I don’t miss the stifled deflation in his voice as he says, “That’s good, though, Esme. It’s a good sign. Maybe you’ll remember more. Especially while we are in Bora Bora.”
“I don’t,”hitch, “want,”hitch, “to get,”hitch, “my hopes,”hitch, “up!”
Ashton is quiet, but I think he gets the memo that I need some space because the bed shifts as he stands. “I’ll just go get our luggage.”
Then a door closes, and I’m left to break down alone in the bed of a man who loves me. A man I don’t remember.
The guilt is suffocating.
God, how do I move forward when there’s a missing chunk of me?
***
Crusty residue from salty tears makes it impossible to open my eyes. Rubbing at my face, I yawn and stretch, desperately wishing for a gallon of water to soothe my parched throat.
When I clutch the comforter that’s certifiably not my olive green Turkish cotton quilt, I jolt awake, remembering where I’m at.
And why I’m a tear-stained mess with a developing headache.
With a groan, I sit up and examine the room. It’s like I’m inside the sky, and oddly enough, I love it. Pre-amnesia me would have hated all the color. I was a neutrals person, like Ashton. But ever since I woke up a year ago, I’ve fallen in love with the colors of the setting sun. Vibrant. Rich.Alive.
I think a part of my newfound love of color is that I’m glad to be alive.
Even before I knew the truth of why I ended up in a coma, I still had a renewed appreciation of life. It’s why I shook someof my uptightness and perfectionism. Sure, I still struggle with those things, but then I remember I’m alive, and God has a reason to keep me awake on this earth. It gives me a sense of purpose.
To write,I think to myself, though I can’t deny I’m doubting that now. Would I still be able to write effectively when it comes to something I totally make up?
Ugh.I need to eat something to satisfy my growling, grumbling stomach.
I hope Ashton keeps snacks here. Judging by the darkness outside of the window in front of the writing desk and how heavy my limbs are, it’s well into the night. I could check my phone, but I’ve been avoiding it like the plague. There’s not a single person in my contact list I wish to speak with right now.
Standing, I stretch and look around the room one more time. I shouldn’t, but I know myself. I’ll plunder through Noah’s things later under the comforting excuse that maybe something will jog my memory. Sure, guilt tugs at my insides, but it’s not like I’m a jealous girlfriend or jilted ex. I’m just a woman searching for herself. And since Noah likes to write and has journals upon journals, maybe there are traces of me within the paper.
The crying jag released a lot of emotion, and though I still don’t have all the answers I wished I had, I feel lighter. More intact.
But I want to understand, God. What’s Your reasoning?
I wait a beat, but the air around me doesn’t speak back.
Even fictional Noah is silent.
I exit the room and am met with the smell of bacon acting as a siren’s call, luring me into the kitchen to find Ashton standing in a red apron that matches the kitchen walls and reads, “Kiss the Cook. Tastes Better Than the Food.”
He turns as I approach, and I raise my eyebrows at him.
Shrugging, he pops a piece of scrambled egg into his mouth and says, “It’s my brother’s. He’s the real cook between the two of us, but I try.”
“Hm.” I join him in the kitchen and steal bacon off the paper-towel-lined plate the strips rest upon to drain off grease. I crunch on the crumbly, burnt piece of heaven, sighing. “Breakfast for dinner. I love it.”
“It’s about all I can cook,” Ashton admits sheepishly with a boyish shrug. His hair is more untamed than usual, and I have a feeling he resembles Noah more than usual right now. It makes my heart do a little dance. “I need my brother back simply so that I don’t have to eat leftovers from Branda or attempt to cook for myself.”
“I can cook,” I offer. “Let me make you breakfast in the morning as a thank you for everything you’ve done and will do for me.”
“Will do?” He hitches a brow, holding the spatula up.
“Taking me to Bora Bora, housing me, dealing with my emotional breakdowns as I process everything.” My shoulders lift and fall as I crunch on my piece of bacon. “You know, the usual stuff one would do for near strangers.”
Ashton laughs, shaking his head. The oven timer goes off, and he silences it before pulling a hot tray of biscuits from the shiny black appliance. “Don’t worry. They came from a package,” he says, as if he’s used to people questioning his skills in the kitchen.
