Page 3 of Mangled Memory
“Ayla.” My name is wrapped in anguish.
Fear slides over me like a blanket. I look up into eyes that are beautiful and dark and completely too intimate for a stranger.
“Baby, what do you remember?”
I pull away as he reaches for my hand. The war on his face plays out before me—fear, anger, frustration, and hurt.
I stare at him, looking for anything that could be familiar and find… nothing. Not one thing.
He’s handsome, that’s not a question. If the watch and the shoes are anything to go by, he’s got money. Not that I don’t have my own. Or had… His wedding ring shines bright and proud on his left hand.
“Your brows are puckering in confusion. That’s a rarity. The Ayla I know is rarely confused.”
“The Ayla you know? How long have you known me?”
His gaze flickers to Liam before returning to me. His voice drops to a husky whisper. “You’re killing me, Princess. Do you really not remember?”
I shake my head slowly.
“Two years. Two amazing years. Our one-year wedding anniversary was two weeks ago. Do you not remember any of it?I don’t understand.” His jaw ticks, and his eyes roam me as if he can see the truth or a lie in my statement.
“No.”
“What’s the last thing you remember?” His voice is harder than before, as if I said the wrong thing by telling the truth.
Try as I might, I struggle to find a recent memory. When too much time has elapsed and I’m frustrated because I can’t answer his question, I change tacks. “Different topic. Why am I here?”
“You fell. Out on the ridge at Beaver Brook taking photos. I— A good Samaritan called nine-one-one.” He looks away and squeezes his eyes shut. “They airlifted you out.” His eyes open to watery pools. “Airlifted, Ayla. I was destroyed. And now…”
He turns, silently calling for my brother. They wordlessly change the guard as the broody man prowls to the bathroom and the sound of water rushes to my ears.
“Do you really not remember?”
“It’s not an act, Liam. You of all people should know me well enough to know that.”
“You never were a great liar. Besides, that man”—he tilts his head toward the door—“dotes on you, spoils you, and is all ’round your ‘dream guy’.” He uses air quotes while rolling his eyes.
“I said that?”
“Yeah. And don’t ever make me repeat it again. My balls shriveled saying it that time.”
“I don’t want to hear about your balls again. Ever.”
“You gave us a scare. Still going to, I see. Glad you’re okay, though.”
“Okay is relative. I have a husband. My brain isn’t braining. My face hurts, and I’m in a hospital. I’d say I’m zero for four right now.”
The man in question stalks out of the bathroom. Exhaustion lines his face. He seems angry or disappointed or inconvenienced. Nothing gets me like someone acting like I’m inconvenient. There’s rude and then there’s dismissive. And something about the latter riles me up and sets my red-headed personality ablaze. I can be as fiery as my hair. And I don’t give a single fuck about it.
Hell, I think it’s a strength.
I want to cross my arms over my chest, but the IV really cramps my style. Instead, I use my voice and let it rip.
“Why do you look angry?”
“Why am I angry? Hmm. Let me see.” Sarcasm drips from every word he speaks. “You’re lying in a hospital bed, unable to recognize your husband, with no recollection of some window of time in your life. We’re lucky after the kind of tumble you had that you’re alive and not braindead, but I want to be the asshole who puts an end to the early mornings, the steep climbs, and the risks that come with ‘chasing the light.’ And, Princess, to add to all of that, I’m at a loss.”
He leans back against the wall, his hands stuffed into his pockets, looking the picture of calm, cool, and collected. Despite appearances, I know he is anything but.
