“We missed you today, sweetheart.” Brenda’s voice is loud, and she speaks slowly, enunciating each syllable.
Is Brooks hearing impaired now? Is his mental capacity diminished?
“Hi.” I stare into Brooks’s familiar eyes when I get to his bedside. Feels like I’m looking at a stranger. My nerves tingle through to my fingertips, and my heart trots.
I wish we were alone.
I wish I could ask him my questions and he could give me his answers.
“Demi.” He says my name, though it comes out like scratched air. And then he smiles.
“Here, take my seat, dear.” Brenda points before pushing up a chair to her son’s bedside.
His fingers curl into a half-opened fist, like they’re stuck that way. And he’s propped up with a half-dozen pillows. His hair has been washed since this morning. I can tell, because it’s shiny and blond and neatly combed. With the exception of the fading bruises on his face, he looks more like himself now than he did this morning.
Brooks’s fingers twitch, and he uses all of his strength to reach for me.
I oblige, our gazes locked.
“I’m . . . sorry.” His apology is breathy and slow. Brooks’s green eyes search mine, blinking slowly.
I’m not exactly sure what he’s apologizing for. For leaving me? For the accident? For the credit cards? For the cheating?
I pat his hand the way a friend might, and I bite my tongue when the urge to tell him not to worry about it floats through my mind. It’s like an auto-response. Someone apologizes, and I tell them not to worry about it.
But it’s not like that now.
What Brooks did was beyond . . .
And I won’t brush it off, even if he does look helpless and remorseful and like he’s two seconds from crying.
I’ve never seen Brooks cry before. Four years together, and I never saw a single tear. He came close once, after an intense golf game with my brother.
He blinks, and a fat tear slides from the corner of his eye.
“I’m . . . sorry,” he breathes again.
Brenda doesn’t see any of this. She’s talking to Delilah in the corner, and they seem to be chatting about this weekend’s fundraiser—which I completely forgot about until now.
They stop chatting when Brenda turns to watch us and sees me looking at her.
“Everything okay over there?” she smiles and strides back over. Placing her hand on her son’s knee, she leans down. “Guess what, Brooks? Demi’s quitting her job so she can take care of you full-time. How wonderful is that? I always knew you were marrying a keeper. She’s a good girl, Brooks. Never left your side once. Except today.”
I see Delilah cock her head out of the corner of my eye.
Why Brenda would lie to him to make me look good is beyond me, but her little dig was one hundred percent intentional.
Brooks looks my way and mouths, “Thank you.”
Heat creeps up my neck.
Really?
He’s just going to pretend like we never broke up?
The weight of a warm palm on my back and Delilah’s chin on my shoulder grounds me for a moment.
“Hey, Brooks,” she says. “How’re you feeling?”
We all laugh, and I know exactly what she’s doing. She’s taking the heat off me, lightening the mood, and putting on a good face. But I know my sister, and inside she’s cursing his name.
He smiles, his face pained, and gives her a thumbs-up.
“Delilah, what do you say we grab ourselves some coffee and give our love birds some time alone together?” Brenda slicks a palm over her black bob.
My sister looks at me, and I give her my blessing. The second they’re gone, I shut the door and return to his bedside, perching on the edge of the mattress. His hand lifts, falling in my lap, his fingers touching mine.
He wants me to hold his hand.
I place mine on top of his, but I don’t hold it. I don’t interlace our fingers or give him any kind of indication that the past is water under the bridge.
“Demi.” He says my name again, like he’s starving and it’s nourishment. His other hand goes to his chest, slowly, and then points to me. No, to my heart. He’s saying he loves me.
“You . . . you love me?” I ask.
He nods, his eyes slowly closing and reopening.
“Brooks.” I pat his hand. “You left me. Remember?”
Brooks’s green eyes furrow. He’s confused.
“The night of your accident, you ended our engagement.”
He shakes his head from side to side in silent disagreement.
“Yes,” I say. “You did. You left me. Your bags were packed, you said you didn’t want to marry me, and you got in your car and drove away.”
He squints, glancing to the right and back, and then shakes his head again.
The doctors warned this could happen. Short-term memory loss is a highly common occurrence among victims of brain trauma.
“Do you remember anything about that night?” I ask. “Anything at all?”
Brooks’s eyes study mine, and his fingers twitch and attempt to uncurl beneath mine. He moves them enough to hook his pinky into mine.
And then he shakes his head no.
Twenty-Seven
Royal
* * *
She answers her door, and relief swallows me whole. It’s Saturday night, and there’s no place I’d rather be than with Demi Rosewood.
“What are you doing here?” Her face is pinched, and she has a good grip on her front door.
“Haven’t heard from you in a few days,” I say. “Coming by to check on you.”
I glance over her shoulder.
“You alone?” I ask.
She glances over mine. “Yeah. Come in.”
“You’re all dressed up. Going somewhere?”
She runs her hands along the black fabric of a modest dress that covers her curved frame. Her hair is combed back into some kind of fancy contraption, and her lips are redder than the beat up Porsche in her garage. Polished nails fidget with a dainty diamond bracelet on her left wrist, and she smells like a flower shop.
“I have a charity thing tonight,” she says.
“For Brooks?”
She nods. “Don’t want to go. Just making a quick appearance. Brenda’s running the show.”
“Been worried about you,” I say. “Ever since the other day.”
“Really? What for?”
“You weren’t yourself.” I reach for her face, unable to resist the urge to touch her a minute longer, but she pushes my hand to the side. “And the way you left . . .”
Taking a step back, she says, “Everything is just so complicated right now, and I’m just trying to deal with one thing at a time. I don’t know where you fit into all this, and to be honest, I don’t have the energy to deal with us right now, so . . .”
“So what are you saying? That’s it? You’re going to focus on Brooks now? So long, Royal?”
Her arms loop across her chest and pull tight. “This isn’t about me choosing one or the other.”
“But it kind of is.” I step toward her. She steps back. “You can’t be with fucking Brooks, Demi. You can’t. I won’t let you. You don’t have to pick me, but for the love of God, do not pick him.”