Page 92 of Help Me Remember

Dressed in a loose shirt that hung low to show his collarbone and top of his chest and a pair of jeans that were so tight I wondered how he managed to squeeze his ass into them, was a grumpy, sweaty, and disheveled Eric. He had a bag under his arm and a small box, and he was still grumbling at the pot someone hadn’t bothered to move.

His head jerked up when he spotted movement, and his bitching ceased immediately. I hadn’t seen him since they’d allowed us to have a weekend together for my birthday, and he had cut the shaggy mop he’d been growing. Taking in the curve of his jaw and the bent angle of his nose, I felt my heart begin thundering in my chest.

“Hey,” he said, his shoulders dropping at seeing me.

There were no words to cover what I felt, and I stepped forward. It took only three long strides for me to have his face in my hands and his lips against mine. There was a clatter as he dropped the box to wrap his hand around the back of my neck and pull me closer.

I pushed him back against the wall, pinning him with my greater bulk, and smiled softly when he moaned. Something feral inside me clawed to get out at the noise he made when I nipped at his bottom lip. This was supposed to be passionate and welcoming, but I wondered if I’d have time to get him to the bedroom in the back. The pants would be hell to take off quickly, but maybe that would take enough time.

Someone cleared their throat. Loudly.

“Uh,” Eric began as I eased away from him. “Right, I have an escort.”

I glanced and smiled when I saw who it was. “Well, hello there, Agent Twee. I hope you’re not a religious man.”

The agent, whose last name was actually Clee, shook his head, looking unamused. Despite how much of a stick in the mud and a stickler for rules he was, Clee was far more pleasant than Harkins had ever been. He was tolerant of both mine and Eric’s respective…quirks. That included Eric’s nickname for him after mishearing the man’s last name and refusing to call him anything else.

“Good evening, Agent Levin,” he said politely, holding a box out. “I’m also playing the role of bag boy today.”

“Of course you are,” I chuckled, not in the least bit embarrassed by what he’d witnessed. He had been the agent personally assigned to keep an eye on Eric for the past year and a half. Agent Clee had seen more than his fair share of things in that time, especially when he was there on the odd occasion when Eric and I had been given time with one another. “Do you want something to drink? I’ve got water and beer.”

“Water’s fine,” he said.

I carried the box I’d been handed into the dining room and dropped it onto the small table before heading into the kitchen, Eric following me. I turned after grabbing a bottle of water, my smile faltering when I saw him glaring at me.

“What’d I do?” I asked, immediately feeling guilty and not knowing why.

“Beer?” he asked, raising a brow. “And what’s that doing to your meds?”

“Oh, I’m off them,” I said, averting my eyes as I realized I’d given myself away before I’d had a chance to talk to Eric about the change. “So, I can drink. Not much, but a couple of beers here and there.”

Eric cocked his head. “And when were you going to tell me?”

“Preferably after we’d got you settled in and had a chance to unwind,” I admitted, trying not to take offense at his suspicion. I had, after all, been the one who’d kept things from him. Not that Eric held that over my head, but I couldn’t blame him for the occasional unconscious wariness. And if I needed to give him assurances now and again? Well, that was just fine by me. “Look, I talked it over with the shrink.”

“Lisa.”

“I talked it over with Lisa. The side effects were awful, making it hard for me to do anything.”

“They helped you.”

“They muddied my brain.”

“And kept you calm.”

“Yes, and made it impossible for me to think clearly. How the fuck am I supposed to be able to deal with my thoughts when I can’t even think right?” I demanded, losing my patience. “Maybe this therapy shit is taking longer, but I’d rather deal with this shit with a clear head than under whatever fog that crap brought me.”

Eric looked me over, chewing his bottom lip. “Has it been better?”

I knew what he meant and realized he’d probably been obsessing about it for weeks. We couldn’t talk on the phone nearly as much as either of us would have preferred, and we tried to keep the serious conversations for in person. Not just because it meant seeing the other person’s face but because it meant we probably weren’t being recorded or listened to.

“Not…always,” I admitted, though it pained me to do so. Total honesty wasn’t something I came by easily, especially when I knew it would hurt or upset Eric.

Eric’s face pinched. “Dylan—”

“I’m serious about what I said before,” I told him firmly. “I can’t get through anything when my brain is filled with mud and muck. Even if it’s hard sometimes, it’s better when I can think clearly. At least then I don’t feel like I’m forgetting who I am again.”

Memories were tricky things, and terrifying as well. For all the medical and psychological babble I’d gone through, no one had prepared me for the roller coaster that was the return of my memory. Sometimes it was as simple and benign as a phrase that slipped from my mouth as though I’d always remembered it. Other times it came in a rush, slamming into me so hard I was practically living in the memory, unable to perceive the real world around me.

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