Page 18 of Last Summer

They fucked hard that night and in ways Ella hadn’t allowed another man. He pushed her limits, leaving her drunk on arousal. When daylight broke, she sat up in bed, sore and savoring every ache. The thought of leaving him made her a little sad. But she owed Davie breakfast and Ella was never one to overstay her welcome the morning after. She expected they’d exchange phone numbers and the promise of an interview, but Damien grasped her wrist before she climbed out of bed.

“Stay.”

Ella hesitated. She looked at him, sleep rumpled and sexy. He could break her heart if she wasn’t careful.

“I have a rule,” he said in a gravelly voice. “Never fall in love again.”

“You fell in love with me after one night?” She winked when his face paled. Then he laughed.

“No, but I wouldn’t mind having you as a friend.”

“Oh, so you’re friend-zoning me.”

“God, no,” he barked with laughter, giving her hand a sharp tug. She collapsed on his chest. “Remember my quote?” Ella nodded. He cradled her face and softly kissed her lips. “I think friendship is a good place for us to start.”

Ella couldn’t have agreed more. Because she was already falling for him.

CHAPTER 5

Ella received the promotion to Senior Features Writer, but she earned it with a profile on Charlize Theron, not a feature on Damien Russell. She never interviewed him. Instead, she fell in love with him and realized his private life didn’t belong on the glossy pages of magazines or splashed across media websites. Besides, she’d be his biggest news if there was a new profile on him.

We’d had several wonderful years together before this happened, Ella thinks, her hand gingerly rubbing the tender area around her scar. How does a couple bounce back from a late-term miscarriage, especially when the wife can’t remember being pregnant? She doesn’t have the answers, but she wants to talk with Damien, about them, the baby, the accident, and what else she can do to retrieve her memories.

She finishes her coffee and goes in search of her husband.

In their room, she listens for the shower but hears only the rain. Obese drops splatter the window, sliding down the glass like tears. She calls for Damien. He doesn’t answer.

Did he leave the condo while she was zoning out in the kitchen, lost in memories of when they met? Thank goodness she didn’t forget that night. She’d feel more lost than she already does if she forgot her husband, too. It would be like living with a stranger.

Ella returns to the hallway. She finds her home office empty, but the guest-room door is ajar. She eases the door wider and stops up short. Her fingers touch her parted lips. In place of the queen bed and dresser is a half-finished nursery. Paint cans and tools sit on a plastic tarp in one corner. A cherrywood crib in another, the mattress still encased in plastic. Two adjoining walls are painted in a buttery yellow, and on one wall, a name has been stenciled: Simon.

Ella weaves, slammed by a wall of dizziness. She grasps the doorjamb, steadying herself. The pregnancy, the accident, the loss of Simon. It hasn’t felt more real to her than in this moment. The nursery waiting to be filled with love and laughter, to smell of talcum powder and diaper rash cream, will remain empty.

Her throat burns around a knot lodged just below her voice box. Tears bead and she swipes them away with the backs of her hands, sniffling as she desperately wishes she could remember what it felt like to carry her son. Did she talk to him? She wonders if she read aloud or sang to him. Did she play him music?

A rustle of fabric draws her attention to the corner of the room. Damien sits on an antique rocker, gripping a stuffed blue bunny. He stares stonily at Ella, eyes glistening.

“Damien.” His name is a breathy whisper, heavy with sadness.

He kneads the bunny’s ear.

She comes into the room and kneels at Damien’s feet, her movements stiff and cautious. She rests her hands on his knees. “Talk to me.”

He pinches off tears collecting in the corners of his eyes and roughly clears his throat. “It’s just hitting me there won’t be a baby.”

Tears well in her eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

“I never thought...I didn’t realize you’d forget every—” He swallows hard.

“Forget every what?” she prompts when he doesn’t finish. “Forgeteverything?” Is that what he meant to say? As if she had a choice in the matter. Like that’s even possible.

With a long, tired sigh, he stands, dropping the bunny on the chair.

“I’ll be in the shower.” He touches her shoulder and leaves the room.

Ella watches him go, her mouth agape. He’d walked out on her. Again. Earlier, he’d said the accident wasn’t her fault, but he sure isn’t acting like it. Obviously, he’s grieving, yet he’s doing so alone.

Why?

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