“Well, when you put it that way, how can I say no?”
“You can’t if you have a heart at all,” I say and scrunch my nose at him.
He doesn’t respond, he simply moves around my kitchen like he lives here, like he knows it better than me. Which while my memories evade me, I guess he does.
Even so, as I watch him move around effortlessly, I try to envision myself doing the same. The kitchen feels like the centerpiece of this apartment. It draws me in but I don’t know why.
Once he comes over to the couch, he places two cups on the coffee table and then he sits beside me with the popcorn bowl staring into it as if searching for his next words carefully.
Then, he turns on the television before peering over at me with slightly widened eyes and swallows hard like he has an important declaration to share. “I have a heart, London, but I don’t own it. You do.”
We stare at each other in silence. I glance down at his lips and then back up to his eyes. I lean closer and so does he.
He reaches for my face, and I know he’s about to kiss me and I’m about to let him. But my phone sounds with an incoming call.
I turn and grab it, swiping the screen to answer. “Hello?”
“I just wanted to check on you before bed. And to tell you we still need to talk when you’re ready.” It’s Dash.
Just the sound of his voice sends butterflies through my stomach. I close my eyes at how screwed up this is. I can’t have feelings for my late sister’s boyfriend. What is wrong with me? Maybe my TBI messed up more than my memory. Is it possible your personality can be altered too?
“Oh, um, I’m fine. Can I call you tomorrow sometime? We’ll talk then.”
I need to find out what he wants to talk about whether I’m ready or not. But I’ve been surrounded by my parents since I left the hospital.
“Are you with him? Hendrix?” he asks, and I can hear a hint of anger in his voice.
“Yes. Is that a problem?” I ask.
“It is for me. Just, please promise me you won’t do anything with him, Lennon.”
“You mean London,” I say, correcting him.
“Please.” He sounds so desperate and my heart breaks for him. What am I supposed to do in this situation?
“I promise. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Then the call ends without him saying goodbye.
Hendrix stares at me with a furrowed brow.
“What did you promise him?” he asks.
“What do you mean?”
“What does he want, London?” he asks again but leans up and rests his elbows on his knees.
“He wants to talk. And he…”
“He what?”
“He wanted me to promise I wouldn’t do anything with you,” I admit.
He stands and runs his fingers through his hair.
“So, he won’t let go of the idea that you could be Lennon instead of London. Is that it?”
“Maybe, I guess.” There’s no point in denying it.
