Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 164705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 824(@200wpm)___ 659(@250wpm)___ 549(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 164705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 824(@200wpm)___ 659(@250wpm)___ 549(@300wpm)
“No, no.” I shook my head. “You’ll think it’s a stupid question.”
“I will never think anything you do or say is stupid,” he assured me.
“Can it …” I dropped my voice into a whisper. “Read your mind?”
“No.” He chuckled softly, gathering my hands in his. “It can’t read your mind, but it can do a lot of other stuff. You can work with it. It connects to the internet. It has a digital assistant called Siri, and she can answer general questions you have. About the weather and important dates.”
I blinked, trying to keep a straight face. “Does it work on batteries?”
Poor dude thought I’d woken up after a trip to the eighties. I knew I was being a little cruel to him, but I hadn’t felt normal since I’d woken up, and this helped me gain some sort of grip on who I was.
“You charge it with electricity.”
I reared my head back, frowning. “What’s electricity?”
I could see all the blood drain from his face, before his eyebrows dove into a deep frown. Before he had time to process the joke, I flipped the visor down and studied my face in the mirror.
I winced, pawing at my forehead. “Oliver.”
“What’s wrong?” He fussed over my face, his hands fanning in every direction like he wanted to touch it but feared he’d make it worse. “Are you in pain? Do we need to turn back? I knew they discharged you too soon. Let’s go back. You know what? Let’s go to another hospital. I’ve always hated that place, and Doctor Cohen is a dickhead. There’s this guy I know at Johns Hopkins. He specializes in all things head related. He can help us, I promise. If not, we can—”
My god. I’d never seen him like this. If I didn’t stop him, he’d keep talking.
“It’s not pain.” I rubbed an imaginary line between my brows. “Is that a wrinkle?”
“A what?”
“A wrinkle.”
“On your forehead?” He pulled my hand away and studied my face. “No, it’s a red mark from you stabbing it every ten seconds.”
“What year is it?”
“Year?” he echoed.
“How old are we?”
“I’m 34. You’re 33.”
“But …” I shook my head. “I was just fifteen.”
He leaned back in his seat, tugging on tufts of hair. “Oh, fuck.”
“I haven’t even had my period.”
“Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”
“Just yesterday, Meemaw sat me down and told me boys stick their pee pee in my pee pee to make babies.”
His jaw almost dislodged. One second passed. Then another. And another. Finally, he tipped his head back and started laughing like a maniac, slapping his forehead. “You little shit.”
“Please, you deserve much more crap for using goat-shaped prostate massagers on me.” I propped a shoulder on my seat, staring at him with a mixture of delight and confusion. We didn’t feel like us. And yet, nothing made me more comfortable than being near him. I sighed. “Chill out, by the way. I’m fine. I’m not going to disintegrate because you glanced away for five seconds. Keep your eyes on the road.”
“You don’t get it. I thought you died that night. Or worse.”
“There’s something worse than death?”
“Yes,” he confirmed, his voice flat.
In an instant, the joy sucked out of the car. I tugged the lush cardigan Oliver gave me tighter – a Christmas gift from someone named Dallas, who was apparently my best friend – and stole glances at him from my periphery. He white-knuckled the steering wheel, the car still in park. My fingertips itched to smooth out the lines between his brows and take away whatever happened that had made him so serious. So somber. Problem was, I didn’t know what that was. Just another reminder of what I’d lost. Every memory that made me … me.
That’s not true.
I caught my gaze in the mirror.
You’re still the you that matters. You’re still sweet, and smart, and compassionate. You don’t need your memories to be the same girl that loved Oliver von Bismarck something fierce.
Damn straight.
In the end, my heart mattered more than my mind.
“We’re in our thirties, you said?” I patted my face, making a show of gazing in the mirror with fake awe. “This has to be Botox. Damn, I’m aging well. When do you think my next appointment is?”
He loosened his grip on the steering wheel and revved up the engine, shaking his head with a chuckle. “I’ve never taken care of anyone without a memory before.”
“I have memories. I just blanked out on the last decade or so.” I pouted, staring at the road ahead. We lived in a beautiful place – wild with evergreen trees, golf courses, rivers, and lakes. “In fact, I just remembered something recent a moment ago.”
“Oh?” Ollie quirked an eyebrow. “Do share.”
“I remembering sewing a pair of see-through thongs shortly before I bumped my head.”
“You did.” He grinned. “For the film you were working on.”