“You’re going to rub your face off.”
“Do you have anything productive to say right now?”
“Rawr,” she teases, curling her fingers like claws and hissing for dramatic effect. As irritating as she is, it’s still a relief to know she hasn’t changed. She’s a cumbersome kind of comfort.
I finally give up on the photo album, snap it shut, and shove it to the far end of the table before slumping back in my chair. The pulse in my skull swells into a full ache, crawling over my head, down my neck, and settling heavy in my shoulders.
Shayna sighs, her eyes soft with so much pity it makes my stomach twist. I don’t need her pity. I need her help.
She must sense this, because her expression shifts. Gently, she straightens the album and taps her red manicured nails against the embossed leather.
“What’s the last thing you remember?” she asks.
I grumble, worn down from giving the same explanation all week. Still, I say, “I vaguely remember meeting Emma. And I’ve had moments where things feel familiar, but I can’t actually see them. It’s just…a gut feeling.”
I tell her about the Spider-Man toy. The kitchen. The way I know where everything is without thinking, like my body remembers even if my brain doesn’t. About sensing Emma’s anxiety before she ever says a word.
She listens intently, nodding and humming the way a doctor does when you tell them your symptoms.
“Do you remember anything about work?”
I blink at her, a sudden pressure crashing into my chest, like I might fold in on myself. She notices immediately, the hitch in my breath, the frantic tap of my fingers.
“I see.” She twists her mouth, choosing her next words carefully. “What are you so afraid of right now?”
A sharp laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it. Then I just stare at her. “Isn’t it obvious? I’m afraid of never getting them back.” I jab a finger at my head, pointing at the useless brain sitting in there. “I’m afraid I’ll always be the husband and father who can’t remember half his kids’ lives.”
“Dramatic. But go on.”
“I’m afraid…” I inhale slowly. “That I’ll end up the same guy I was before. And she’ll leave me anyway.”
“And that’s why you’re avoiding your other memories.” It’s not a question. “You’re afraid to remember things about your work, about medicine, because that’s the thing that consumed you so completely it took you away from your family.”
Her words punch me straight in the throat. Slow, painful, but precise enough that I rub my neck just to remind myself I’m still breathing.
“You’re avoiding something that could help you, Steven.” Her tone is careful but unyielding, straight to the point with no room for padding my ego. Shayna has never been the type to soften the truth just to make me feel better. It’s honesty or nothing with her.
“You’re avoiding…” She leans forward onto her elbows, leveling me with a look. “Because you’re scared of what it’ll reveal.”
The unnerving truth lands hot and heavy, swelling in my throat.
Footsteps creak on the stairs as a light is flipped on, followed by the echo of Dad’s morning yawn.
Shayna glances at the sound and sighs. “Look, I can’t force you to do anything. But I really think you need to re-evaluate how you’re approaching all of this. You might be surprised at what it unlocks.”
“Right,” I grumble.
“You’ll get there.”
Right.I don’t tell her that I don’t believe her. I don’t tell her that if I remember work, I might not be strong enough to choose better, prioritize better, become the man I’m supposed to be. A better man. Because if I can’t do that, I won’t be able to fix anything.
She nudges my coffee closer then disappears upstairs as Dad wanders in. He’s humming a tune I don’t recognize, shimmying around the kitchen like the party from last night never ended.
“Someone’s in a good mood,” I say, finally taking a drink, reveling in the swirl of chocolate and dark roast as I down half the cup.
“Just happy,” Dad says, pausing long enough to give me finger guns, then he goes right back to dancing.
“I’m gonna take a shower.” I haul myself out of the chair, and a rigid ache settles in my bones as I do. “When did I get old?” I groan.
