Page 33 of Memories of Us

With a groan of frustration, he shoved off the couch and walked to the kitchen. “You want another slice?”

“Sure. Can you grab me a glass of tea too while you're in there? Oh, and another napkin. Mine is all greasy. Maybe I should use a plate.”

His narrowed eyes locked with mine. “I offered to get you one slice, not the whole damn kitchen.”

Even with his snarky comment, moments later he appeared from the kitchen, laid a plate on my lap with a large slice of pizza, a new napkin tucked on the side, and set a glass filled with my molasses tea on the side table. I allowed him to settle beside me before bringing up the question that had nagged at me since he’d deflected my earlier subtle one.

“Do you still want me to say something that will stress you out? Test this theory that remembering cured your head stuff?”

“Definitely. Piss me the fuck off. Which I know you can do.”

Eyes on the greasy half-eaten slice of pizza, I said, “I feel like it was way too easy for you to walk away earlier.” I picked a semi-warm pepperoni off the cheese and popped it in my open mouth. “And then when I woke up, I hoped you would be there beside me, ready to explain, but you weren't.”

“It had nothing to do with me not wanting to spend hours kissing your naked body, believe me. But....” Summoning the courage to glance up through my lashes, I found his eyes closed. “After I saw that stupid pony you'd held on to for so long... I don't know, something shifted. The thought of being your relief lay didn’t sit right. Not when we used to be so much more than that. And now I know. I know what we were. Who you are. I'll make up the past to you. Somehow I'll make up for lost time. I promise you that. What else? Tell me something terrible that I don't know. Tell me how we ended and why you hate me.”

Really didn't want to bring that up, but he needed to know. Maybe saying it out loud would help me heal too.

“The scars you saw on my stomach earlier were from you.”

A tremble started in his hands, which sent tea splashing down his wrist. Reaching across the couch, I grabbed the cup and set it on the carpet. His chest rose and fell at a rapid pace.

“Our last day together, we were in a car wreck. I won't tell you the circumstances or anything other than the basics right now. You need to remember the details surrounding that night on your own. My airbag burst, and the chemicals inside it attached to my tight shirt. Steam from the busted radiator or engine or something like that flooded the SUV. They said the heat caused a reaction with the chemicals.” Reaching down, I raised the T-shirt. His eyes flicked over my mangled stomach before focusing on the wall across from the couch. “I had third-degree burns over 60 percent of my stomach and a little on my arms, but those aren’t as noticeable anymore.”

Chewing on my lower lip, I watched his chest heave faster and faster. The rough couch cushions brushed along my bare thighs as I adjusted to reach for him. I wrapped an arm around his broad shoulders and tried to pull him to me, but head in his hands, his posture remained stiff, unwilling to accept my comfort.

“You were knocked unconscious, or had just passed out—”

“Was I high? Did I cause the wreck?”

That was precisely why I didn't want him to push the topic too far. I didn't want to tell him, hurt him, but I had to. Maybe it would heal a piece of both of us. “Yes and no. If you hadn’t been high, then maybe you wouldn't have lost control. But who knows.”

“No wonder you resent me. I ruined your life. Hell, I almost took it.”

The cup I pulled from the floor trembled in my hand. He had no idea the extent of my ruin from that night and what followed. But talking about it with him and seeing how distraught he was over the realization that he hurt me, the hate and resentment faded a fraction. There was still one question I needed an answer to for me to move on completely.

“B,” I breathed. It was now or never. But he didn't respond. “B?” Instead of acknowledging me, his shoulders slumped forward and he crumbled to the side. “Brenton!”

The forgotten cup in my hand slipped to my lap, drenching me in tea. I raced to the kitchen, soaked a somewhat clean rag in cold water, and hurried back to the unconscious man on my couch.

Shit, he wasn’t kidding about the blacking out episodes. It happened so fast that I didn’t even know it was happening. How terrifying it must’ve been for him to have such little control over his own body.

“B,” I whispered as I maneuvered him onto the couch, putting his head on the cushions and dangling his legs over the armrest. “Damn, you're massive. Come on, Brenton, wake up and help me move your fine ass.” Still no response, but the rapid movement behind his closed lids sent a wave of relief, calming my tight nerves. “I don't blame you.” I dabbed the cool cloth along his forehead. “I don't know if I ever really did. Everyone convinced me that you were the bad guy in it all. But were you? All they saw was the aftermath, the ugly side of who we were together, not the good. Not the two kids who gradually fell in love.”

I took the faint moan that pushed past his soft, parted lips as a sign to keep going.

“What you remember me telling you about Daddy only got worse after the accident. The obvious disappointment and never living up to his standards when I did everything I could to make him proud. Getting that money and going to college saved me. I finished high school soon after the accident and bolted. I made friends who didn't know about my past, I dated, partied like every kid should when released from the clutches of their parents, but everywhere I went, you were there with me.”

The rag slipped from my hand and fell to the floor with a soft thump. I traced the edges of his lips with the tips of my fingers, savoring each warm breath that brushed against them. With each pass, I inched my own lips closer and closer, needing to feel their softness against mine.

“Did you do it, Brenton? Did you choose your money over me? Or am I a fool of a woman, hoping for thirteen years that it was some misunderstanding, that someone talked you into it? I know you loved me and wouldn't have left us like that.” I was so close that his breath warmed my cheek. My hands slid to hold his jaw, my lips hovering over his.

“I might hate you, Brenton,” I whispered with my eyes closed, “but I love you more. I never stopped loving you, and maybe it's time I did. Then we can both move forward. I can move on.”

Saying the words out loud sent a pang of heartache to clench my sad heart, but something else settled too. As difficult as it was, I pulled away from his paled face and picked up the cloth from the floor.

Minutes later, his green eyes fluttered open and fixed on me.

“I forgive you,” I said with a teary smile. “For everything that happened. I'm sorry I held on to it for as long as I did, but I'm not anymore. I'm finally free from the constant anger and grief. Now that you remember, hopefully you can let go too.”

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