I smile. She smiles. But then for the rest of lunch, we make small talk about things that don’t really matter. I’m grateful she doesn’t push for more. I feel we talked about the past enough to make her happy but not so much that I got overwhelmed.
When the check comes, I get out my new wallet to pay. “Let me get this one.” When Ava looks at me strangely, I realize what I said and roll my eyes. “Right. Joint bank account,” I say with a chuckle, wondering if I’m ever going to get used to this crazy world I live in.
“Trevor?”
The tone of her voice lets me know what comes next is going to be a big question. One I might not want to answer. I sit back against the booth, cross my arms, and wait for the question.
“I know you don’t remember being a doctor. But you still know things. When do we have to worry? Like really worry that your memory will never come back.”
She’s just voiced my worst fear. Logically, I know that a longer duration of amnesia does not necessarily mean memory is less likely to return, especially in cases like mine where the retrograde amnesia is due to my medical condition. But still, I can’t help but feel that every day I continue to wake up being a stranger to myself is one more nail in the coffin of who I used to be.
“My brain is still recovering. TBIs can take weeks or months to fully heal. I know it seems like the longer it goes on, the less likely it is to happen, but we really should be looking at it like this: the more my brain heals, the closer I come to regaining my memory.”
She sighs like I’ve shown her the light at the end of the tunnel. Like I’ve given her the hope she thought she was running out of. Like I’ve thrown her a life raft in a storm.
But she has no idea what’s really going on in my damaged head. Something is there, deep down, niggling away inside me, telling me that everything I just told her is a load of bullshit.
Because I genuinely feel like this is it.Thisis my life now. And I’m destined to wake up every day and look at the stranger in the mirror.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Ava
For weeks now, it’s become our thing. Every time Trevor works at the shop, we end up having a late lunch across the street at Goodwin’s Diner, where the owners and patrons have surely been gossiping about our frequent meetings. Meetings where sometimes one of our hands brushes against the other’s when we reach for the saltshaker at the same time. Meetings where he kisses my cheek before we head in different directions. Meetings where we both look back at each other when we walk away wondering if and when there’s going to be more. Meetings where we don’t speak of our past or his memory or anything other than how our day has gone or what we did last night when we weren’t together. Almost like we’re starting over.
After a few of those lunches, we went for a stroll in the park. On Wednesday, we went to a movie at the multiplex. Not that I watched any of it or could even give a synopsis on what it was about. I was too caught up in the fact that Trevor’s left arm was draped casually around my shoulder, his thumb absently rubbing back and forth across my upper arm.
It makes me laugh because… I think I’m dating my husband.
But then I look over at him as he’s filling Carter’s to-go order and it makes me sad. Because it’s not really my husband I’m dating. It’s a completely different version of him. He’s rough around the edges. Not as soft spoken as he used to be. Not as easy going. And definitely not as clean cut.
Still, there’s something about this new version of him that draws me in. It’s almost as if I like the dark and dangerous side of him. The way his hair has grown out over the past month. The way he’s starting to fill out his clothes in a way he hasn’t before because after getting the cast off, he’s spent so much time at the gym. How his short, manicured beard causes my brain to think naughty thoughts. The way he lifts a brow when he catches me watching him—as if he’s a bit cocky in knowing these feelings dwell deep inside me.
Guilt courses through me when fantasies of his scruff brushing against my neck, my stomach, my thighs, leave a very discernable damp spot on my panties. It’s still him. But it’s not. I shouldn’t feel guilty, but I do. As if I’m somehow betraying the real Trevor.
My head is all over the place.CanI like him like this?ShouldI?
One thing I haven’t spoken about in all our conversations is the baby. Part of me wants to tell him every time I see him. We’re definitely growing closer. But that closeness is one of a new relationship, not a decades-old one, and I fear it will just scare him off for good. That’s not a risk I’m willing to take.
The other part of me—the part that isn’t overcome by pregnancy hormones—knows that the longer I wait, the worse it may be. But I choose to ignore that inner voice and keep my head in the sand until…
I find I can’t even complete that thought, because when is the appropriate time to tell your husband who doesn’t remember he’s your husband that you’ve been keeping this huge secretwhile hoping his memory will return so then you won’t feel so guilty because everything will be back to normal and you can live out the happy ever after you always knew you were going to get before that fateful day?
I sigh and rub a hand across my still flat ten-week belly. I saw Dr. Russo yesterday. It was incredible hearing the heartbeat and seeing the baby, who is a lot bigger than the first time I saw it. She ran all the blood tests. I’ll be able to find out if it’s a boy or a girl in just a few days.
I stare at Trevor again. Is that when I should tell him? When I know if he’s having a son or a daughter?
I feel I already know it’s a girl. I even talk to her sometimes. And I’ve written more letters to her after writing that first one. It felt just like starting a new diary.
Maybe that’s how I should tell him. I’ll show him the first letter I wrote to the baby. I’ll show it to him after I get the results of the test.
It’s almost a relief knowing how and when I’m going to tell him, and I seem to float through the rest of the morning feeling a bit lighter.
That is until one of our customers screams, “He’s choking!”
I race around the counter to see Jeremy Fields holding his throat. His face is a horrible shade of dark red and there’s panic in his eyes.
“Do something!” the woman shrieks.
