Page 34 of Knot So Fast
"You have a mini fridge," he reminds me patiently.
"Yeah, for skincare products," I argue, because that's the only use I can remember for the small refrigerator.
Instead of arguing, Kieran walks backward until he's standing against the wall in my direct line of sight. He presses what looks like an invisible button, and suddenly a section of the wall slides away to reveal a hidden cubby containing another mini fridge filled entirely with orange juice bottles.
I gawk at the secret compartment, then back at him, my mouth hanging open in shock. He gives me a smug smile before closing the hidden panel and walking back to where I'm sitting.
"How the hell did you know about that?" I demand as he offers me the fresh bottle.
He doesn't answer, just waits patiently while I take the orange juice and begin drinking it.
The silence stretches between us, but it's not uncomfortable. There's something almost meditative about sitting here while he watches me take care of my blood sugar, like it's a routine we've performed countless times before.
"It's annoying that you know all this stuff about me and I know absolutely nothing," I grumble between sips of juice.
Instead of responding with words, Kieran leans forward and presses his lips gently against my forehead. The gesture is so tender and familiar that I don't even think to push him away. Despite having no memories of how intimate we apparently once were, there's something deeply comforting about the contact.
"They'll come back, Sugar," he whispers against my skin, and the pet name sends warmth flooding through my chest. "Then you'll realize all the spice you've been missing from your life."
He straightens up and heads toward the door.
"I'm going to help Luke with breakfast," he says, pausing at the threshold. "You have ten minutes to get dressed, or I'll come back up here and carry you down to the kitchen."
The threat makes me cringe.
"I hate being manhandled, memory loss or not!"
"Mhmm," he says with obvious amusement, clearly not taking my protest seriously as he disappears down the hallway.
“You’re not a good cook anyways!” I call to him, knowing I won’t get an answer but also wondering how I know that.
Ugh. Memory loss sucks.
I'm left sitting on my bed, orange juice bottle in hand, with the sudden realization that discovering who I used to be needs to become my absolute top priority. The racing announcement, Kieran's intimate knowledge of my living space, the hidden compartments and medical supplies I don't remember installing—all of it points to a life that's far more complicated and significant than anyone has been telling me.
Looking back at the photograph on my nightstand, I study the confident woman in racing gear with new understanding. Maybe she wasn't just someone I used to be. Maybe she's someone I could be again, if I can figure out how to piece together the fragments of my missing past.
The orange juice is already making me feel more alert and stable, my blood sugar climbing back to normal levels.
But the questions multiplying in my head are far from resolved. If I have diabetes, why don't I remember managing it? If Kieran knows about hidden compartments in my own bedroom, how close were we before the accident? And most importantly, why does a Formula One racing announcement feel like it might be the key to everything I've lost?
I finish the juice and stand up, feeling steadier on my feet. The answers I'm looking for aren’t going to be found sitting in my bedroom staring at old photographs. I need to start asking the hard questions, even if the people in my life seem determined to protect me from the answers.
Starting with breakfast, apparently, since the smell of something delicious is beginning to drift up from the kitchen.And starting with figuring out exactly what Kieran meant when he said my memories would come back and I'd "realize all the spice" I've been missing.
Because something tells me that spice has a lot more to do with racing cars and championship dreams than anyone has been willing to admit.
I grab a clean t-shirt and shorts, getting dressed quickly while my mind races with possibilities. The woman in that photograph didn't look like someone who gave up easily, and I'm starting to think it's time I stopped letting other people make decisions about what I can and can't handle.
Even if those decisions were made with the best of intentions, I'm tired of feeling like a passenger in my own life. It's time to take back some control, starting with the simple act of demanding honest answers from the people who claim to care about me.
The racing announcement might have just changed everything for Formula One, but something tells me it's about to change everything for me, too. And for the first time since waking up in that hospital bed, I'm actually excited to find out what comes next.
Even if it scares the hell out of me.
HIDDEN INVITATIONS
~AUREN~
