I watch his face twist, like he’s trying to concentrate really hard, and he stares into his lap at curled fingers.
“Not a lot, Demi. I’m sorry,” he says, taking his time.
I place my head in my hand, resting my elbow on the arm of the chair. Crossing my legs toward him, I scoot closer.
“Really try to remember, Brooks. I know it’s hard. But I need you to try. If there’s anything . . .”
He shakes his head, licking dry lips. “I can’t, Demi. I’ve tried.”
“Our engagement is over. You ended it, and I really need you to remember so you can tell your Mom.”
Brooks’s crestfallen expression would break my heart in two if it wasn’t so focused on all the reasons I needed him to corroborate this.
“I remember us fighting a lot. About the wedding.” His forehead wrinkles. “I remember having doubts. But I don’t remember calling it off.”
“Doubts,” I say. “What kind of doubts?”
I’m hoping this will be some kind of portal or wormhole, something to lead us in the right direction.
Brooks shakes his head slowly, dragging in a long, slow breath.
“Normal doubts?” he says. “Cold feet? Nothing unusual.”
Defeated, I massage my temple and try again. “There had to have been a reason, Brooks, that you left me that night. Where were you going? Were you going to see somebody? You were just outside Glidden. What’s in Glidden?”
I study his eyes, hoping I can see some hint of something clicking. Wheels turning. Anything.
“Demi, my head is pounding, and I’m hurting, and I don’t have the energy,” he says. “I don’t care what happened a week ago. All I know is I want to marry you.”
This isn’t going to work.
No one’s going to believe me if the man who called off the wedding doesn’t remember doing it.
“Mom told me you never left my side,” he says, exhaling and trying to readjust himself. His face winces, and he blows a hard breath. “If that’s not true love, I don’t know what is.”
Your Mom is lying to you.
“I’m going to marry you, Demi.” He reaches for me, the veins in his Ivy League rower’s arms bulging as he attempts to flex his tight hand.
“Brooks.” I clear my throat and close my eyes. I didn’t want to do this while he was still in the hospital, but I’m not sure I have a choice. “You cheated on me. The night you left, you were going to see her. In Glidden.”
His swollen face tightens for a moment, his upper lip becoming stiff. For a split second, I’m sure he’s about to come clean.
My palms sweat, and I wait, watching him breathe in and out and focus on the white flannel blanket covering his feet.
“I would never.” His eyes narrow. “I mean, I know I’m not perfect, and I’ve done some things I’m not proud of, but we can fix that. Life’s too short to focus on the past, Demi.”
Deny. Deny. Deny.
It’s the coward’s way.
“I get that your short-term memory is shot right now,” I continue, “but apparently you’ve been seeing this woman for over a year, and you can’t tell me you recall most of the last year with me, but you have no recollection of this woman.”
His hands lift and drop against his thighs.
“I don’t know what you want me to say, Demi. I’m not going to admit to something I have no recollection of doing.” He turns my way, and it feels like he’s watching for my reaction. “I feel like you’re trying to play some kind of cruel joke on me. I’ve been out for a week, and I wake up and now you don’t want to be with me? God, Demi. If you don’t want to marry me, just say so, but don’t accuse me of cheating.”
I cover my eyes with the heels of my palm and fold over my knees.
Maybe I’m wrong? Maybe Royal was wrong? Maybe I’m the biggest piece of shit person in the entirety of Rixton Falls for doubting him?
Sitting up, my mind goes to the credit card statements. I need to see what was charged. Six figures’ worth of debt and there’s got to be some kind of clue. Fancy restaurants? Hotels? Flowers?
I rise, grab my satin clutch, and pop it open to retrieve my keys.
“Where are you going?” Brooks tries to sit up.
“I have to check something.”
He scoffs. “Come on, Demi, you know I hate when you’re vague with me.”
“There are some things back home that I’d like you to see. Maybe they’ll jog your memory.”
Brooks rolls his eyes. “No, just stay. You’re acting ridiculous. Let’s talk. I’m lonely here without any visitors. And I want my alone time with you.”
This twenty-eight-year-old man is still very much a spoiled, only child. He doesn’t want me to stay because he loves me. He wants me to stay because he wants company.
And control.
Everything’s always about him, all the time.
“I have to do this.” My heels make hurried clicks as I strut toward his door to leave. “Maybe when I come back . . . maybe then you’ll remember everything.”
“Demi.”
I’m gone, striding down the hallway toward the exit at warp speed, heading home to grab the statements.
And then I’m coming right back.
I’m going to settle this once and for all.
Thirty
Demi
* * *
I park outside the hospital, a stack of credit card statements in my lap. I’ve pored over each and every one, expecting to find damning evidence. Some kind of trail. Irrefutable proof of his affair.
Nothing but cash advances.
Not even so much as a bouquet of roses.
A thousand dollars here, five thousand there.
Each card has hit its max, like he cycled through one after another, pulling money here and transferring it there.
And none of it makes sense.
Brooks Abbott has money. His family has money. He paid for our house in cash. His cars too. His essays on financial management and retirement planning have been published in Forbes and the Wall Street Journal.
I check my phone and find four missed calls from Brenda Abbott. I’m sure Delilah tried her best, but Brenda probably saw right through her. I’ll call her later tonight, after the charity gala, and apologize for running out.
I’ll come clean, hope she believes me, and put an end to this charade.
But first . . . Brooks.
My lungs fill with stale hospital air as I charge down the hallway toward the recovery unit, a stack of statements clenched in my fist. Stopping at the nurse’s station to sign in, I jot my name on a free space and scribble the date.
And then I stop.
Because it’s not my name filling the last spot under Brooks’s room number.
The name Afton Mayfield is signed clear as day, and today’s date is alongside it. I swear it wasn’t there before, so I check. Sure enough, my name from earlier is above hers.
Afton was here the morning Brooks woke up. She stopped by the following day for updates, which Brenda handled, and left again.
But she was never allowed in his room.
Brenda wouldn’t have it.
She wanted Brooks to be damn near “as good as new” before he made his media debut. She didn’t want photographs of him lying in bed, and she didn’t want any quotes that might make people mistake his short-term memory loss for permanent brain damage.