“Outside.” I drag her through the kitchen and over to the glass doors, then, whipping those open, I yank her onto the deck and scoop up the hammer I haven’t touched in weeks. “Take this.” I slap the tool into her palm, then I snag a packet of nails, tear the lid off, and present them all to her. “Grab one. Line it up. Put it in the deck.”
“What are you…” Her lips quiver from the cold as snow steadily falls into the yard. Her arms break out in goosebumps because she shed her coat inside, and neither of us expected to come out here into this mess again. “Ollie. I don’t know what you?—”
“Put. A. Nail. In. The. Deck.” I clap my hands, condescending enough to risk her fist in my face, then I point at the floor and glower. “Hammer a nail into the deck, right now. I need you to show me that you can.”
“I think you may be experiencing a psychological break. Which would explain your erratic behavior at the hospital. Bringing a stranger into your home, ignoring your friends’ calls and texts.” She casts a knowing look at the phone in my hand. “I can hear the vibrations, even when you think you’re hiding them from me.”
“Put a nail in the deck!” I jam the phone into my pocket and grab her shoulders. I’m loud and grabby, snappy and forceful. But I don’t dare stop, because she’s not afraid. Not the way I would expect from a battered woman. And dammit, I was so sure that’s what she was escaping on her way here. “It’s freezing out here, and you’re letting all the heat out of the house.”
“Me?You’rethe one who left the door open!” She shoves the hammer back in my direction. “Youput a nail in the deck. I’m going inside.”
I press on her shoulders and force her down. Her eyes spark with momentary panic, her smile turns to a grimace. But I bend and go with her, lowering to my knees and staring deep into her eyes. “Just one,” I rasp. “Please. I need to see that you can do it. One is all it’ll take, and then, long after we’re finished with all this and you’re living the good life wherever you’ve chosen to settle down, your nail will still be a part of my deck. Your bravery will still be here. And proof—proof you can swing a hammer and make a little noise—will be all the reminder I need that you existed. Thatweexisted right here in this moment.”
“You’re afraid I’ll disappear?” She sits back on her haunches, her brows pinching over her beautiful eyes. “I’m too quiet for you?”
“You’re here, but you’re trying to make it so you’re not. You exist inside my home, but you wish you didn’t.”
“And you think someday, eventually, when my memories are back and life has gone on, that it’ll feel like I never existed?”
“Terrified.” I wrap my hand around her wrist, her thundering pulse pounding under my fingertips. “I’ve opened my home to you. I’m desperate to help you recover and recapture the amazing woman I know you are. But right now, it’s like I’m cohabitating with a ghost.” I point down at the deck. “Prove to me you exist. If you won’t slam a door, and you refuse to make a mess, the least you can do is contribute to my deck.” I swallow and stare into her eyes. Hopeful, and irrationally angry at the alternative. “Please. Then we can go inside again.”
ROUND EIGHTEEN
ROSE
Ollie works in his kitchen with smooth efficiency, pulling fresh ingredients from his well-stocked fridge and laying them out on the expansive stone counter in a way that reminds me of the hospital. He opens drawers and selects the things he wants without having to search, more proof of his impeccable organizational skills, and laying his tools in a row—spatula, knife, spoons, forks—he provides me insight into what I suppose he looks like in the operating room.
“Which is the largest country in the world?”
Surprised out of my reverie, I blink-blink-blink, and bringing my focus up from his preparations, I stop on his playful expression instead. “What?”
“I consider my question appropriately clear.” Turning his back to me and opening a cupboard, he takes out a large pot and sets it on the stove. “Which country is the largest in the world? Do you know the answer?”
“Er…” I cross one leg over the other and perch high on a tall stool on the opposite side of the counter from where he works. “Russia?”
“Excellent.” He peels a packet of ground beef open and plops it into the pot. “Who is James Cameron?”
“A filmmaker. Why are you quizzing me?”
“Brain training. It’s good for you.” He snags a chopping board from somewhere beneath the counter on his side, then a fat carrot and a knife. “And correct. He’s an American filmmaker who directed movies like…?”
“Titanic.” I exhale. “Also, he’s Canadian.”
“He’s…” He stops and snaps his mouth closed. Open. Closed. Narrowing his eyes, he takes out his phone and taps at the screen… waiting… reading. Then he nods, locks the screen, and sets the device aside. “Touché.” Flashing a wide smile, he turns to the sink and re-washes his hands. “And this is called maintaining the sterile field. Store that away somewhere in your hippocampus.” He flips the tap off and dries his hands. “I’ll ask you when you least expect it.”
“If you insist.” I look down at my half-empty glass of water and turn it on the counter. Turn. Turn. And in my peripherals, I study the bright, cascading blooms happily bursting from their vase, their explosive beauty a direct, brutal contrast to the dying fiddle leaf by the dining table. “So, he’s Canadian, right?”
He chuckles. “Confirmed. Santa Claus; North Pole or South Pole?”
“North, obviously. Which seems almost counterintuitive, considering he delivers gifts to the Southern Hemisphere first.” I pick up my water and tilt my head toward the vase. “How’d you get those?”
Curious, he glances across and looks the display up and down. He chops the carrot with minimal mental effort, driving the sharp blade through the vegetable and snap-snap-snapping the steel against the chopping board beneath. “My next-door neighbor. She keeps me in constant supply.”
“But how?” I push off the stool and walk to the blooms, trailing my fingertips over the soft, colorful petals. “It’s out of season, Oliver.” I gesture toward the wide glass sliding doors leading out to a deck with one more nail in it now than it had before my arrival, and past that, to a white-covered view. “Nothingis growing in that weather, least of all agapanthuses as strong as these.”
He sets his knife down with a snap and presses his hands to the counter. “What?”
“They won’t survive the winter. The gypsophila should’ve wilted a long time ago. The impatiens, too.” I point to each new flower, inspecting the strong stems and stroking the petals I can touch without worrying about destroying their delicate beauty. “The hippeastrum is beautiful, but they won’t touch the earth until the spring. So either your neighbor has a fat, fat wallet and a desire to charm you with flowers shipped in from across the globe, or she has?—”
