“Was it your genetics final?” she muses.
“Yes.” Excitement overcomes me as the memory floods back. Genetics and cell biology, neuroradiology, and even family medicine practicum. “I was terrified I was going to fail. I had studied for three weeks straight for that test. And then Liam kept calling and calling me, his usual plans.” I scoff at the memory of him. We were two different people, but somehow wewere inseparable. “I studied until 10 pm and was going to sleep until the test the next morning.” My words trail off as the fuzzy moments from that party spark through my head in a flash until finally landing on something concrete.
“You were there.”
Emma looks at me expectantly, her green eyes morphing with the memory I have of her. “You were in a red crop top. You had bangs, and your hair was almost past your waist.”
She bites her lip, grinning. “So you do remember me?”
“You’re unforgettable,” I say, and she giggles, brushing her hand across my thigh.
“But…” Her face falls. “Nothing after that?”
The weight of defeat settles on me like lead. “I don’t think so,” I whisper.
She swallows and drops her gaze. I follow the trail down her arm and settle on our hands, inches apart, our wedding rings sparkling back and forth like a beacon.
Her phone buzzes in her purse, and she glances at me apologetically. I urge her to take it, and she does, right there on the bed.
“Hey,” she says. “Yeah, 5:30.” I listen as she talks back and forth with a female voice on the other line. “Their snacks are in the fridge. Right, no, please no Spidey for too long. And they need baths, alright?” She hangs up and slides the phone back in her purse.
“Was that—” I can’t get the question to form. Iknowwhat that was.
She exhales. “Yeah… We have kids.”
Chapter sixteen
Emma
Hoursgobybeforewe finally have a moment of peace. Tests, scans, consults. Everything under the sun just to confirm what we already know.
My husband doesn’t remember me.
“How long will that take?” I ask as the lab technician takes a fifth vial of blood from his hand. My stomach is queasy as I watch her remove the needle, but I stay glued to Steven’s side, and he’s let me. Even though he can’t remember our entire marriage, he’s been able to piece together the first few months of our relationship. And that’s brought both of us some comfort.
“I don’t know,” the lab technician responds, “maybe a few hours. I’d ask the nurse.” He doesn’t seem very keen on answering anything else, so I hold my tongue and the avalanche of questioning that’s threatening to unleash on anyone wearing some sort of badge that walks into this room.
“Thank you,” Steven mutters as the tech wraps his arm and leaves with the gallon of blood he just drained.
“Are you alright?” I grimace at his arm, assessing his face for any sign of dramatic blood loss.
“It was just a few vials,” Steven reassures, like this is natural for him. “They’d have to take way more to cause damage, don’t worry.”
“How do you know I’m worrying? I’m fine.”
He places a hand on my bouncing knee. “I have a hunch.”
It’s jarring to see how well he can read me, even now when his memory has been wiped clean. And who knows if he’ll get it all back. But as we sit here, and his hand grazes my bare skin, it’s as if nothing has happened.
“I worry a lot,” I whisper, staring at his hand. His dark skin is smooth and rich against my pale, unshaven legs, but the prickles don’t seem to bother him as his fingers brush back and forth.
“How come?”
His question throws me. Not because it’s hard to answer, but because it’s coming from him. Steven hasn’t asked me something so simple, yet deep, in a very long time. Our conversations, especially over the last six months or so, have been hijacked by general housekeeping and parenthood roles, leaving no room for deep.
“What is there to worry about?” he adds.
I can’t help but gape at him, and he laughs.
