Page 31 of Forgetting You, Forgetting Me

“Why does she get one and I don’t?” Sam sulks, which looks as unattractive on a grown man as it sounds.

Saxon looks over at me fleetingly before addressing Sam. “Because she deserves it. She deserves a lot more for putting up with your bullshit.”

Kellie’s mouth gapes open in horror, Samuel flips him off, and I simply sip my coffee, hiding my smile.

* * * * *

Two weekslater

“Samuel, we really need your cooperation here,” says the physical therapist, holding a skipping rope. “Before you can go home, we need to test your hand eye coordination, among many other things.”

In response, Sam glares at the poor girl while flipping her off. “How’s that for hand eye coordination?”

She looks over at Saxon and me, asking for a little help, but I shrug my shoulders, powerless to lend a hand. Two weeks in, and if possible, Sam appears to hate me more. He still hasn’t remembered a thing. According to Sophia, his sessions seem to be going well. She said it’ll be a slow process, as any brain injury takes time to heal. But how long?

“Sam, seriously, hurry up and answer the question. The longer you’re a complete dick, the longer you stay in here, which nobody wants. This poor girl included,” Saxon says, while the girl blushes.

Once again, Saxon has saved the day. He seems to be the only person who can talk some sense into Sam. I have given up trying because the moment I suggest something, Sam decides to do the opposite. I feel like I’m hindering his progress because he makes no secret that he can’t stand to be around me.

I feel helpless and like I’m getting in the way. Kellie has suggested I go out and pamper myself on more than one occasion. She’s either trying to get rid of me, or I look like utter shit. I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s both.

Saxon crosses his arms over his chest, daring Sam to argue. I don’t know how he does it, but Sam accepts the challenge and yanks the rope from the stunned therapist’s hands. She looks relieved that he’s finally cooperating. And so am I.

That relief is short-lived when he turns to look at me and scowls. “I’ll only do this ifsheleaves.”

Sighing, I head for the exit.

* * * * *

Three weekslater

I didn’t realize daytime TV was so sad. But I guess I didn’t realize a lot of things, like how my life is a complete and utter mess.

I’m sitting on the couch sobbing as I watch an 80’s Hallmark movie when the front door opens. Quickly wiping away my tears and hiding the dozen used tissues, I reach for my wine and try my best to appear composed.

Saxon pauses in the doorway when he sees me sitting huddled beneath a crocheted blanket, blotchy faced and in my pajamas at four p.m. Not a good look, I know, but I can’t face another day of Sam hating me.

“This movie is so sad,” I say, pointing to the flat screen, hoping to explain my tears.

Saxon cocks a brow when he sees the ridiculous, over the top acting, but doesn’t say a word. He’s holding two brown bags that I hope have more wine inside. “I’m making you something to eat,” he says, ruining my drunken dreams.

“I’m not hungry, but thanks anyway.” Just as I’m about to take a sip of wine, he snatches the glass out from under me. “Hey! I was drinking that.”

“I think you’ve had enough to drink,” he refutes, tossing back the rest of the wine to remove temptation.

He’s right. I’ve drunk more in the past few weeks than I have my entire life. But I can’t face the day sober because the harsh light of day hurts my heart.

Saxon looks at the crumpled note on the table while I draw the blanket to my chin, tears filling my eyes. “What’s that?” He doesn’t miss a thing.

“That is Sam’s official ‘fuck you’ letter,” I explain.

He doesn’t bother asking me to elaborate, but instead places the groceries on the coffee table and reads the blasphemy for himself. It won’t take long, as Sam was never one to mince words.

When his face hardens, I sarcastically quip, “Have you gotten to the part where he says he’d rather live in hell than with me?”

Saxon shakes his head, tossing the note back onto the table.

The note in question is the letter Sophia asked Samuel to write as a form of therapy. I was the lucky one, as I was the only person Sam decided to write a letter to. I was ecstatic, thinking that maybe he’d come around. But when I read what he thought of me, I wish he didn’t write one at all. It was short and sweet and pretty much said, ‘I can’t stand being near you. I wish you’d get the hint and leave. P.S. I’m not coming home to live with you. P.P.S. Fuck you.’

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