“Hey yourself.”
“You got your phone back,” he comments.
My cheeks heat, and I avert my gaze to his vehicle, nodding. I’m not ready to go there. Admit that I know we dated. So I change the subject. “You drove over? You live next door.”
“What can I say, I’m a man of my word,” he says, hopping out of his truck and circling the front. I feel a blush creep up the back of my neck as his eyes scroll my body.
“You look…” he starts to say.
He could be dressed in rags for all I know since I have a difficult time looking anywhere besides that hundred-carat dimple like a crater in his cheek.
“You too.”
He takes confident backward steps, guiding me by an invisible string that ties our gazes together, toward the passenger door.
“Are you ready for this?” he asks with an unmistakable gleam in his eye.
“I think so?” I hold up the sweatshirt he texted me an hour earlier to bring.
He nods. “That will do.”
In one swift motion, my hips are being planted in the front seat facing the view of the lake through Reed’s windshield.
“Just thought the step might be a bit high for you.” He shrugs when he registers my dizziness.
I somehow manage a “thank you” despite trying to calm my heart back to a steady rhythm. I rest my sweatshirt in my lap when I spot someone approaching the shed on the right side of the dock.
For as long as I can remember, the property has belonged to Shepard Bishop, the nicest man I’ve ever met. He was the first person who introduced himself to me the day my parents brought me back home from the hospital. I sat on the edge of the dock staring out over the vast lake feeling insignificant, lost, and confused; like someone could toss me off the edge and I’d drownbecause I’d forgotten how to swim, how to keep my head above water, how to even breathe.
“Teddy, you have post-traumatic amnesia,” I heard Dr. Spalding repeat inside my head. “Which is why recalling memories from before the accident is difficult for you. You might find it hard to recognize people you knew, have trouble sleeping at night, and feel irritable. Because of this, my recommendation is that we monitor your physical progress and focus on healing for now.
“I think we should go back to Boise,” my mom urged my dad.
“Actually, Mrs. Fletcher,” Dr. Spalding interrupted, “big changes are not ideal for memory reconstruction. Teddy needs as little disruptions to her past routines from before the accident as possible for best outcomes. If you can manage it on your end, we’ll be able to continue our visits through telehealth appointments, and Bear Lake Memorial has a great out-patient rehab program she can start when her physical injuries have healed.”
My parents agreed.
“For the time being, I recommend limiting screen time, removing social media use, and lots of rest.”
It sounded miserable. Like a death sentence to making any kind of friends.
But Shep found me on the dock that day. And like the wise man he is, told me that one day in the distant future, it would all be okay again. At the time, I struggled to believe him, but then he added, “Until then, you’ve got a friend in me.” From then on, he’d bring me a peanut butter and honey sandwich whenever I was out there alone.
I found out Shep has type one diabetes the day my parents discovered him collapsed beside his lawn mower. He’d let his blood sugar dip too low while trimming his half acre of land. Iwas glad my mom found him instead of me. She already knew. Not only does Shep leave out the part about him being diabetic with most people, but he also never makes it seem like he needs help with anything either. He waters the Morgans’ garden like a chameleon, picks up our mail at our driveway entrance like a saint, and never asks for a favor in return.
But it’s not Shepard who’s approaching the shed. This guy is much taller, in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt slung over his left shoulder. He pulls on the iron handle and the door to the shed rattles open. There’s not much to see on the inside. Even from where I’m sitting, I squint to make out the handle of a lawn mower peeking past the door’s opening and several weathered tools lining the shed wall. The guy reaches for an axe resting between two prongs jutting out from the back of the shed. Then he turns around and looks right at me.
Miles?
The pop of Reed’s door handle snaps my attention to the driver’s seat as he climbs in and fires up the engine. He’s looking over his shoulder and reversing when he catches me watching something, or rather, someone, in the yard and turns to see what it is. With the few inches Reed’s truck has backed up, it’s become more difficult to see Miles. He’s positioned on the far side of the shed and is bent over at the waist slamming an axe into a vertical stump of wood. After yesterday’s run-in, I know Reed knows him, so I just say out loud what I’m thinking.
“How come Miles is at Shepard Bishop’s trailer?”
Reed glares at the lake through his windshield.
“Because,” he grunts. “He’s his son.
That one sentence renders me speechless, and I gawk from him to Miles.
