“Was it real?” he asks.
I nod. “It was our first kiss. There was no going back after that.”
His gaze lingers on my lips, then he refocuses.
I reach out and trace my fingers along his jawline.
My quirky genius. At thirty-five, there are the faintest lines on his forehead and at the edges of his eyes. His face is slightly more lived-in. And if it’s possible, he’s grown even more handsome. Self-consciously, I put my other hand against my stomach. I’ve never completely gotten my pre-pregnancy figure back, and I have the same lines he does. I’m only a couple of years younger.
What does he think of me?
I’m still waiting to be ripped out of this fantasy.
Unconsciously he kisses, then holds my hand closer to his jaw, closing his eyes. Then he shifts. “Do you feel like you can get up?” he asks. “Let’s get you some fresh air.”
With his help, I pull myself out of bed, and I’m not sure if it’s the bump on the head or the shock, but my body is numb and I struggle to find my balance. Slipping his arm around my waist, he helps me get up and walk.
Outside, I point to the gated fence. “The garden’s that way.”
He nods and guides me in that direction.
It’s dark, and the path lights illuminate the garden steps. We sit on the bench swing, quiet. Smiling. Swinging. Holding hands. His hands are warm and strong. No one’s hands feel like his.
My gaze drifts to the Mutabilis shrubs we planted together years ago. Covered in blooms of pale sulfur, apricot, pink, and dark crimson. Their soft petals, still moist from the afternoon rain, release a delicate scent that drifts through the garden. Butterfly roses—whose colors deepen as they age.
Another swell of tears coats my eyes. I blink to get rid of them, and they spill over, streaming down my face.
“Crystal,” he mouths, his voice a whisper. Tentatively, he reaches for me, his fingers brushing my cheek. “Please don’t cry. I don’t want you to be sad.”
His touch steadies me, and I try to stop crying.
“Is someone going to tell me I’m dreaming?” I ask with a sniff.
“I don’t know.” He lets out a little laugh—one I recognize. This is as crazy for him as it is for me. Not true. This has to be a million times crazier for him.
He closes his fingers around mine more tightly. “I’m not sure what else to say… forgive me.”
I squeeze his hand and pull him a little closer to me. “I know you can’t remember me yet, but you’re home. You’ll get everything back with time.”
A flash of hope crosses his face before he pushes away a frown. He’s silent. I know his doctors must have told him there are no guarantees, but that doesn’t matter to me. I’ll help him get his memories back.
“We have a daughter,” he says, forcing the words out as he stares at the palms across from us. His unfocused gaze meets my eyes. He’s lost.
I want to comfort him, to reassure him he’s going to be okay. “Her name is Natalie. She looks so much like you.”
“She was the girl on the beach today.” His eyelashes flutter. “I saw you both.” His jaw works as if he’s going to say more.
“And we saw you. I knew it was you. I felt it in my gut… but it seemed so impossible.”
“Nothing’s impossible.” This gives him confidence, and he rises to his feet to face me, his eyes shining. “Can I see her?”
I hesitate. I want to introduce them immediately, but then I think of Natalie. We need to do this carefully, in a way that won’t scare her. It’s late. She’ll already be in bed when I get home.
He’s staring at me, waiting for my answer, the corners of his eyes squeezing the longer I take.
“Soon. I’ll talk to her—”
A tear slides down his cheek.
