Page 10 of Wait For It

Right bone flap out.

Which meant… absolutely nothing to me.

Moving on.

Wait, I had it.It was like that children’s song.

How’d that one go again?

Right bone connected to the—nope… still means nothing.

Obviously, my sense of humor had remained intact, or what passed for humor when it came to me. But I was still missing essential information explaining how I’d landed myself in the hospital.

I tried but couldn’t recall a catalyst any more than I could solve an algebraic equation off the top of my head. Although, it soon occurred to me that perhaps my mathematical difficulties weren’t due to any injury or illness, but a lifelong aversion to putting the alphabet into number problems. Maybe not the earth-shattering revelation I’d been hoping for, but it was a step in the right direction, nonetheless.

My nose twitched again, begging me to reach up and yank the tube out.

Just one tiny pull, and the headache would be gone.

Having fallen for the exact same thing once already, I tucked my hands under my thighs and prepared to wait it out. The date was written on a marker board hanging on the wall closest to the bed. As I read it, the chirping from the machines intensified, along with the fluttering in my chest.

The severity of my condition was spelled out in large black numbers. I’d been trapped in a void of nothingness for three weeks.

Three weeks.

Twenty-one days.

Billions of minutes—just gone.

Again, math hadn’t exactly been my best subject.

When I lost something, I typically found it by going back to the last place I remembered having it. As crazy as it seemed, maybe I could do the same thing with my fractured memory, retracing my steps until I pieced everything together.

While the nurse busied herself with something across the room, I closed my eyes and began sifting through the rubble. Steering clear of any detours involving lemon pies and fussy horses, I concentrated solely on what I knew to be true. If I listed enough concrete facts, the answer was bound to come to me.

My name was Ariana James. I was nineteen years old. I lived in Houston, Texas, with Tristan and my mama—no, that wasn’t right.

Mama was gone.

I ended up in the hospital because…

What I needed was right there, but it was as if the film in my head had suddenly hit a brick wall, leaving behind a fragmented mess of memories. Everything else lay just out of reach on the other side.

It only hurts if you let it…

Those seven words hadn’t failed me yet. I was just going to give my brain a little break and try again later. Indifference replaced irritation, and I reopened my eyes, pulling my hands free as footsteps approached my bed.

“Here we are,” the nurse said, attaching something to my neck. “Good as new.”

I could ask her. It was just a simple matter of writing the question out in my head and reciting each word slowly and clearly. My stomach churned in apparent disagreement, but it was better than not knowing. Taking a deep breath, I drew myself up tall and opened my mouth.

Make yourself heard.

“I got here as soon as I heard.”

I withered instantly at the sound of his voice, my rehearsed words fleeing back into the recesses of my mind. A shudder worked its way down from the base of my skull before settling in the area between my shoulder blades.

He’s going to kill me.

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