Page 64 of The Kiss of Deception

Suddenly, I wish for amnesia. I wish I’d forgotten everything. I wish I could forget right now.

Unfortunately, my memory is intact. I remember everything.

The first symptom arrives at the crest of a wave of nausea instead, swallowing me with the flashbacks, but I don’t think it’s from the concussion. I melt into the pillows, shutting my eyes.

Maybe it helps. Maybe I’ll be able to say the name if I don’t face him.

But I have to.

I straighten.

I speak.

“Lucy.”

For a moment, only silence.

Crushing silence of screaming pain governed by the beep, beep, beep, faster and quicker as the speechlessness stretches; his ragged breaths, in and out, in and out, in and out, a quiet symphony of agony. Silence that voices all the things he can’t.

Outside, the sun happily sets on the longest day of the year. From the expanse of the horizon, it can't reach the corners of a hospital room or cast its smile upon us.

Inside these oppressive quarters, his clouds aren’t the usual placid gray, serenely traveling with the wind and shining in the sun. They’re tormented and tempestuous, crackling with lightning and thunder, threat and destruction.

Miles’s hand falls from mine.

His skin is the color of the walls, so pale I worry for a second he’ll fall next onto me on the hospital bed. He struggles to keep himself upright but his posture is defeated, demolished under the weight of crushing guilt and agony.

I want to reach for him, but something stronger than logistics keeps me away.

He hides his face behind his palms. With a deep breath, as though my revelation solidified something inside him into steel, he lifts his head from his hunched shoulders.

“Do you… Do you not want me to press charges?” I hear myself asking.

She isn’t some random, faceless thug. She’s someone he knows—I don’t know exactly who she is, but Miles knows her.

Fuck, maybe he won’t believe me.

I think I’m dizzy again. I think I might throw up.

Miles doesn’t entertain the idea for a second. “What? Why would I—Of course we’re pressing charges, Zoe.” He clamps his jaw so tightly it might give him a concussion too. “You’d better hope the police catch her before I do, or I swear to—”

He doesn’t get to finish the sentence, and I’ll never know its ending.

“Zoe!” The door whines open, then closed, but I don’t catch sight of my mother before she’s collecting me in her arms. “My baby. Oh, my baby.” She squeezes me as though I might vanish at any second. My breath leaves me in a whoosh. It’s then that I notice it was hanging on to Mile’s answer.

Physical displays of affection of any kind are frowned upon by Your Honor, just like any semblance of human emotion. If he were here, he’d certainly have words about the slight dishevel of his daughter’s curls, like she had discarded her robe in a hurry, and the crack in her voice that’s entirely foreign to me.

“Hi, Mom,” my inaudible rasp is muffled by the silk of her blouse.

I count the raging pitter-pattering of her pulse against my cheek. Only when it slows to the ticking of the clock does she unweave the hug. Mom brushes my strands messed by her hug, strands so dark they perfectly match hers, exposing the white bandage that covers my forehead.

“Did I hurt you? Oh, honey, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Grandpa shows perfect timing by choosing the same moment to make his arrival, his stride slower due to his years, alleviating her with a much needed pause to recompose herself. Mom welcomes it, and he takes her place close to me.

“Little bee.” His eyes are watery before the first syllable is out. “My sweet little bee.”

With thoughtful caution, he cocoons me in his bear hug, the sweetest bittersweet spot, my nostalgic happy place. Every time he closes me in his arms, I savor it like it’s the last. The last time could have been. This could be it.

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