Steven
“Ican’tbelievethat’syour last memory.” Liam snorts into his mug.
I replay the house party in my head again—the last clear memory I can fully grasp. Liam and I were about to bomb our midterm, and I was drowning myself in books. It would’ve been the first fail in medical school for me, and Liam insisted I drowned my sorrows in other ways.
“It’s probably because it was so traumatizing for us,” he adds with a laugh.
“Could be.” I twist my glass between my fingers, my water glistening in the afternoon sun. Liam pours himself another cup of coffee.
“You still drink three pots a day?” I ask.
“Pretty much.” He winces as he drinks half the cup then sets the mug on the railing behind him. “Alright, let’s get started.” He claps his hands together and leans forward, clicking on his pen and scribbling my name at the top of the paper.
When we were in school, Liam had plans of going into cardiology, for no other reason thanit’s good money. But apparently, somewhere along the way, his plans shifted, and he ended up in a field I never would’ve imagined.
“Fill me in on you first.” I lean back in the porch swing, the chains creaking under me. “When did this happen?” I gesture at his notebook and the entire persona I don’t recognize. This is the guy that would break up with a girl for not liking chicken, or refused to call his father on his birthday because, and I quote, “He knows I love him; no need to call.”
“Psychiatrist?” I pose. “I am truly shocked.” I cross my ankles and settle in, half hoping his story can help me recollect some of mine.
Liam laughs, self-deprecatingly. “It was a shock to all. But during our didactic year, cardiology started to get repetitive, and I realized how great of a need there is for mental health.” He shrugs, scribbling more notes.
“So your heart grew two sizes?” I joke.
“Not at all. It’s good money too,” he adds, not looking up from his notes.
I smirk, finding an odd sense of comfort in the familiarity. I was never one to ask Liam for help—ask anyone, for that matter. I was too prideful to let anyone know I needed it. But now is not the time to be stubborn. I have a wife and children I hardly recognize, so if Liam’s ego is what can stir some kind of memory, then so be it.
“Now, we can start slow if you want.” He’s still writing, not looking at me. The cool wind rustles his papers, and he smooths them back down. “But seeing as I only have a couple days…” His incredulous eyes flick to the kitchen window, and I follow his gaze, catching Emma and Ellie spying on us. They freeze, then scramble out of sight.
“Well, one thing’s for sure,” Liam says, finally shutting his notebook. “You’re still a lovesick puppy over her. Amnesia can’t change that, I see.”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t play dumb. Look at you.” He waves the leatherbound papers at me. “You’re blushing right now.”
“Am I?” I rub at my jaw and the warmth that’s spreading there.
“Like old times. Just her watching you from across the hall had you starstruck. I couldn’t be in the same room with the both of you.”
He scoffs out a laugh, but it doesn’t feel like judgment. Doesn’t necessarily feel supportive either. I tuck that away for another time. Maybe there’s something there that present meknows already.
“You know, the first month of your relationship, I only saw you in class. You two were inseparable.”
“Really?” I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling, focusing on the way his brows pinch together at the memory. “Did that bother you?”
The crease between his eyes softens as he blinks back to me. “Not really. I figured you’d still be there if I needed you.”
“Was I?” I whisper nervously.
“Of course,” he says, dismissive, like the question is too ridiculous to entertain. He doesn’t catch the way I exhale, relief rushing out of me in one shaky breath. The idea of getting swept up in a woman and leaving my oldest friend behind is unthinkable—even if the woman is now my wife and that friend can be intolerable.
But my mind shifts anyway, veering down a road of what-ifs.
What if I’m the guy who only calls his best friend on his birthday? What if I’m the dad who works too much and forgets his kids’ favorite foods? What if I’m the husband who forgets his own anniversary? They’re little things, ordinary failures I would’ve put to the wayside if it was fifteen years ago. But these possibilities start to multiply, flooding my mind with some alternate, disgusting version of myself. It slices a sharp, gnawing pain across my chest.
“What’s wrong?” Liam asks, eyeing my hand as I rub at my sternum.
“I don’t know. I just…not knowing anything is messing with me, I think.”
