Текст книги "From the Wreckage"

Автор книги: Melissa Collins

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

Eventually, David settles on a simple, “Same here” as a response.

I can’t say there’s less awkwardness throughout the rest of the afternoon, but it is good to catch up with my parents and sister. While she tells me about how her classes are going, I can’t help but sneak glances at David standing next to the grill with his father. Even though he has to lean on his crutches for support, he’s helping him cook.

He’s laughing, too. It’s such a rich and full sound. Pulling me from my conversation with my sister, I would do anything to be able to make him laugh like that.

Catching on to my distracted state, Dani drops a hand to my arm. “He’ll get there. Don’t worry.”

And though I smile and nod, I’m getting more than a little tired of people telling me that. I know in my heart that with each passing day, we’re getting further from the possibility of him remembering everything.

But as I stand there, watching him talk on and on about god knows what, I begin to realize I don’t care if he remembers anything at all.

Because I still love him with all my heart.

And the heart is what matters.

“Can I help with those?” My crutches give me away, making Mom turn around before the words actually come out of my mouth.

Swatting me away, she deflects my offer to help, saying, “I got this, but I wouldn’t mind the company.”

“I can dry.” Snagging a dishtowel from the rack next to the sink, I hobble into position and dry the first of the dishes. “Kitchen’s nice. It’s new.”

“Yep,” she agrees, never taking her eyes away from the task at hand. “You and your father did most of the work. You actually helped install this sink.”

There’s something different about hearing my memories from her mouth, something calming. “I did a nice job, huh?”

“You did beautiful work.” She goes on to tell me how I helped tile the backsplash and even the floor. “And that cabinet . . .” She pauses, tipping her chin to the door above my head and to the right. “See how the knob is all out of place compared to the rest of them?”

“I guess I should stick to tile work,” I joke, laughing at the out-of-line placement of the handle.

“Oh no, sweetie. That was your father’s handiwork. He didn’t want to bother you, so he tried to do one on his own. I hid the drill on him after I saw the first one and called you immediately. All the rest are perfect.” Turning off the water, she leans back against the counter. Taking the towel from my hands, she dries her own.

“I can fix it you know,” I say out of nowhere. “All we need is a little putty and some tint to match the cabinet. It might not be perfect, but it’ll look better than that.”

Misty eyed, she nods. “Just tell me what I need to get and I will. You two can come over for dinner one night.” More than appreciative she doesn’t make a big deal out of me remembering how to do something, I drape my arm over her shoulder.

All too casually, she folds up the towel and asks, “So how are things going over there?”

Not willing to say more than “good,” I leave it at that. And that’s enough for Mom. Not wanting to pry, or maybe not wanting to hear something that’ll upset her, she drops that line of conversation.

Grace walks into the room right before the silence gets awkward. “Hey, you two.”

“I’m going to go put out the coffee and dessert.” Mom excuses herself, leaving me and Grace alone in the kitchen.

“How you holding up?” As she walks toward me, her hair in long coppery waves, something in my chest falls into place. Despite not being able to remember every single detail about our past, I can remember her from yesterday and the day before. She’s the only constant part in my life right now and it’s a consistency that I need more than I’d like to admit.

Shrugging makes my crutch slide out from under my arm, clattering against the cream tile floor. “Okay, I guess. I mean as good as I can be. It’s weird to be here and not recall much.” Bending down, I grab my crutch from the floor and make my way over to a stool at the L shaped counter. Grace sits next to me, her familiar scent billowing around me, comforting me. “I’ve met your parents before, right?”

She nods. “A few times.”

“Do they like me?”

“They love you.” There’s no sugary coating to her words as they tumble from her mouth without reservation. “They know I’m safe with you and they know I’m happy. I mean that’s part of it, but they know you’re a good man. To them, those are the only things that matter.”

Her hand covers mine on the table and I want so much to pull her onto my lap, bury my face in her hair and kiss her senseless. Since I’ll never be able to thank her enough for all she’s done for me, I let those words stay in my head. Sounding lame right now is not high on my priority list.

When her eyes lock with mine, something passes between us. Her lips pull at the corners and her smile is so soft and sweet. It makes me want nothing more than to taste her, take her, and make her mine. But I know I can’t take that from her. I can’t kiss her and muddle everything up. It’s selfish and wrong, but damn that doesn’t make me want it less.

“Let’s get back out there. I think I saw some brownies on that plate.” Letting the moment pass, she stands from her seat, handing me my crutches.

As we make our way out of the kitchen, we pass an opening into the living room. “Hold up,” I call her back when my eyes land on a few pictures hanging up and standing on a side table.

Following behind me, Grace and I make our way into the spacious room. There’s a gigantic television mounted to the wall, a feature my father insisted on I’m sure. But what draws my attention is a picture of me in a baseball uniform. Lifting it from its spot in the entertainment center, I hold it in my hands, staring at a younger version of myself that I can’t exactly place.

“You’re really good,” Grace fills me in. “At baseball, I mean,” she clarifies, a red flush heating her cheeks.

“You’ve seen me play?”

“Not when you were this young, but more recently yes. It was a charity game. You played against the police department.”

Flipping through the dusty files of my brain, I stop on something that feels familiar. “Ian was there. Wasn’t he?”

“Yes,” she croaks.

“And we lost?”

Nodding, a smile peeks out from behind her hand covering her mouth.

“That’s all I remember. The rest is kind of fuzzy.” Frustration settles in and I make my way over to the brown leather couch. Sinking into its softness, I try so fucking hard to remember more.

“You got hurt,” Grace supplies for me. “Pulled a muscle and hit your head on the ground. You put up a big fight about not having a concussion, but I think you definitely had one.”

“What happened?” Grasping for a piece of anything that will make the day come back into focus, I turn in my seat, letting my eyes fall to Grace and her beauty.

On a deep shuddery breath, she simply says, “I took care of you.”

And even though she doesn’t say it, I know she means that she always will, too.

“Do you want to watch a movie or something?” I’ve been on edge since we arrived back at Grace’s apartment after my parents’ house. It’s one thing not to remember everyone and everything, but to have all the things you should remember be thrown in your face all day—well, it’s unnerving. I couldn’t sleep now if I tried.

“Sure,” Grace agrees, offering to make popcorn while I pick something out. Of course out of the 500 channels, there’s nothing on.

“How about The Day After Tomorrow?” Grace suggests.

Since I can’t remember if I’ve ever seen it, I say, “Okay, what’s it about?”

“The end of the world,” she says in her best doom and gloom voice.

I laugh, “Real uplifting stuff, huh?”

“You always make fun of me when it’s on. Or you did. Shit,” she curses, trying to recover her words.

“It’s okay.” Taking her hand in mine helps settle her a little bit. “Tell me about it. I want to hear.”

With her eyes locked on our joined hands, she swallows hard and takes a deep breath. “Well, you hate this movie, but since you know I love it, you usually keep your mouth shut when I have it on. It was a joke between us.”

“Something tells me there are a lot of jokes I’ll have to relearn.” Squeezing her tiny hand settles us somehow.

Quietly, she mutters, “And I want to teach you.”

My body is immediately at attention, but the opening of the movie cuts through the moment. With our hands still joined together, we watch the movie. Her words echo around us, a silent reminder that she’ll be there to show me the way.

If I’ll let her.

And that’s the root of the struggle. Deep in my soul, I feel connected to her. I can’t deny that. I know it’s beyond what we once had. It’s about what we have today, what we had yesterday.

It’s in the lyrics of the song she sang to me when I was in my coma. The tune of her song is imprinted on my heart. But it’s all I can offer her.

That’s when the pain settles in.

She deserves more than a man who only thinks he loves her because she waited for him to wake up.

Guilt flows through my veins, setting me on edge once again. Grace notices it and wraps her fingers around mine even tighter. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” I lie. “I think I’m just more tired than I thought. I’m going to go to bed.” Lamely, I push myself up from the couch. “Raincheck?”

She nods, handing me my other crutch. Side by side, we walk down the hall to where our rooms are. Stopping at my door first, I lean against the wall, searching for something to say.

The irony is that there are a million things I feel I need to tell her, but the only ones that come out are, “Goodnight, Gracie.”

After changing and settling myself in bed, my eyes begin to droop, weighed down heavily by my exhaustion. Everything about today swirls through my brain, pairing together her parents with their names and the stories she told me about them. The whispers I overheard of people asking her how I was doing and if I remembered anything.

Would this always be my life?

Hushed silence everywhere I go.

Linking my fingers together behind my head, I stare up at the ceiling as if it holds the answers to all my questions.

When the sound of Grace crying filters through the wall, I feel as if I’ve been punched in the gut.

She’s crying. And I know it has to do with me.

Burying down my uncertainties about whether or not she wants me at her side, I make my way over to her room. My need to make sure she’s okay outweighs any concerns I have over her not wanting me there.

Lightly tapping on the door, I say, “Hey,” through the thin wood. Whoever built this place didn’t think soundproofing was much of priority. I can hear her sniffling through the door. “You okay?”

Her soft footsteps make their way to the door, but she doesn’t open it. “Yeah, I’m fine. Sorry for waking you up.”

“Can I come in?”

There’s a pause, and I worry that she’s going to turn me away. But instead, she opens the door, allowing me into her room.

And the instant I’m on the other side of the threshold, I know that this used to be the room we shared. Where her nightstand is covered with knickknacks and trinkets, the one on the other side is bare, only holding a simple alarm clock and an empty phone charger.

Fuck. I’m the biggest asshole in the world, making her stay in a room that only reminds her of what she used to have.

It’s a wonder I haven’t heard her crying more often.

“I’m fine really. Just overwhelmed from today.” As she speaks, my eyes fall to her T-shirt, forcing a bubble of laughter from my mouth.

“Nice shirt.” Written in big block letters the shirt says she loves me.

Or at least the man who used to be David Andrews.

Shocked surprise washes over her as she looks down. “Oh, shoot. Sorry.” Then when she turns around, I read the back and laugh even more.

“Shut up over there. You got it for me, you know.” Waggling a finger in my face, she feigns authority over me. But all I can focus on is the way her cheeks turn pink.

What does the rest of her body look like as it heats up?

Pushing down that thought, I say, “It’s quite dorky.”

“Well, you are a dork.” A moment laced with expectation passes between us in the unsettled silence. But when the laughter seems to have run its course, she pads over to her bed.

Sitting next to her, I ask, “Are you sure you weren’t crying for any other reason?” I don’t know why I ask it because there’s a very large part of me that knows I can’t handle the answer I know she wants to say.

Calmly, she says, “I’m fine really.” But there’s something in her tone telling me she’s anything but.

As she covers her nearly bare legs with her comforter, a stuffed animal falls to the floor. It’s tattered and old. The ear looks like it’s fallen off and been reattached far too many times to count. Somehow, I move quicker than her, picking it up. “Looks like you need a new puppy.”

Grabbing it from my hands, she clutches it to her chest, nestling her nose into the soft cotton. “Never. I’ll never get a new puppy.” Petting her hand over its not-so-soft looking fur, she adds, “I’ve had this since I was a baby.”

“That looks about right,” I joke, pointing to the layers of thread holding its ear in place.

“I’m going to go back–”

Her choked, “You saved me,” cuts through my sentence. Stupefied, I listen on as she explains, “When I was a kid. My house burned down.”

Letting that sink in, I recall the story she told me earlier about us knowing each other when we were kids.

“I didn’t know if I should tell you or not, but being at your parents’ house today it all came rushing back to me. I was crying because you didn’t remember it. I guess there are some things I’ll just have to let go of.”

“Don’t let go of it. Tell me,” I beg, scared of the words that she’ll say.

Listening to her recreate the story of her house burning to the ground, of her cold and near lifeless body lying in the snow—it’s surreal to know I played a part in keeping her alive.

It’s also insanely difficult to wrap my head around how tied-together our lives have been.

“And when I was in the hospital the next day, you brought me back Puppy. You were pretty much my knight in shining armor,” she finishes. There’s a dreamy look on her face as she loses herself in the memory.

Her knight in shining armor.

Those words play in my head as disgust settles in my stomach, washing away any possibility I thought we might have.

Her memories of me are too large for me to live up to. What if I never return to being that man? She deserves so much more than who I am today.

She deserves who I used to be.

And I can’t guarantee I’ll ever be that man again.

Rather than pushing the conversation I know we should have, I bite my tongue and stand from the bed. An abrupt, “Goodnight,” is all I’m capable of giving her.

Even though she deserves the loving words I bury deep inside, I can’t give those to her. Knowing I may never be able to give her what she deserves, I walk out of her room and ignore her soft sobs through the rest of the night.

“How was therapy?” Walking with David back out to my car, a feeling of peace settles around me.

“Good. Making progress and getting a bunch more feeling back in my fingers.” He slides his bag into the back seat of the car, and sits up front. It’s a small thing, but just seeing how at ease he is with me, and our routine, it makes me happy. “Ian says hi, by the way,” he adds as he buckles his seatbelt.

In the two weeks since he’s been home with me, his anger has diminished, especially as bits of his memory returned. His physical recovery is going even better than they’d hoped. He was downgraded to one of those walking casts just yesterday and even the fire department medical office says he might be cleared to return to work again sometime early next year, pending the successful completion of retraining courses.

Since he still can’t drive, I end up helping out as much as possible. But the very real fact that he could be on his own now lingers in the air with every breath I take.

And while all of this progress is amazing, and I couldn’t be happier that he’s healing, it all leads to one certainty.

He’s going to leave me. He’s going to move out and return to his own life. The one where he only vaguely remembers who we used to be. Some of the memories have returned—some prompted and some not. But overall, I’m still mostly the woman who sang to him while he was in a coma. I haven’t even had the heart to bring up the issue about how he feels about me, if he remembers loving me.

Because the answer scares the life out of me.

“Feel up to a little food shopping? If not, I can drop you off. Just let me know what you need.”

“Yeah. I’m all energized. Being cooped up all day is getting old.”

By the time we make it to the frozen foods aisle, the cart is filled to the top. There’s no way on earth two people could ever need this much food. “Hungry?” I ask, eyeing him over the mountain of food.

“A little,” he says from behind a freezer door. Dropping a bag of frozen sweet potato fries into the cart, he admits, “Okay fine. More than a little.”

He’s taken to trying out all the food in the world in the hopes of remembering what he likes and what he doesn’t. I bite my tongue as he drops some frozen lima beans into the cart. I know he hates them, but he doesn’t. I’ve learned to avoid pressing the issue of what he remembers in our conversations. Letting him bring it up when he feels like it seems to work best. So for now, I silently fight for the man I love, hoping that one day he’ll love me in return.

“I forgot something a few aisles back,” David says before he turns and walks away.

With only an aisle or two left, I figure I can finish what’s left of my part of the list and meet him by the checkout.

Turning the corner, I walk over to the milk cooler. As I place a half gallon of skim milk for me, and a gallon of whole milk for David into the cart a voice calls out from behind me, “Fancy seeing you here.” The voice catches me off guard, but I know who it is instantly. “Hey, roomie.” Tim walks over to me, a small hand basket in tow. “Stocking up for the zombie apocalypse?” he asks, eyeing the stock pile in my cart.

“Seems that way, huh?” I laugh. We walk through the rest of the aisle, talking about school and my upcoming observation. I’ve been able to push it back until everything else in my life was settled. Now that it’s next week, I’m more than a little nervous.

“You’ll be just fine. More than fine.” Tim squeezes my shoulder, reassuring me with his easy smile. “We’ve gone over the plans a hundred times. You have it planned out by the minute. No one’s more prepared than you.”

“Grace.” David’s voice sounds like a growl from behind me. Pulling my arm free from Tim’s hand, I turn to him. To say he doesn’t look happy is a gross understatement.

“Hi,” Tim cuts in, extending his hand. “I’m Tim. I work with Grace.” He’s polite to a fault.

“I’m David,” he introduces himself, pumping Tim’s hand in return. I bite my tongue, the reminder that they’ve met before dying in my mouth. “Grace’s . . .” He doesn’t finish the sentence. “I’ll meet you at the checkout,” he all but grunts. “Nice meeting you, Tim,” he lies before stalking away.

Offering Tim an apology, I say goodbye. Walking away from Tim and toward David, I can’t help but struggle with the uncertainty of my own future.

Wordlessly, David helps me load the groceries onto the conveyor belt. I bag them while he pays—a battle I stopped fighting after he insisted on giving me money the first time I shopped for him.

With some kind of seething anger beating off him, he stalks to the car, walking in front of me and the cart. After loading everything into the trunk, he walks the cart back to the front of the store. In what I can only categorize as the most uncomfortable silence of my life, we drive back to my place without saying a single word.

When the final bag is unloaded and packed away, we stand in the kitchen. Silent. Eyes on each other. Tension surrounding us.

“What’s wrong?”

“He was touching you,” he nearly growls, barely opening his mouth enough to let the words fall out. The air of what used to be his anger hangs in the place. “Have you fucked him?” He takes a second to register the shocked look on my face, before continuing. If it’s possible his words contain more venom than I ever thought any human could ever throw at another. “Probably started before I was hurt. I mean why not, you spend all day together. I was in a coma for two weeks, who the fuck knows what happened.”

“He’s a friend. And a co-worker,” I snap. “I’m not even going to entertain your questions with answers. You’re being an asshole. Just like you were the last time something like this happened.”

Throwing his hands up in the air, he yells in anger. “Of course this has happened before. And of course I don’t fucking remember it. So did you fuck him the last time, too?”

Everything I’ve been able to keep in check these last few weeks breaks through. “What if I did? What would you care? You don’t even remember who I am? So now I’m not supposed to have friends?”

As if I’d slapped him across the face, David stands there. The only movement is that of his chest rising and falling with his shaky breaths. His non-reaction spurs me on even further. “You know, not once in the two weeks since you’ve been here have you ever said thank you. I wanted you to live here so I could make sure you were okay, and maybe hopefully remind you of who I was. But it’s not working for me anymore. I can’t do this. I do nothing wrong at all. I have a conversation with a friend and you give me the silent treatment, like a child.”

“You think this has been easy on me?” His voice, loud and booming, knocks me back and shuts me up. “I came here because I wasn’t allowed to be on my own. You offered your home to me knowing what was wrong with me and now you’re going to hold that against me?” His fists clench at his side so tightly his knuckles turn white. “Do you know what it’s like to know you’re supposed to love someone, but you can’t remember who they fucking are?”

Tears sting my eyes, spilling down my cheeks. I’ve thought about how difficult things must be on him every single day, but I’ve never said anything for fear of upsetting him, for making him feel less than adequate.

Leaving me to my tears, he storms out of the kitchen and down to what’s become his room in an apartment I’d hoped would only ever have an our room.

Cursing myself for being some kind of hopeful asshole, I wish I had never opened my mouth to invite him here. I should have let him and his parents sort it out. He could have gone to his therapy sessions on his own, met up with Ian a few times, figured his new life out on his own. But instead, I let my love for him complicate things. My need to keep our past alive has gotten in the way of his future. And seeing him so broken and angry, so pissed off and furious because of my own selfishness, I can’t help but hate myself.

I won’t deny I still love him, but maybe I love who he used to be too much to make room for who he is now.

And the very harsh reality that he no longer has the same feelings for me as he used to is crashing all around me.

With my heart in my stomach, I walk to his room, feeling as if I’m walking into the center of a black hole. Lightly tapping on the door opens it, and I catch a glimpse of him sitting on the edge of his bed. With his elbows resting on his thighs, he’s cupping his head in hands. His shoulders sag, weighed down by the heaviness of everything threatening to consume him.

“Maybe you should move out,” I suggest, walking into the room.

He turns his head to me, tears shining in his dark brown eyes. “I’ll be out by the time you get home tomorrow.”

Nodding, I turn and walk out, before my heart crashes to the floor, breaking in half at my feet.

“You look like shit,” Tim notices as I walk into the classroom the next morning.

“Yeah, I know,” I agree, not even bothering to check my appearance. As I was getting dressed, my eyes were too puffy to even see what clothes I was picking out. For all I know, I could have left the house wearing a brown shoe and a black one. Luckily that didn’t happen. My pants, however, are the furthest thing from freshly pressed. And I’m pretty sure I unrolled my shirt from a ball in the bottom of the closet before pulling it over my head.

Attire was not my main priority this morning.

Breathing was.

And it turns out that’s a rather difficult task when your heart stops functioning.

He’s going to be gone when I get home. And I don’t know when I’ll see him again. Or even if I will ever again.

“Wanna talk about it?” Tim asks, walking over to my desk where I’m currently sorting through some papers I was supposed to have graded already.

“No,” I snap, immediately regretful of my tone. “Sorry. It’s just . . .” Cue the damn tears. They haven’t stopped since I curled up in a ball last night. I have a feeling they’re not going to stop any time soon. Centering myself with a few deep breaths, I choke out, “David and I broke up. At least, well, you can’t really break up with someone you’re not even with. But he’s moving out. We had a fight and I said it would be best for him to leave. And he agreed.”

“Oh, Grace,” Tim soothes, pity filling his eyes. “I’m sorry.” Squatting in front of me as I hold my head in my hands, he runs his hand over my upper arm. “But maybe it’s better this way.”

His suggestion makes my stomach roil. Not because he’s happy for my pain, or because he’s looking for some kind of in into my life. Because neither of those things are true.

No, the reason his words sting more than a scalding burn is because he just might be right.

Meandering through the rest of my day in a fog of numbness, I manage to survive until three o’clock. The moment I’d been dreading since I woke up this morning is rearing its ugly head.

Sure, I could call Jade and head into the city for the weekend. I’m sure a few bottles of wine would help me forget.

But then I’d wake up again. And the pillows on my bed would still smell like David. He would still be in my house, not in body but in spirit.

And no matter where he is physically, he will always be a part of me.

So, deciding to face my heartache head-on, I drive home, knowing full well no one will be waiting there for me when I get there.

But what is waiting for me shocks me to my core.