He’s patient with me as I try and fail the first two times, but finally I’m able to step out onto the bathmat. He reaches beside us and grabs a towel before wrapping it around me.
“Do you need some privacy?” he asks while keeping his gaze locked on mine.
“Uh, yes and no. If you wouldn’t mind helping me get out of this bra and into a dry one, that’d be great. I think I can manage everything else.”
He swallows hard again. “Sure. Just shift the towel around so it opens at your back,” he says as he helps me turn away from him.
I follow his instruction and then I feel his fingers brush against my skin as he unfastens the hooks. I close my eyes as the feeling of familiarity overcomes me.
“It’s like you’ve done this before,” I say just above a whisper, meaning to sound light-hearted although it comes out anything but.
His gaze finds mine again in the mirror across the room. He never breaks eye contact as he leans close and says in a gruff tone, “It’s because I have. Many times.”
Chill bumps prickle my skin as his breath tickles my ear. It’s my turn to swallow.
“Where’s another bra?” he asks as he stands back up to his full height.
“I don’t remember. Check the drawers in the bedroom I guess.”
He nods and leaves me leaning against the wall for support. He returns with one and hands it to me as he takes control of holding the towel up to cover me. Once I have it loosely on my shoulders, he fastens it for me.
On shaky legs, I turn toward him. He’s studying me like he’s searching my soul to see if I’m really London or if I’m somehow Lennon. That’s a question I don’t know the answer to any more than he does. I just know what I’ve been told. And all I’ve been told points to me being London. It’s hard to dispute the facts.
“I’ll be out in the hall if you need me,” he says.
I simply nod because I’ve somehow forgotten how to speak in his presence as if I needed to forget something else.
Once I’m dressedand back in my chair, I find Dash in the living room. He’s staring at the floor but glances up quickly when he hears me approach.
“How’d you get in here anyway?” I ask as the thought suddenly dawns on me that Hendrix surely would’ve locked the door behind him when he left.
He smiles and it’s the first time I’ve seen it in this post-coma version of myself. He appears younger and his eyes seemto sparkle with a hint of mischief. He’s even more handsome this way.
“What?” I say as I guffaw.
“We can leave it at I know how to pick locks, and when you didn’t come to the door, well, you get the picture.”
“I do,” I say as we stare at each other. I’m unsure if his determination to check on me is sweet or something that borders on alarming and unhealthy.
“So, what do you want to talk about, Dash?”
His jaw moves like he’s clenching his teeth. “I want you to come somewhere with me.”
“Why would I do that?” I ask.
“To see if you remember anything,” he answers.
“I have therapy in a little over an hour,” I say trying to deflect. I want to remember, and I need to. But part of me is scared. I know once I do, everything will shift again.
“So…I’ll pick you up after,” he says not waiting on me to say yes or no.
I close my eyes.
“What?” he asks.
“I’m scared,” I admit, knowing I’ll go anywhere with him whether I should or not. I need all the help I can get trying to regain my memory.
“I know. I am too. But we need to find out what really happened and whether or not you’re really…”
