I let out a singular, self-deprecating laugh at that.Big emotions. For the past hour, all I’ve wanted to do is flip this table and scream and cry for my mommy. It’s starting to feel like Easton and I are more alike than I realize.
“I really am sorry, Steven,” she whispers again, but her tone is different this time. She’s not scared now; she’s remorseful.
“Thank you,” I whisper, adjusting Josie in my arms.
We migrate upstairs, where Easton and Sawyer have already gotten themselves ready for bed. Easton refuses to face me as I tell them goodnight. Sawyer hugs my neck with one arm, clutching Spider-Man in the other.
“I hope you’ll forgive me,” I whisper to Easton. His eyelashes flutter as he forces his eyes to stay shut. I kiss the top of his head, and the corner of his lip tugs into a lopsided grin. “I love you, son.”
It’s the first time I’ve said it to him. Not because I haven’t felt it—I’ve felt it since the moment I saw him—but because I want him to believe it. And I hope he does.
I click off their light and slowly close the door behind me but not before I hear a muffled, “I love you too.”
That sound makes my heart lift, and I practically float upstairs to our room. The bathroom door’s cracked open, steam pouring out like a cloud. The shower’s running hard, water hitting the tile in steady bursts. Emma strikes me as the kind of person who takes showers that could peel paint off the walls. Or maybe I already know this?
I glance through the crack and catch a glimpse of her, her shoulder, the curve of her back. Just a tiny bit of skin—devastatingly beautiful skin. Sheties a towel around herself, and her curves bend and sway. Soft and strong all at once.
Something pools deep in my gut, a mix of heat and desire and absolute frustration. I’d give anything to remember what it felt like to touch her, to hold her.Please, God, give me my memory back.
She reaches for the knot in her towel, and guilt hits me like a slap. I shouldn’t be watching her like this. I drop to the floor. The towel hits the tile a second later, and I squeeze my eyes shut as I army crawl for the bedroom door.
Once I make my escape, I busy myself in the kitchen. Dishes, wiping counters, scrubbing the grout. A real Cinderella moment in an effort to push the image of Emma’s body out of my brain. Nothing works. It’s permanently emblazoned in my prefrontal cortex now.
How could I forget her?
I feel irrationally angry as I scrub the floor with a sponge. The fact that my mind is so weak it could forget a woman like her. I throw the sponge, and soapy water slaps back in my direction.
Me: I can’t believe I don’t remember her.
My text whooshes away before I can take it back. Liam’s response is just as fast.
Liam: I know, man. But it’ll come back. I know it.
Me: You’re not supposed to say that; you’re a doctor.
Liam: So are you. And you’d do the same to me.
Me: Fair.
Liam: Just keep doing the exercises, ask the questions, but don’t overwhelm yourself.
Me: Yes, sir.
Liam: Sir? Yeah, I need the other Steven back. Makes me sound old.
Me:LOL I’ll talk to you later.
When the kitchen floor is as spotless as my measly skills can get it, I sit back against the dishwasher. The cold steel against my thin t-shirt is startling.
The bubbles in the soap bucket have fizzled, replaced with murky gray water. I take a breath and decide to try my memory exercises, but I keep thinking back to dinner. The way Emma’s eyes were on everything but me. The way she smiled, like she was trying to force herself not to break. And the way she winced when I snapped at Easton. The way they all winced. They all seemed so small and vulnerable.
A sick twist of shame hits me. I did that. I made them feel that way. Does that happen often? Did I ever get angry at her for no reason? The idea makes my stomach hurt.
I have to apologize. All I can think about is how much I want to make things up to her, even the things I can’t remember. I want to be someone she can trust, someone she can depend on. And my intuition, as tepid as it may be, tells me that I haven’t been that in a long time.
After what I would consider an adequate amount of time for a shower, I rush back upstairs. But the water is still running.
“How dirty does she think she is?” I mutter to myself.
