Page 2 of The Eleventh Hour

I freeze in place. It feels like he has just whacked a huge bruise inside me with a stick. Prodding it painfully. Violating me. Those are mine.

“I have seen a couple of them, but it’s getting better,” I choke out.

“Ah, good signs the medications are having a positive effect. That’s great news.”

I sit quietly while he makes notes.

“Let’s talk about Louis.”

I hate this part of every session. My eyelids drift closed, but I force them open and focus on the third button down on his shirt.

“What would you like to know?” Dull, hollow tones. I always hope we won’t do this, and I’m always disappointed when he indicates that’s what we’re doing.

My heart is pattering harder in my chest. My hands are sweaty, and I carefully wipe them down the tops of my jean-clad thighs, and regret the movement when his eyebrows raise. I hate those thick grey caterpillars on his face. I’ve heard caterpillars will roll if their hair gets caught on fire; I’ve always wanted to know if his eyebrows will roll right off his lying, scumbag-

“I want to know about the day he asked you to marry him.”

I wonder if a physical dagger would be this painful. Surely, not. My knee bounces, and the dull click of my heel on the carpet pulls my attention back quickly. I cross one leg over the other. Sparrow looks at the knee-high boots with five buckles, purses his lips, and meets my eyes with blatant disapproval.

I shakily inhale and curse when he immediately starts jotting something down. I lick my lips and look at the floor in front of his desk to buy myself some time. Everything that happens in this white, clinical office is a game of words, actions, reactions, what’s not said. I need to find the right ones to give him enough, just enough. He’s like a leech, stealing all my memories from me, getting fat on the pain.

“It was raining. I loved the rain, back then.” I let myself fall into the scene. Listening to the rain on the windows right here, in the now.

“How old were you?”

“I was 24. We’d been together in that house for four years, and we both had good enough jobs where money wasn’t a total issue.”

“Had times been tough before then?”

I shrug and look at him. His watery blue eyes peer at me dispassionately. Telling him these personal things about my past cheapens the memories, even if I don’t want them anymore. “Everyone has tough times. We had a few. Slept in the car for a few months, but we had each other.”

“You were lucky.”

“I thought so, then.” There is no hiding the rich bitterness in my voice. I don’t even try.

“So, back to this rainy day.”

I glance at the window in the room's corner. A massive oak desk sits just in front of it. He keeps the best views for himself. I wonder if he studied his books, what they would say about him.

“It was raining, and I cooked this dinner to celebrate just for the hell of it. Turkey, roast vegetables, gravy.” I force a laugh. “Hell, I even baked an apple crumble for dessert.” Me? Cooking? I didn’t cook a single dinner for him. I can’t cook. My only attempt resulted in me setting the kitchen on fire and a hysterical night laughing in his arms while he poked fun at me. I forcefully shove that memory aside. It’s not welcome. “He was late.”

He wasn’t late. Louis was never, ever late. If he said he was going to be somewhere at a certain time, he was there, rain, hail, or shine. He was like clockwork.

“Late?”

“It was unusual. I was angry, and then scared. Maybe something happened to him? Maybe there was a car accident or, I don’t know, maybe he was held up.” I widen my eyes and lean forward. “I was beside myself thinking he could be lying in a ditch, dead somewhere.”

“It must have been terrible.” He’s observing me with an intensity now that makes me nervous. Interested in all the words I have to say. I have to be careful not to oversell it.

“He comes home two hours late, walks in and looks at the cold food on the table, and his face just falls. He apologizes, and I cry. I hug him, checking for injuries, blabbering my fears out in barely recognizable English.” Good grief, if I’d done any such thing, Louis would have packed me up and taken me to the closest doctor to see if I’d had some brain-altering medical episode. “I’m still losing it when I pat his pants. I put my hand inside the pocket, and I find this box. While I’m opening it, he falls to one knee, so by the time I look down, he’s smiling, and he asks. It was the most romantic moment of my life.”

“What words did he use?” Of course, he wants to know the exact words. I force my fingers not to curl in on themselves.

“He said, ‘I love you more than anything, be mine forever.’ The ring was a beautiful square-cut diamond; he spent a month searching for the perfect one. I don’t even know what happened to it.” The stories are good, and I can see Sparrow believes me. He’s writing furiously.

It’s also complete and utter bullshit. The real memory swirls up in my mind, and for just a moment, I let myself remember.

I lay naked on the bed on my stomach, head in my hands, and laugh. The room smells like him and me. If I could bottle it, I would. The happy, post sex glow has me giddy, and I’m just happy. Life is good. Really good. He’s leaning against the headboard, casually stroking my arm with the side of one finger. A hint of a smile on his lips and a band of light turning his blonde hair to gold. His dark brown eyes glint with humour. The sun is shining, but we don’t care; we are in our own little world.

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