Page 60 of Sparking Sara

I remember Krista telling me the same thing before we left the hospital.

“Okay, I’ll be there tomorrow morning after I get off shift.”

“Good. Thanks, Denver.”

“No need to thank me.”

After our call, I think about Oliver and how difficult this must be for him. What if her memory never returns? Chances are it won’t. What lengths will he have to go to and what hoops will he have to jump through to get her to fall in love with him again? And what if she doesn’t? Who says that just because she fell for him once, she will a second time? How long does he try? Weeks? Months?

I just wonder if there is anything I can do to help it happen.

I decide to text him.

Me: Can we meet for coffee in the morning?

Oliver: I suppose. What’s up?

Me: I just thought we could get to know each other better.

Oliver: I’m spoken for, mate.

I laugh. Who knew he had a sense of humor?

Me: I’m not into Brits. Unless they’re tall and busty, that is.

Oliver: Good to know. How about you swing by our place. Sara has a great cappuccino machine.

Me: Text me the address. I get off at 8:00 and I’ll come right after.

He texts me the address and I notice it’s in a very trendy part of Manhattan. It’s out of the way, not even remotely close to where I live or the rehab center. But I’m glad he invited me. I’m not sure why, but part of me wasn’t even convinced they really lived together. It was just a feeling, I guess. It will be nice to see their place.

Then I wonder if Sara even knows where she lives. More than likely, when she and Oliver moved in together, they got a new place. Maybe when she goes home, it won’t even feel like home—an apartment she doesn’t remember with a fiancé she doesn’t know.

Sara needs more familiar things in her life. More familiar people.

I decide to take a chance and call Lydia. After all, what’s more familiar than an old friend?

Chapter Fifteen

I look around the expansive loft apartment, seeing once again how the other half lives. I mean, I pretty much know how the other half lives because I’m staying in the townhouse owned by an MLB all-star. But this is nothing like Sawyer and Aspen’s place. This place screams modern artist.

The ductwork on the ceiling is exposed. One entire interior wall is brick, another consists of huge picture windows overlooking the city. The floor is painted cement. The countertops are white quartz.

I stand in the center of the living room and spin around, trying to imagine Sara here. I can’t. This place doesn’t seem like her at all.

“Would you care to take a peek in her studio?” Oliver asks.

“Her studio? She workshere?”

“She does. Most artists work out of their homes.” He leads me to the rear of the apartment where there are two doors. He points to one. “That’s our bedroom—sorry, mate, no tour of that one. It’s a ruckus in there without Sara picking up after me.”

He opens the door to her studio, and he might as well be opening the door to another world.This is Sara, I think. Not back there with the clean lines and sterile floors. This room, with half-painted canvases, splatters and drips of paint dotting the floor, tubes of various colors and brushes of all sizes scattered about a workbench that I could swear is an old door—this room is Sara.

There are some paintings on the rear wall, some of which I’ve seen on-line. The expansive windows offer a view over the tops of some neighboring buildings with the picturesque George Washington bridge off in the distance. Definitely an urban view that I can see would be inspiring to an artist.

“Wow,” I say, admiring both the view and her paintings.

“She’s very talented,” he says.

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