“Don’t fall asleep, sweetheart,” I warn her.
“Why?” She kisses my chest, nibbles on my flesh.
“Because I’m nowhere near done with you.”
26
THE TRUTH AND THE TWIST
LUCY
We made love three times—once in the kitchen, once in bed, and once in the shower.
Now we’re happily exhausted, in bed. The room is quiet but for our breathing.
Through the window, the garden is a dark shape, and the fireflies are doing their early summer thing, brief and random in the hedges.
I am on my back, staring at the ceiling. He’s on his side, an arm over my midsection, holding me lightly.
You have to tell him, Lucy.
Now.
“Fox.”
“Yes, sweetheart.”
“I need to tell you something.”
The same thing I said in my parents’ backyard, before Milo’s kid, the laughing, and the moment that broke my resolve.
“Okay.”
I breathe.
“I remember,” I admit in a small voice. “I’ve always remembered. Since the ICU. Since the first moment, I looked at you in that chair, and I knew exactly who you were, and I—“ I stop and close my eyes. “I lied to you. About the amnesia. I lied, and I’ve been lying, and I’m sorry. I’m—“ My voice fractures, and I let it, because I owe him at least that. “I’m sorry.”
The room is very quiet.
He leans over me, his hand cupping my cheek.
I keep my eyes closed.
“Open your eyes, sweetheart.”
I do so, afraid of what I’ll find. Afraid of what I’ll see on his face.
Anger? Disgust? What?
He smiles gently. “I know.”
My eyes widen. “What?”
“I know,” he says again. Kisses my nose and then my lips. “I’ve known for a while.”
“How long?” I ask.
“A while.”
