Page 173 of A Forgotten Promise

My head fits perfectly into the crook of his arm. It makes me unreasonably giddy. I guess my hormone-induced brain is playing tricks on me.

We lie in silence, spent but unable to sleep. At least, I’m not able. As I draw lazy circles on his chest, a realization dawns on me.

I’m wasting my time trying to remember. As if the lost memories could ground me. But it’s the new ones that anchor me. In my life. In our lives.

“I lied.” Corm’s words are like a cold shower over my new discovery.

“About?” I ask, even though I don’t want to know.

“Tonight... us… it wasn’t nothing. It meant everything to me.”

Something dislodges in my chest, freeing my heart. “It meant something to me, too.”

He kisses the crown of my head. “Something is better than nothing. I’ll take that.”

“What is it, Livia?”

I’m at the kitchen island drinking my coffee while trying to jot down notes for today’s podcast. I’ve been flying solo for my first few episodes, but today I have my first guests.

A famous artist, Andrea Cassinetti, with his wife, Ivy, are coming to talk about their community art classes. Ivy is younger than me, and she’s achieved so much in her life already. I can’t help but feel a bit intimidated by her.

Hence, I’m trying to be as prepared as possible, but Livia is hovering around like she has nothing better to do.

“You’re not going to eat your breakfast today?” the housekeeper asks.

“I’m too stressed. I’ll eat later.”

She huffs.

Sighing, I put the pen down. “What does it matter if I eat?”

“Mr. Quinn doesn’t like it when you don’t eat properly.”

I snort. “I’m not a child.”

“Well, but when you moved here, you were half fainting all the time, and he was worried about you and made sure you ate well.” She wipes the polished counter.

I don’t know what to say to that. Because I don’t remember fainting, but also because I know my iron deficiency used to be a bigger problem when I was still working runways.

Why Livia is mad about it is beyond me, though. “Corm made sure I eat.”

“Of course he did. He cares about you, poor man.”

“Poor? What’s your problem, Livia?”

She shrugs. “It’s horrible what happened to you.”

Instinctively, my hand rises to the scar on my upper arm. And what does that have to do with me not eating?

As if she realized she’s making no sense, she continues, “Not just your injury and your memory, which is horrible. But understandably, the focus is on you. Because you could have… Better not think about it. But that man is hurting, too, and who takes care of him?”

“I do,” I say defensively, and so quickly I surprise myself. That came out of nowhere. Or out of somewhere deep and real.

I do want to take care of him. Livia is right. Everything revolved around my recovery. Who was there for Corm?

If this thing between you doesn’t feel like a new beginning to you, please release him, so he can heal.

Deep down, in the hidden dark crevices of my heart, I know I belong with my husband. But can I trust that feeling? It’s like my mind requires evidence. But aren’t the last few weeks evidence enough?

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