down any minute to take you.”
I get an eye roll but choose to ignore it. My relationship with her is strained, but I don’t have a name for what Blake’s relationship with her is. They seem to always be at war with each other these days.
Honestly, I can’t blame her though. It seems nothing either one of us do is ever good enough for Blake Lane; except maybe Emersyn, our three-year-old. She is his pride and joy. To him she is perfection.
While my daughter grabs a granola bar from the pantry, I go back to fixing Emersyn’s oatmeal that she eats most mornings. A minute later the temperature in the kitchen turns cooler. It always does when he enters a room.
I turn my head just as my husband comes up behind me. He places one hand on the curve of my hip, squeezing gently. I’ve mastered not cringing when he does this. “Morning,” he offers before placing a kiss on my temple. “I forgot to give these to you when I got home last night.” I take the prescription bag, that’s stapled close with my birth control pills inside, from him.
“Thank you,” I reply, sitting the white bag on the countertop. I am one day from needing to start a new pack. I never take the sugar pills during the last week. What’s the point? “Are you busy this afternoon? I thought Em and I might come grab you from the office so we could have lunch together.”
He blows out a puff of air that ruffles the back of my hair before moving away from me to make himself a cup of coffee.
“I can’t today,” is all he offers.
“Oh, you have meeting?”
“Yes, Whitney.” His voice is firm. It was a simple question and not one that I meant to irritate him with. “I work. I don’t have time for play dates.”
I catch the angered glare my daughter throws his way out of the corner of my eye before she abruptly turns, leaving the room. I have to bite my tongue not to return a remark that will only piss him off more. My fingers curl around the edge of the countertop, and I have to close my eyes for a few seconds. It burns in my stomach to hold my tongue. It feels wrong. Always has. Instincts tell me to kick him in the dick for the way he just spoke to me, but I can’t do that. I know I can’t do that.
Once the need to lash back is gone, I release the pressure and tell him, “Maybe dinner then? Do you think you’ll be home in time to have dinner with us tonight?” Last night he was late and didn’t bother to let me know until he was in route home—after eight. After the kids were already in bed and dinner long gone.
“Yes, I’ll be home by six thirty. A nice cooked meal would be great.” I watch him take a sip from the travel coffee mug the girls got him for Father’s Day this past year. I’m surprised he still uses it. He wasn’t that thrilled about the girl when he received it. “I’m off. Have a good day doing whatever it is you do.” He grins, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Not even close. It looks fake. But finally, he turns away from me, heading out.
Relief expels from my body, exiting out my mouth. It always does when he leaves for work.
My head turns toward the door leading to our garage as my daughter yells, “Bye, Mom.” My lips tilt up automatically at the sound of her voice but wanes almost immediately when I hear Blake reprimand her for raising her voice in the house. For that, I grit my teeth.
He needs more than just a good kick to the crotch. So much more.
I am a stay-at-home mom. Always have been since my oldest daughter was born. It isn’t something I love or hate. I enjoy my time with my girls, but I know there is something missing. I just don’t know what.
There’s a void. A part of me feels hollow. And no matter what I have, I know deep down it isn’t enough to satisfy. It’s been that way ever since I woke up in a hospital, years ago, without a memory.
I’ve yearned for my past for over ten years now. Maybe mourned for it even. I don’t know. But something isn’t whole inside me. Then again, maybe it never was, and I just didn’t remember always feeling this way. Still . . .
My thoughts are cut off when I hear Emersyn’s running down the stairs, yelling my name. Time to start my day at whatever it is I do all day.
CHAPTER THREE
Shane Braden
Treating kids—any age—isn’t easy. I don’t know why I thought it would be when I made the decision to be a Pediatric physician at the beginning of my senior year of high school. My mom’s a general practitioner in Pediatrics, and my dad is an adult Cardiologist. I’ve always wanted to be a doctor. There isn’t a moment in my life where I wanted to do anything else.
Every summer, back in high school, I worked in my mom’s clinic doing various non-clinical things and fell in love with all the kids that came through. Following my mother’s footsteps, going into Pediatrics, was a no-brainer. But every time I treat a child with a confirmed or life threatening disease I question if I can do this for the rest of my career.
“Judy,” I call the charge nurses name as I exit room three. “Order a full set of labs and a CT of the chest with contrast on my patient.” I stop in front of the nurse’s station.
A palm lands down, gripping my shoulder. When I turn my head to the side, I find the residency director, my boss, Dr. Forsythe standing next to me.
“Gavin,” I greet him by his first name as I hand the patient’s chart over to the nurse. She nods, acknowledging my requests.
“So,” he starts out. “I’m having a holiday get together Saturday night. I can expect you to come, right?” He squeezes my shoulder, letting me know he isn’t asking if I can make it or not. My presence is expected. He may have quickly become my friend a few months ago when I transferred to Memphis to finish out my residency, but he is first and foremost, my boss.
“My brother and his girlfriend are coming up from Oxford tomorrow and staying the weekend . . .” I let my reply hang in the air hoping he folds, letting me out, but I know there’s a slim chance of that. I have two days scheduled off this week. Both Friday and Saturday.
“Bring ’em,” he tells me. “The more, the merrier and all that.”
&
nbsp; “Yeah, I guess I could.”
Halloween is this coming Saturday, and Taralynn told me last week she wants to go out clubbing when they come up. I know the real reason they’re driving up for a visit just as I know the reason they insisted I come to Georgia with them Labor Day weekend last month to ride ATV’s. Trent’s death is still fresh for everyone—me especially. He and I had been best friends since we were ten years old and roommates since the summer we graduated high school, enrolling in college. Kylie was practically living with us even though she technically had a dorm room. We had one too freshman year. We just didn’t use it since my grandparents let us live in their old home now that they were retired, living in Florida.
After grad school, the three of us lived together again while in Medical school. Every holiday not spent back home in Tupelo, Mississippi was an excuse for Kylie to throw a party. Halloween has always been her favorite for some reason.
If I had to guess, Shawn’s best friend and Kylie’s youngest sibling, Mason Morgan, will be heading to Orlando, Florida—if he isn’t already there—to spend time with his sister for the same reason Taralynn has insisted they are coming to see me.
It’s not that I hate them coming. I enjoy seeing Taralynn and my ass of a little brother. But going out to a club is a hassle I’m dreading. It just isn’t my thing anymore. Really, it never was. Hanging with friends, I enjoy. Hanging out in a loud and crowded place . . . not so much.
“Why aren’t you taking the kids trick-r-treating?” I ask. Gavin has toddler-aged twins, so it surprises me he and his wife won’t be doing the family thing instead.
“Maria’s parents are handling that this year. The kids are going over to their house tomorrow night and staying through Sunday.”
I nod my head, letting out a soft laugh.
“So this get together”—I pause, turning to face him—“are the interns coming too?” A coy smile graces his face, and I know before he speaks, they will be.
“It’s going to be epic.” His eyes dance with delight, making me chuckle. I’ve heard of his idea of amusement. And I want no part of it.
“So costumes . . .?” I leave the question hanging. Kylie’s thrown a Halloween party every year since our first year of college, and I’ve never worn a costume. I haven’t worn one since I was a kid I don’t think. If I wouldn’t do it for my best friend’s girl, I’m certainly not doing it for him. Boss or no boss, it’s not happening.
“Only if you want to be my source of entertainment for the night.”
“And I’m guessing you aren’t planning on informing the interns of this?” Of course he’s not. I’m just surprised none of them have heard of his yearly “initiation” as the other residents refer to it as. But maybe since he’s only been the residency director for the last four years the stories haven’t circulated enough.
“Mums the word.” He places his index finger over his lips to stress his point. “See you Saturday, Braden.”
I shake my head as he walks off.
“Shane?” I hear Roxanne call my name. Looking over my shoulder, I see her walking out of room one toward me. “You got a sec?”
“Sure.” I turn, facing her. “What do you need?”
“My patient complains of stomach pains, but the x-ray was clear. I ordered a lab panel, and those came back normal.” She looks back toward the patient’s room. “I’m not sure what else to try. They don’t have insurance, so I don’t want to order a procedure if he doesn’t need it.”
“Want me to take a look at him?”
“Please,” she sighs in relief.
“Come on, let’s go figure out what’s wrong with your patient.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Whitney Lane
A happy husband is a man with a wife that does her wifely duties, Whitney.
My mother’s obnoxious voice plays in the back of my mind, making me want to vomit all over the porcelain sink in my master bathroom.
Looking in the mirror, I remove the teardrop diamond earrings from my lobes. I can do this. I place them off to the side, making a mental note to put them back into the jewelry cabinet in my closet when I’m done washing my face. I stare at the eyes looking back at me. Most of the times they appear violet even though they are technically a shade of blue. Tonight, they definitely look deep and much darker than usual. I can do this.
It’s just sex.
And guitar lessons would mean the world to my daughter. I can—
“Dinner was . . . edible.” I turn the faucet on to allow the hot water to heat as I cut my eyes over to him through the mirror as Blake saunters in. “Why didn’t you place a delivery order from Macaro’s? You know I love them, and I did tell you this morning I’d be home for dinner.” He removes his watch, placing it neatly on his side of the vanity. Everything in his small bubble has to be orderly. Everything. My fingers itch to move it—move anything—just to watch his face twitch like it does when I leave my shoes scattered about or when I have the laundry dumped on the couch. Oh, he hates that. I laugh internally.
“Because I wanted to cook.” He may not like my cooking, but I like it. I happen to think I’m pretty good. Sure, I’m not great. I’m not a chef, but I don’t suck at it.
Leaning over the sink, I gather warm water into my palms. After splashing it onto my face, I pump facial soap out and lather, creating suds to rid the makeup I put on before my husband arrived home for the dinner he’s so graciously complaining about now.
“You know that isn’t your strong suit, Whitney.” He turns the water inside the shower on.
What is my strong suit is what I want to ask, but I doubt he would give any answer that isn’t laced with condescension.
He’s a prick, and if it weren’t for my children, I’d say it to his face and rid myself of him once and for all. I honestly don’t know what I saw in him before I lost my memory. Was I like him? Did I find his I’m better than anyone else attitude attractive?
Surely not. And if I did, maybe the accident was a godsend. Maybe I should stop praying for my memories.
I watch as he loosens his tie before disappearing into the closet. Quickly pulling the hand towel from where it hangs, I pat my face dry before he finishes undressing.
Walking out of the bathroom, I grab a pair of pajamas from the chest of drawers underneath where the television is hanging on the wall in our bedroom. After tossing them onto my bed, I pull my dress over my head, letting it drop from my hands to land in a pile on the carpet. I slip my arms through the silk camisole and finish by pulling up the matching set of teal shorts before climbing in bed.
It’s a good fifteen minutes before he emerges from his shower. I quickly close the notebook I had been writing in, leaving the pen inside the page marking my spot, then place it in the drawer of my nightstand before he has a chance to inquire what I’m doing.
I know he didn’t notice when I catch a glimpse of the tick in his jaw from across the room. He’s eyeing the dress I purposely left on the floor.
“Is it so hard to put dirty clothes in the hamper?” He stalks over, shaking his head. Blake bends at the waist to grab the material. I chew on my bottom lip to stop myself from smirking.
He returns half a minute later, joining me in our bed.
The smell of his shampoo wafts up my nostrils, crinkling the bridge of nose. The smell is too strong—too wrong. The thought of him on top of me makes my insides fist. I don’t have to think about the idea too long because his hand snakes around my middle as he scoots closer to my side.
I can do this. I’ve been chanting the same mantra since I started prepping dinner. I knew it was coming. I even wanted it this time. For my daughter’s sake. She doesn’t ask for much. She’s not like other kids I see her age asking their parents every five-seconds for a new toy—or a new anything. Her friends are all spoiled little brats, but she’s never taken any of her things for granted or been selfish. She’s a great kid despite our constant battles.
His palm slips up my camisole at the same time his n
ose runs along my jaw, moving my long hair out of his way.
“You really should get this cut, honey. It’s getting a bit too long and you know I hate it dangling in my face when you’re on top of me.”
I mentally calculate when the last time that was. I don’t remember. You’d think with the limited memories I do have, it would be easy to recall an instance where we were making love with me straddling him, but I can’t. Then again, it isn’t like we have intercourse that often. Missionary is fine, don’t get me wrong, but a girl—this girl—gets bored with the same ole same ole every time.
His hand latches onto my breast, squeezing. My throat tightens as bile threatens to spew. I can’t do this. It’s like this every time, and I can’t figure out why. Other women like sex—love it even. So why don’t I? What’s wrong with me?
“Blake,” I whine.
His lips touch my neck. My body squirms on its own accord.
“It’s been a long damn day, Whitney. I need this.”
“This weekend,” I promise. “It’s been a long day for me too and—”
“Goddammit,” he blows out as he pulls back. “You don’t know what a long day is. Try dealing with the shit I have to deal with on a daily basis.” He shakes his head, moving back to his side of the bed. Seconds later the lamp is turned off, and we’re cloaked in darkness.
Relief floods me even as his words burn a fire in my belly.
Lying is wrong. Deceiving is wrong. So why doesn’t it bother me internally that that’s what I’m doing? It goes against everything I’ve been told by Blake and my parents of the person I was before my car wreck. The good girl. The rule follower. Those two sentences alone make my skin itch. There’s something inside me that craves disarray. Chaos, even.
Order is overrated.
Maybe that’s just what I’m telling myself to justify my actions. And now that I’ve given it more thought, sex wouldn’t have gotten Blake to agree to allow our daughter to take the guitar lessons she’s been begging for—for months.
More Than Memories: A Second Chance Standalone Romance Page 3
