“Good morning. How are you feeling?”
“Like I picked a fight with a concrete wall and the wall won.” I roll my shoulder and wince. “Decisively.”
Her answering laugh is quick and surprised. I like the sound of it.
“I don’t suppose you’ve got anything to drink,” I add.
“I’ve got coffee and tap water. The tap water tastes like someone filtered it through a parking lot, so I’d recommend the coffee.”
“Bold of you to assume I remember what parking lots taste like.”
She gives me an amused look over her shoulder as she turns back toward the house. “Your memory’s gone but your mouth works just fine, huh?”
Something about the way her eyes crinkle when she’s being a smartass makes me want to keep talking, to see if she’ll do it again.
She heads to the kitchen door. “Any memories come back overnight?”
“Some flashes. Nothing I can pin down.” I follow her inside. “A club, maybe. Loud music. After that, it gets... violent and blurry.”
She drapes her jacket over a chair and circles the island to the coffee maker. “It’s actually a good sign that your brain is producing fragments. Post-concussive amnesia usually resolves in layers. The flashes mean the pathways are trying to reconnect.”
She says it like she knows what she’s talking about.
“Did you want me to drive you to a hospital?” The question comes carefully, and I can hear what’s underneath it. She doesn’t want to go to a hospital either. For different reasons, maybe. But the hesitation is there.
“No.” The word comes before I’ve thought it through. That alarm again. A knee-jerk reaction.
Her eyes stay on mine just long enough for me to know she caught the edge in that word. Then she turns back to the coffee maker.
“Look.” I lean against the island, arms crossed. “I know this is a lot to ask. But is it alright if I stay? Just until things start coming back.”
She pauses. One beat. Two.
“Of course.” She turns, and her smile doesn’t quite hide the flicker of apprehension behind it. “Your clothes are in the laundry right now. But I think I’ve got a couple oversized things that might work for you in the meantime.” A small pause. “The guest room has its own shower. You probably want to get the sand out of your hair before it sets up permanent residence.”
“Pretty sure I brought half the beach into your bed. Sorry about that.”
“I’ll throw the sheets in the wash. It’s not a problem.”
She pulls towels from the hall closet and stacks them in my arms. Her fingers brush the inside of my wrist on the handoff, and my whole arm lights up like a fuse.
Her eyes flick to mine. A spark flares in them before she steps back and the moment dissolves.
“Thanks.” I step back, clutching the towels. “I’ll, uh. Shower. Thanks again, Natalia.”
I turn for the guest room before my face does something stupid.
The shower is the first thing that’s felt right since I woke up on that beach.
Hot water sluices over me, carrying sand and dried salt down the drain. I stand under it longer than I need to, letting the heat work into muscles that feel like they’ve been through a fight I can’t remember.
Then I start the inventory.
Scars first. A thick, knotted patch of tissue on my outer thigh. It’s round, and puckered at the center.Bullet wound.The knowledge arrives without fanfare, clinical and certain. My fingers find a jagged line along my left side, near the ribs.Knife. Healed rough.Whoever stitched it wasn’t worried about cosmetics.
So I’m a guy people hurt. Or a guy who gets hurt doing the hurting. Neither answer makes me eager to rush back out there and share with the class.
The tattoos tell me less. Black and gray work, scrolling Gothic architecture, intricate geometric patterns, symbols I can feel the meaning of without being able to name them. They’re quality. Expensive. Done by someone skilled as hell.
