Текст книги "Before & After"

“I think I need to see her.”

Rike glances at me. We’re in the hospital cafeteria, sitting across from each other in a booth. He’s been sketching for almost an hour while I journal. But I haven’t really written anything. It’s been over a week since I woke up, and my days have a pattern. Morning physical therapy and counseling. Texting with Rike. Afternoons spent playing card games and listening to ridiculous jokes while he stares at me with cloudy blue eyes that are full of secrets.

I wish I knew why he was here. I wish I didn’t feel like he was hiding something from me. And I wish I was brave enough to demand to know what it was.

But I’m not. And fighting with my doctors and psychiatrist about my insistence to keep my family at a distance has been consuming me.

Rike looks distant, nibbling at his lip in a way that is way too fucking distracting.

“Who?”

“Lindsay,” I say. We came in together. Maybe I know her. It makes sense. And what if she’s all alone like I am?”

His eyebrows go up. “I didn't think you were alone,” he says.

I flush. “You know what I mean.”

Rike sighs and put his pencil aside, giving me his full attention. “I do know what you mean but I need you to hear me. You aren't alone. I'm here. I’m not going away.”

We sit in silence for a long moment staring at each other and then, “But I don't understand why,” I say.

He smiles, that mysterious smile I adore and stands up, “You don't have to understand why. Come on. You’re right: seeing her will do you some good.”

He helps me into my wheelchair—the doctors want me in it until the casts come off my leg and arm—and tucks a blanket around me, always with that careful caution that I'm coming to expect.

He treats me with such reverent care, like a strong wind will shatter me. And it might. I know nothing about who I am—sometimes, it feels like he is all that holds me together.

I catch his hand as he straightens and his eyes flash to mine. Hungry and questioning and so intense it takes my breath away for a moment.

I want to kiss him. I don't know why, but I do, and I think he can see that desire my eyes. He leans into me, his forehead against mine. "You’re making this so hard, Peyton," he murmurs.

"Sorry," I say faintly, and his lips twitch a little.

"No, you aren’t."

I grin. I’m really not. I fucking love that I’m affecting him.

Rike sighs, and straightens. “Behave.”

“You don’t really want me to,” I sass, and he barks a laugh as he pushes me through the cafeteria and into the halls of the hospital.

The playful mood slips away as we get closer to the ICU. I’m nervous, suddenly, as the doors swing open and the sterile environment stares back at me.

A nurse offers me and me—Rike, especially—a friendly smile, but he ignores it as he steers me deeper into the unit. Until we come to a stop at unit seventeen.

There is a steady beeping, the constant hum of machines, and it’s comforting. It means life—maybe broken, but still life.

Rike pulls open the door and maneuvers me in deftly, and the door swings shut behind me.

I barely notice. My entire being is focused on the girl in the bed.

Her hair is chopped brutally short, almost shaved, and she’s covered in bruises. She’s wrapped in bandages, so fucking beat up I want to cry. “You didn’t tell me it was this bad.”

“You didn’t need to know this, Peyton.”

“That isn’t your call,” I say harshly. “You aren’t part of my life. You don’t even know me.”

“Don’t argue,” a voice says. I startle. The movement jars my leg, and I hiss in pain as it slices into me, hot and searing.

Rike is by my side instantly, his hands catching mine, gentle. His voice is soothing, centering me, and it keeps me in the moment, focused on something other than the pain.

“Come on, Pey, breathe though it,” he murmurs, and I gasp, tears stinging my eyes. Nod at him as he continues to murmur softly. It takes a few minutes, but when I can breathe again, he sits back on his heels and looks past my head, to whomever is standing behind me. “Don’t fucking do that,” he snarls, and I shiver. There is real anger there, a kind of bone deep dislike that I haven’t seen from Rike before now, and it chills me.

I don’t like this side of him.

“Then don’t fucking disturb her,” the other man snaps. His gaze skates over me, and I see the flash of fury in his gaze before his expression goes smooth and blank. “What are you doing here?”

“She wants to see Lindsay.”

The other man snorts. “Now she does.”

“Scott,” Rike growls, and I finally shake myself.

“Can I have a few minutes alone with her? Please?”

They both stare at me for a moment and I force my chin up, a defiance I don’t actually feel in the face of their anger that makes no sense.

But I was right. Seeing her helps. If only because it confirms what I knew.

“Please,” I say again.

Scott huffs and stalks past me, throwing an order over his shoulder. “Don’t fucking wake her up. She was up all night with the fucking nurses.”

I wonder if he knows any curse words besides fuck.

“Shit. And damn. And hell. As in, I don’t give a damn what the hell you want. Your shit doesn’t concern me.” He points at the bed. “She does. Don’t fuck this up.”

I flush, heat crawling in my cheeks, and he laughs as he walks out of the room. “At least that thinking out loud thing hasn’t changed. “

I look at Rike, a searching stare, but he’s ignoring me, stalking after Scott and letting the door swing close behind them.

And there is nothing but the girl sleeping in the bed to distract me.

I nudge myself closer to the bed, and stare at her.

I don’t know her. Except—I do. I don’t know who they are, these people, but I know them, or I knew them. And they don’t fit who I imagine I was.

“What the hell were we doing? Why was I with you and where were we going?”

“I can’t tell you.”

She’s staring at me and I didn’t even realize she was awake. Her eyes are tired, glassy, a too dull brown, and sad. She winces as she shifts, twisting a little to stare at me.

Her words are sinking in, slowly. Too slowly. I narrow my eyes at her. “What do you mean, you can’t?” I demand.

Her gaze darts past me for a minute and she licks her lips. A nervous habit.

How the hell do I know that’s a nervous habit?

“Lindsay, what the fuck does that mean?”

“I promised, Peyton. I promised I’d let him do this his way. I—I can’t tell you anything.”

“Do I know you?” I demand, and lurch forward. Agony sings through me, but it’s amazing what you can ignore when something else is at stake. Pain is fleeting—it’ll be gone soon. My memory will stay gone, and she knows something.

“Who am I?”

She’s sobbing, and I’m clutching her leg, shaking her. “I promised, Peyton. I can’t. I’m so sorry.”

“Who the hell would you promise that to?” I shout. “This is my life you’re fucking playing games with!”

The door slams open and she breaks down, sobs shaking her as Scott shoves my wheelchair aside and cradles her against his chest.

“I told you to leave her the fuck alone.”

“She fucking knows me,” I scream.

“Get her out of here, Rike,” Scott yells, and the nurses are all around us. Lindsay’s machines are going crazy, and I can feel Rike pulling me away from her, can hear the apologies he’s almost shouting as we’re all but thrown out of ICU, and I can hear Lindsay crying and Scott cursing, but it’s all distant. A long way away. Muffled and distorted as I scream after her.

She knows me. She knows who I am, and where I come from. She knows it all. And the bitch won’t tell me anything.

I feel a prick in my arm, and the world swims as icy heat flood my veins.

Rike is crouched in front of me, and I can see the apology in his eyes. He’s murmuring and as the sedative the nurses gave me starts working, pulling me inexorably toward oblivion, I shape the words. Sift through them. I’m so sorry, Fish.

It doesn’t make sense. Why is Rike sorry? Why is he here? What—my gaze widens and I grit out a curse. “Oh, you fucking asshole. It was you. You made her promise not to tell me anything.”

Guilt floods his gaze and he looks away. And the darkness pulls me down, with the sound of his betrayal, and flaring alarms all that I can hear.

Chapter 7 : Before

There are a few defining moments for every relationship. Shit where, afterwards, you know things have changed. Finger banging Peyton on a stage in a bar was one of those points.

When I was with her, I could forget for a few minutes that everything we were doing was stupid and doomed to fall apart. Because she was in my arms or holding my hand. But there was something that needed to happen that couldn't wait—a big fucking defining moment.

"I want to take you out," I say, softly. She's sitting next to me, her fingers flicking lazily through the stacks of records, and her gaze comes up to mine when I murmur those words. Curiosity is bright in her eyes and I swallow hard. This girl fucking undoes me. I don't know how or why, but she can unravel me completely with just a single smile, all sweet innocence and dirty promises.

"Where are we going?"

I let out a breath. "Scotty wants to get some new ink. You wanna come with us?"

She wrinkles her nose, an expression that I love on her pretty face. "You want me to go out with you and Scotty?"

I nod, and my breath stills.

She shrugs. "Ok."

That's it? Her gaze goes back to the stack of records, and some of the tension eases in my shoulders, relaxing some even as I frown at her. "You aren't going to argue with me?"

"Do you want me to?" she asks.

"Of course not," I say, annoyed for some reason. Her gaze snaps up, just a little bit warning, and I breathe out, trying to keep from snapping.

"Look, he's your best friend. I get it. There's something about him that's important to you. We've been seeing each other for almost a month. I'd be more concerned if you didn't want me to hang out with him." She shoves the records at me and stands, and I get a quick peek of pink lace panties as she straightens her rumpled skirt. "But if either of you think you’re going to share me, you can get that shit out of your head. I get that you have in the past, but I'm not into him, and I'm not going to fuck him to keep you happy."

Without thinking, I catch her hand and drag her back down to the couch. Catch her lips with mine and swallow her startled little noise of surprise as my hands smooth down her luscious curves.

She comes to life under my hand, arching into my caress and almost purring as I lick into her mouth. Her teeth close over my lower lip, and I swallow my groan as she pulls away, pain flickering through me, chasing the high of kissing her.

"I won't fucking share you. Scotty gets a lot, but the most he'll get to participate is listening to you scream when I fuck you at our place. Because I know that when I strip you down, you'll be a screamer. Won't you, Pey?"

"If that's what you want," she whispers as my hand trails up her leg, and she shifts, her legs spreading a little in obvious invitation. "But you have to actually fuck me to find out."

"You want that. You want me to fuck you until you scream." I lick the shell of her ear and catch it with my teeth. "Does it turn you on that he'll listen to you, that he'll get off listening to me fuck you?" She whimpers and reaches for my hand and I twist, dumping her from my lap unceremoniously.

“Come on,” I say, rising and adjusting my hard-on. She glares at me, shoving her hair out of her eyes and I grin.

“No one likes a tease,” she says and I smirk, leaning down to brush her lips lightly.

“Maybe not. But you, sweet girl, like me.”

She growls lightly and I slap her ass before steering her toward the door.

“We’re going now?”

“You ok with that?”

She shrugs, nibbling at her lip nervously Something I didn’t expect from her. “Hey,” I say softly. “What’s going on in that pretty little head of yours?”

“What if he doesn’t like me?”

I hesitate. I could tell her that it wouldn’t matter, but this girl knows me well enough to know better. She’s picked up too quickly just how important Scotty is. She won’t buy my bullshit and maybe that’s what I adore about her.

She’s so fucking different from every girl I’ve ever met.

“Why don’t—” I say, catching her by the hand and lacing our fingers, drawing her into me “—we figure that out if it becomes a problem? And until then, we agree that neither of us will worry about it. Ok?”

She bites her lip, and my dick, still hard, twitches in my jean. I nod at the door, and nudge her slightly. “Let’s go, sweetheart.”

Chapter 8 : After

Easy doesn't make the lonely

easier to bear, and less

Suffocating.

It simply is.

I've tried them both.

And I would rather,

Fight and laugh and puzzle

Through the riddles,

And all the not easy.

If it means being with you.

(Rike’s poems to Peyton)

I’m leaving the hospital.

That’s what they keep telling me. That I’m leaving, and I’ll be going—where?

Rike keeps trying to come back, and I keep refusing to see him. He’s not offering me anything and he’s holding all the cards. The fucking bastard is holding my memory hostage. It’s psychological warfare and I don’t care how he might make me smile, how sweetly he treats me—nothing can excuse that. It’s indefensible.

But there’s nothing more that the hospital can do for me. I have money—plenty, according to the ATM I use with the debit cards I find in the purse the EMTs brought in with me. So I make a plan.

And when my doctor discharges me, two weeks after I wake up with no memories and a shattered leg, I wheel myself out of the hospital. Alone. I think, very briefly, about going to see Lindsay before I leave, but the truth is I’m not sure what the point would be. She’s got her own set of problems, recovering from the internal organ damage and the broken bones. They’ve moved her from ICU, but no one is even starting to talk about her going home. It’s completely quiet on that front, and I’ve asked.

I think something is going on with her that no one wants to let me in on. Because I’m so fucking fragile. I huff a breath at the thought.

I hate being weak.

It takes the better part of two hours to get myself to a hotel, and settled in. It’s not terribly nice. As much as I have in my bank account, eventually it’ll dry up, and I’m pretty sure that whatever job I might have had is long gone. So this little nest egg will have to last until I can find a new one or remember who the hell I am.

The hotel doesn't have a bellhop, but there is  a big black man from maintenance sitting behind the counter, and he offers to help me carry my stuff up to my room. There isn't much—three bags from the hospital with meds and clothes, a bloody purse that came in from the accident, and the stuff that Rike brought to me. Which I should get rid of. I've tried to, a few times. I almost left the bag of his gifts on the bed when I left, but at the last second, I chickened out. I'm furious and I don't think I'll ever forgive him, but I also can't seem to bring myself to break ties completely.

I'm clearly an idiot.

"You shouldn't be here alone, ma'am," the guy rumbles at me as we take the elevator up to the third floor. I glance at him, and he's staring at his feet. The man is a giant, but he's got a shy gentleness about him that sets me at ease.

"Why?"

"Dangerous. And you're a lady," he adds, flushing a darker shade of brown.

I glance away to hide my smile, and shrug. "Beggars and choosers. You know the drill," I say.

“What happened?” he asks, nudging the wheelchair.

“Car accident. It left me a scrambled memory—I’m trying to put the pieces back together.”

He frowns thoughtfully but doesn't say anything else as he pushes my wheelchair off the elevator when the doors slide open. I sit quiet while he opens the door to my room and wheels me in, laying my bags across the bed. Without giving me a chance to say anything, he crosses to the desk and scribbles on the pad of paper there. Taps it with his pen while giving me a serious look.

"I'm Tommy. I work here to fill my time—since my wife died, I don’t like being home alone. You need anything at all—food or a ride to the store or help downstairs. You call me. I'm here every day but Sunday." He says sternly. I nod quietly and his gaze, so very fierce, gentles into the concern that looks like what I imagine my father would look like, if he could be bothered to care. "You should not be here, alone. I will help, if you'll let me."

"Thank you," I whisper, and he grins. Bobs his head at me and ducks out the door. I let out a breath and stare around the little room.

A TV. Two beds. Three bags. A view of a city I've never been to, and that I live in.

A cell phone that has been silenced, blinking with unread messages.

It's not much to build a life on. Not nearly enough.

I shove that thought aside and work on getting out of the wheelchair, and on to the bed.

I don't know who I am. Rike holds the keys to everything, but he's not giving them up and I'm not going to wait for him to tell me. So it's time to research.

***

I'm lost in Facebook when I hear a tap on the door. My head jerks up and then, muffled, I hear Tommy calling to me. "Ma'am?"

Relief sags my shoulders. "Hang on," I yell. It takes a few minutes, but I make it to the door and pull it open.

Tommy is standing there with a bag of food and a hopeful look. “You hungry?

I tilt my head. “Tommy you don’t have to take care of me. I’m ok.”

He hesitates, some of the light in his going out. “Sorry. I—you remind me of my wife. She was stubborn and brave. I didn’t mean to be pushy.”

“How long ago did she pass away?” I ask, softly.

Grief flickers in his eyes, “Four years ago. They said it’ll get easier, but it doesn’t. It just gets familiar.”

"Peyton. My name is Peyton," I say. "And I am hungry. I was working." He glances over the bed, at the little notepad that I've scribbled on and ripped apart, the notebook that's spread out with names and lines crisscrossing like a fucked up map.

"Well, eat something. And try to get some sleep tonight," he says.

I nod and take the bag. "Thank you."

"Need me to bring you anything in the morning?"

I shake my head and he wilts but doesn't push. Just gives me a quick smile before he ducks out. "Lock up behind me," he advises and then he's gone.

I do.

It begins a routine that quickly becomes comfortable. He comes by in the morning with breakfast and whatever random thing he thinks I need. And in the evening, when his shift is ending, he comes by again with dinner. Sometimes he stays and we talk about the hotel and what he did during the day. He learns quickly that I don’t like questions and stops asking after a few days. But he’s a constant presence, with stories about his wife, and the forty years they spent together before cancer ripped apart their happy life.

It still bugs me when I call him for the first time.

“Tommy? It’s Peyton, in 337.” I hesitate and he laughs.

“I only know the one Peyton,” he teases. “Now what do you need?”

“Do you think you could help me downstairs? I have appointments at the hospital all day—”

“I’ll be right down. Get your stuff together.”

He hangs up before I get the “thank you” out of my mouth and I let out a little sigh.

When Tommy knocks on the door five minutes later, I’m ready and vaguely nervous. I’ve got more information about the retrograde amnesia, and about myself.

But knowing that I’m the daughter of a politician from Tennessee, that I hate my family and spent a good chunk of my high school years in and out of rehab—none of that tells me why I’m living in Austin or who the hell Rike is to me.

And it should have come back by now. That’s the part that bothers me the most. That my memory is still gone.

“You’re quiet today, Peyton,” Tommy observes.

“Do you think, that if a person doesn’t remember where they came from, they’re still bound by the decisions that they made before?” Tommy throws me a startled look and I wave a hand dismissively. “Never mind.”

“Is that what’s wrong? That you can’t remember?”

We’ve talked, briefly and vaguely, about my accident. He knows something is wrong, and sometimes, when he’s talking about a movie he’s watched recently, I stare at him with a blankness that is frightening.

I stare at the city we’re driving through. I feel a strange longing for it, even as I find it too big and too foreign. It’s not Nashville. Not Sweet Water. I miss my quiet, backwater little town in the middle of nowhere Tennessee.

“Yes,” I whisper.

“Peyton, no one gets to decide who you are but you. Even if you had your memories.”

I think of Rike, and how easy it is to be with him. How present he is, even when we were both lost in our own worlds.

How fucking happy I was.

I’m so tired of thinking about him, of being pulled into feelings I don’t know what to do with, and that stupid fucking feeling of loss.

I can’t mourn losing someone I never had. And maybe, before was different. But Rike was never mine. Not the me I am today.

I let the thought roll around my head as Tommy pulls into the visitor bay at St. David’s. There’s a line of cars waiting and I sit quietly, waiting as he inches forward until he finally puts the truck in park and hops out, tugging my wheelchair down before he helps me out and helps me into it, stepping back and letting me situate myself. When I nod at him, he grabs my black purse—a new purse, one he brought to me on the third morning at the hotel—and wheels me to the sidewalk. “I’m going to park, and I’ll take you in,” he says.

“Tommy, you don’t have to do that,” I say, but he’s already jogged away, sliding into the truck and pulling away to park. He’s going to be in trouble if he stays with me. They’ll miss him at the hotel.

“Peyton.”

I jerk and look around. The voice is vaguely familiar, and it clicks suddenly when I see Scott. He’s walking toward me, smoking.

He looks like shit, exhaustion clear on his face even under the oversized sunglasses and ball cap. He’s hunched forward, almost hiding. “God, where the fuck have you been?” he breathes, leaning down and hugging me.

I’m stiff in his arms, and he seems to realize it, because he pulls back and stares at me.

“Holy fuck. You don’t know, do you? You still don’t know who we are.”

“Feel free to clue me in,” I snap.

He takes off his ball cap and ruffles his hair, a scowl lining his forehead. “I’m going to fucking kick his ass.” Scott crouches. “This wasn’t the deal. We wouldn’t have agreed if we knew it was going to take this long for him to come clean about shit. I’ll talk to him.”

“Don’t,” I say, and his face goes pale. “I don’t know who or what I was to you or Lindsay. I don’t know what Rike is playing at. And I don’t fucking care.”

“Peyton, you don’t mean that,” he protests.

“I do. I’m not that girl. I don’t even fucking remember that girl. So if he wants to play god with someone’s life and memories, he’ll have to find someone else because I’m done.”

“What are you going to do?”

It’s a good question. I refuse to go to my parents. That bridge isn’t quite burned, but I’d set fire to it before I crossed it.

“It’s not your concern,” I say.

“You’re my girlfriend’s best friend, and you’re Rike’s—” He stops, and I lean forward.

“I’m what? What the hell am I to him?”

He shrugs. “You’re his. You think you can walk away, and he might even let you, for a time. Because he’s a dumbass. But it won’t stick, Peyton. Rike doesn’t know how to be without you.”

I smile, so cold it hurts even me. “He’ll have to fucking figure it out.”

“Peyton?”

Scott tenses, and his gaze darts to Tommy. Back to me, questioning.

“Pey, is he bothering you?” Tommy asks. He sounds cold. Threatening, for the first time since I’ve met him, and Scott straightens slowly.

“Dude, she’s practically family,” he says. As if it were true, and an excuse. It’s neither.

“We’re going to be late,” I say and Tommy’s pushing me forward.

“You’re really just going to leave. Let this random dude into your life, and ignore your family? Is that it?”

“My family?” I bark. “Are you fucking insane? Because keeping shit like who I am isn’t what family does. Fuck you, Scott.”

Tommy pushes me forward, another two steps.

“Lindsay is paralyzed. She won’t ever fucking walk again, Peyton. And she needs her best friend. You don’t want me or Rike—ok. But she needs you.”

I glance back at him, and I know he's telling the truth.

"I'm sorry," I whisper. "I really am. But I need to figure out who I am and what the hell I'm doing. I can't be strong for someone else if I can't even figure out where I belong."

He gives me a sad smile. "You belong with us, Peyton. You always have."

***

Tommy is quiet the entire way home, after my appointments end. He gets me back to my hotel room, and I curl up on the bed. The doctor had nothing helpful to say, and no clue why I haven't remembered anything. She's ordered new scans of my brain, but what the hell will that do?

I'm so tired I can't even think, and Scott's words are still running in my head, an endless loop that keeps mocking me.

"Why are you walking away from them?" Tommy asks, pulling chocolate milk from my mini fridge and pouring a cup. He’s watching me as he settles into his chair and sips it thoughtfully. Waiting for an answer I don’t have.

I'm quiet for a long time, thinking about it, and he finally stands. "Don't push away people who care about you because they did something out of misguided good intentions. My Luce did that once, a few years after we married. It was right after we found we couldn’t have children. She thought I should find someone who could give me children. Almost destroyed us.” His dark, old eyes find mine, and I can see the sadness there still. “Don't throw away a life you've built because you're scared and can't remember building it. You come from good things and good places, and that guy, he cared about you. Maybe it's okay to think about that. To care about it too."

"They know who I am and they’re not telling me."

"But maybe Rike has a reason for it. Maybe you should listen to his reason." He hesitates. "What do you have to lose, Peyton?"

I think about it for a long time, when he's gone. Until my eyes are drooping closed.

Nothing. I have nothing left to lose.