Page 11 of Remember Me

I huffed out a disbelieving breath as I sat on Eileen Grant’s floral chintz sofa. A baby. We’d made a fucking baby. I’d played it cool when I’d heard the doctor’s revelation, but equal parts exultation and panic had been warring within me ever since. I rubbed the bristle on my jaw I hadn’t bothered to shave earlier, glad Birdie had brought it up. At least she recognized this wasn’t something she could ignore or wish away.

Apparently, our baby was a fucking warrior, because she…or he — didn’t matter either way — had emerged from that horrific tangle of metal and tree unscathed.

My forehead wrinkled. At least, I assumed the baby was fine. They’d have done one of those ultrasound things in the hospital, right? I forced myself to breathe in deeply and slowly exhale. I wasn’t completely certain how all this stuff worked, but I was pretty sure Birdie would have miscarried by now if anything was wrong. And we’d be able to get all of those questions answered in just a few days, at Birdie’s upcoming doctor’s appointment that I had every intention of being present for.

I’d seen the brief flash of discomfort when I alluded to as much, but she was going to have to get used to the idea that I was not planning on being an afterthought in this process. I was going to be a father, and I had no intention of making that a biological thing only. I wanted to parent the way I’d been raised. With love and humor, patience and the freedom to fail.

In the meantime, I needed to come up with something for the two of us to do right now. Somewhere to take her. I wanted it to be meaningful, something with the potential to jog a memory loose, if that was even possible. The doctor had said not to try to tell Birdie everything about her life, but he hadn’t mentioned showing her things from her past.

There was a sound to my right, and I glanced through the open doorway of the living room to see Birdie walking down the steps, her hand sliding across the polished surface of the banister. She was wearing a pair of black leggings and a big sweatshirt that I was sure she didn’t realize belonged to me and looked as cute as fuck-all. I watched as she flicked a glance rife with shy curiosity my way, and just like that, I knew.

I’d take her back to where it all began.

Just over half an hour later, I pulled into the small parking lot at the campus corner store. It was a little shop-slash-café on Tennessee’s campus where students and faculty alike gravitated for snacks, coffee, and the occasional acoustic performance.

I looked over at Birdie as I parked. She was looking out the window in bemusement, but no recognition.

“Wait here,” I said, climbing out and jogging around to open her door. She took the hand I extended to help her down. The truck was tall and without running boards, it wasn’t the easiest thing for short legs to navigate.

Or maybe that was just an excuse to touch her. It felt like it had been forever since we had slept in the same bed, since I’d had the right to touch her whenever she was near. Whatever the reason, I didn’t immediately release her hand when she was standing.

It was strange. We’d been together nearly a year and had been living together for several months. I’d have thought my desire for Birdie would have diminished with time, steadied into something relaxed and comfortable.

And yet, I craved her as much today as I had in the early stages of our relationship. Possibly more.

“What is this place?” She looked up at me, innocent of the direction my thoughts had taken. I smiled but didn’t reply.

We walked inside, and she pulled her hand away, stuffing both into the pockets of the boxy barn jacket she was wearing. “This is Smokey’s Corner,” I told her. “It’s kind of a hangout for the college kids and the occasional faculty member.”

“So, this is kind of your spot?”

I teased her with a glance, coaxing a tilt to her lips. “We both used to be in here all the time. They have superior coffee and sweets,” I replied. “Speaking of which…”

I led her to the pastry case, which was still filled with a mouth-watering array of baked goods. “Smokey’s has the absolute best cream puff you’ll ever eat.” I held up two fingers for the guy working the counter and pointed to the cream puff in question. “And two coffees.”

“Is that a fact?”

“I fully expect you to offer your esteemed opinion on the matter.”

“Sure. I’ll just compare it to all those other cream puffs I’ve eaten in the past but don’t recall.”

For a second, I froze, hand hanging in the air to pay the cashier and accept our treat. Then I heard her soft snicker and looked over my shoulder to see mirth lighting her face.

I shook my head and finished our transaction before handing her the cream puffs and taking the two coffees, myself. “I can see now, you’re really going to lord this whole memory loss thing over us.”

She led the way to a table in the corner, a little distant from the few students gathered to study or chat this morning. She arched a brow as she sat. “Might as well laugh as cry, right?”

I sat down across from her. It was fascinating, the way she had gravitated toward this particular table, which had fast become “our” table after we met. And her personality — her snarky wit and sense of humor — was asserting itself even through her uncertainty. I studied her, noting the way the midmorning sun glinted off her shiny brown hair with glints of gold, the pale blue veins under the translucence of the skin on her wrists, the rosy pink of her lips. She was so beautiful. I’d thought so the first time I’d seen her, here in this same shop nearly a year ago.

“What are you thinking?” she whispered now, taking a sip of her coffee.

I told her the truth. “How beautiful you are.” Heat flushed her cheeks. “How lucky I was to have met you when I did.”

“Here?”

“You remember?”

“I guessed.”

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