Page 7 of Her Faithful Protector

As soon as I pull over, my best friend runs to me, screaming my name. She pats me all over as if looking for injuries. “You’re okay? What the hell happened?”

“I’m fine, Morgie,” I reply, concealing my panting. “Long story. But… I’m sorry I’ve ruined your honeymoon.”

“Don’t be silly! Nothing is ruined! Where’s baby Quinton?” Morgan looks around.

“He’s in there.” I gesture at the back seat. “Word of caution, he’s been very cranky this morning.”

“Hey, Quinnie-Bear!” Morgan greets him, trailing her fingertips along his rosy cheek.

Quinton gapes, unsure what to make of my best friend.

“Do you remember Aunty Morgie?” I tell him, starting to unbuckle him from his baby seat. He wriggles impatiently. Iwon’t blame him if he doesn’t want to see that mini-throne in the near future. He’s been sitting there too long. I wrap my arms around him as Morgan gently touches his thin hair—it’s so soft, with long strands here and there, almost like candy floss. “Say hello to Aunty Morgie.”

“Mo!” he says.

“Yes! I’m Morgan.” My best friend erupts in excitement. “Of course you remember me.”

“Don’t get too excited, Morgie. He’s calling the dog,” I say with a laugh.

Morgan glares at me playfully, then helps Elmo out.

We unload the car while the dog explores the space, and Quinton plays on his favorite mat, which he hasn’t seen in three days. Toys that Morgan bought seem to interest him, but as usual, the giraffe teether isn’t far from his reach.

Finally, I have time to hug my best friend. “I would’ve been trapped with Willem forever if it wasn’t for you. He sent the invitations already without me knowing.”

“What an ass!”

“And he sent me some ideas about my hair—you know how he always wanted me to straighten my curls. He thought they were old fashioned.”

“No, no, no! Your curls are the eighth wonder of the natural world. I’ll kill whoever dares tell you to straighten them! You only do it if you want to.”

My hair isn’t in the league of the Grand Canyon or Mount Everest, but for sure, I won’t let anyone tell me what to do with it.

Morgan adds, “Well, you’re out of the house. That’s your Neil Armstrong moment.”

I watch Quinton, grateful for our safe arrival. “You’re a little warm,” I mutter as I check on him. “You’re tired, aren’t you?”

Morgan proudly announces, “I’ve prepared a room for him if you want to let him sleep there.” She scoops up Quinton, and he looks at her like someone has just sounded a stranger alert. “You really don’t remember me, do you?” Morgan says disappointedly. “And here I thought you inherited your mother’s hyperthymesia.”

“Well, Mrs. Biologist, you’re not doing yourself any favors using words like that. He’ll think you’re Aristotle’s daughter,” I chuckle.

Quinton trails his fingers across Morgan’s cheek, bringing a smile to her face. “What about your mommy’smemoria eidetica? I’m sure you have it.”

People say I have a photographic memory, but I see it as a tool for my art rather than a superpower. As for hyperthymesia, that’s just my friend exaggerating. I’ve never been diagnosed with it, and I don’t remember every detail of my life as the condition suggests. I simply have a strong recollection of things.

Suddenly, Quinton starts crying.

“Quinton, it’s Aunty Morgie. It’s okay,” I try to coax him to stay with Morgan, but the boy rebels, trying his best to get to me.

“I guess your mommy’s right. You can’t stand Latin,” Morgan remarks, handing Quinton over to me. “Or maybe I look like an evil clown—the worst company for any baby.”

“Nonsense!” I deny. My best friend is gorgeous, with her big brown eyes and a classic, elegant smile like Sophia Loren’s. “He’s just a fussy baby. Apart from me, my parents, and my babysitter, he doesn’t want to be with anyone else.”

Morgan ponders. “So he remembers me?”

“Of course,” I reply.

“But he doesn’t like me?”

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