Page 18 of Mangled Memory
I slump back into the pillows and giggle until it hurts and until the laugh ultimately turns to tears. I slide onto my side and curl my knees into my chest, forming a tight ball.
My life is in the device in the palm of my hand. The life I could never have dreamed of, never have envisioned. Successful businesswoman—a sought-after photographer, no less—married, apparently to someone filthy rich, a house in one of the most expensive zip codes in the country… the definition of achievement to the entire world.
And I don’t know it.
I can’t connect to it.
My body fears it.
And my brain won’t remember it.
I’m outside, watching the moon rise, curled up on a chaise, huddling in only a sweater and yoga pants.
I needed the nap and the dreamless sleep. No beeping. No cords or tubes. No well-meaning medical staff interrupting to shine a light in my eyes, or poke me, or ask if I need anything.
No bedside vigil by a man whose eyes are dark and foreboding.
The door behind me whooshes almost silently as I study the orange spray that backlights the mountains in a way that’s unique to the Front Range. The sun has dipped behind the mountains and all that’s left is the reminder in the painted sunset.
“Princess?” Christian shakes out a blanket and holds it in front of me.
I nod, still staring out into space.
“Can I get the pit going for you?”
“Thank you. I’d appreciate that.”
He’s showered and freshly shaved, in a black suit, black shirt, and charcoal tie, striking male beauty, starting a fire for me. No, it’s a combined fire and water feature that is as relaxing as it is mesmerizing.
He sits on the edge of my chair. “I hate that I have to go out. Are you going to be okay?”
I stare as the flames dance, letting them hypnotize me and lull me.
“You’re worrying me, baby.”
I lift my eyes to his, no longer hiding the unshed tears. “It’s like I’ve woken up halfway through a movie and I don’t know if I’m in a thriller or a romcom. I don’t know the setting or the plotlines. I can’t distinguish friend from foe, and I don’tunderstand the clues that the audience knows. And for the love of all that’s holy, I don’t know my lines.” I throw out my hands in exasperation. “Welcome to my life.”
A lone, silent tear rolls down my cheek.
Why did I say that? And why did I expose my jugular to Christian Barone of all people?
He slides forward and pulls me into his arms. I remain stiff for several moments, until I can’t hold it in any longer and I melt into him, releasing the swell of tears, shaking through the grief.
“You’re not an actor on stage. You don’t have lines to memorize. You can simply be you.”
“I’m so scared. What if I never?—?”
He rubs slow circles on my back but doesn’t fill the silence with unkeepable promises.
Terror and confusion.
The unknown and the unknowable.
When the tears subside, I pull back and look into his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
Ever so slowly, he leans in and presses a chaste kiss on my lips but doesn’t linger. Instead, he runs a thumb over my cheek and threads his fingers into my hair.
“I have an idea. Want to get up early on Friday and drive to see the aspens?”
