Page 5 of Lotus

Nodding through a watery smile, my lie is as transparent as my nerves. My hands continue to tremble, nailbeds raw from my teeth, legs hardly holding up my weight.

God, what am I supposed to say to him?

Will he even remember me? I look nothing like the seven-year-old girl he left behind with sun-kissed pigtails and chubby cheeks. I’m a grown woman now.

And he’s a man.

“What did he look like?” The question squeaks out as a whisper, my gaze fixed on the curtain as if my eyes might gift me with x-ray vision, allowing me to steal a peek at him.

I know all I need to do is pull back the drape and step inside, Iknowthis… but if he doesn’t remember me, if he doesn’t look at me and see fireworks and oatmeal cookies and laughter beneath the summer sun, I swear my heart will shrivel up and die.

Gabe’s hand travels up and down my spine with languid strokes, curling around my shoulder and offering a comforting squeeze. He replies in an equally strained whisper. “Lost. He looked… lost.”

My insides twist and ache as I fight off tears. “They still don’t know what happened to him?”

“Not yet. He’s confused and not entirely coherent. The doctor wouldn’t even let me see him right away because they didn’t know if he was violent, or…” Gabe falters through a pained gulp, dipping his chin to his chest. “He didn’t recognize me.”

No.

I realize Gabe was only in preschool at the time of Oliver’s disappearance, but Lord help me, I want him to remembereverything. Every single detail from our magical childhood that has been carved inside me, permanently engraved.

“Do you want me to come with you?”

My dismissal is quick, despite the fact that my feet are still rooted in place, idle, refusing to press forward. “I got this.”

“Yeah?” He quirks a grin amidst the emotional turmoil swimming between us. “Because I’m literally holding you up right now.”

Gabe lets go of my shoulder to prove his point, and I stumble, almost plowing through that ugly curtain like a human wrecking ball. He catches me by the wrist before I make an overly dramatic entrance. “Ugh, point taken,” I bite out, inhaling a giant breath of courage and slamming my eyes shut. “But I need to do this alone.”

“I get it, Syd.” Gabe taps his knuckles along my upper arm with a light punch before stepping backwards. “I’ll be in the waiting room. Text me if you need me.”

Gnawing my bottom lip between my teeth and resisting the urge to drag Gabe into the room with me as a security blanket, I bob my chin, seeing him off.

And then I inch towards the curtain, counting to ten, chanting words of encouragement under my breath as I try to zap away the rattling nerves.

I raise my hand, bunching the stiff, itchy fabric between my fingers to move it aside.

That’s when I see him.

That’s when my eyes land on Oliver Lynch for the first time in twenty-two long, devastating years. The curtain drops from my fingers as my hand shoots up to cup my mouth, preventing a strangled cry from escaping. I’m frozen in the entryway with Oliver directly in front of me, lying partially covered beneath a white blanket. He’s hooked up to various cords and monitors, and I’m thankful they are beeping and buzzing, filling the air between us, otherwise all we would hear is the sound of my heart screaming and choking with the weight of each breath.

Oliver doesn’t look at me. His eyes are trained on the popcorn ceiling, a slight frown marring his forehead. Maybe he doesn’t realize I’m in the room, or maybe he’s lost inside his head, but while his focus is elsewhere, I take a moment to drink him in, my gaze soaking up every incredible inch of this man—this stranger, in a way, and yet…so much more.

He is beautiful.

That same light brown hair falls at his shoulders, shaggy and untamed, infused with hints of amber. A shadow of scruff lines his sharp and masculine jaw, emphasizing sleek cheekbones and a sallow complexion.

My gaze slips lower, and I’m surprised to discover a man who seems to have been well-cared for. Despite whatever circumstances he’s endured, Oliver is not overly thin or malnourished as I had anticipated—the opposite, in fact. Biceps peek out from his hospital gown encompassing broad shoulders and a strapping chest that heaves with his own weighty breaths.

Tentative feet carry me closer to his bedside, his name croaking out between my lips and addressing him for the first time in decades. “Oliver.”

My God, those three syllables caressing my tongue force out a sob that finally catches his attention. Just barely.

Oliver blinks. Long eyelashes flit and flutter, his gaze still pinned on the ceiling, his fingers gripping the bed covers between tight fists.

Moving closer, I pull my lips between my teeth, unsure of what to say or do. I don’t want to startle him. I don’t want to spook him.

I just want him to look at me—toseeme.

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