It occurred to me that I could change the script. I could tell her anything. I could fuck with her, and in a few minutes, she’d have forgotten all about it.
The notion made my stomach roil.
A cruel person, a bully—a Toby—would fuck with her. He’d laugh at her confusion and fear and justify it for the same reason—she wouldn’t remember.
But I’d remember.
Someone needs to watch out for her.
“I stutter only sometimes now,” I said. “It was worse when I was a kid.”
“Did you get bullied for it?”
“Yeah, I did.”
Her lips curled in a scowl. “Fucking bullies,” she said. “I’m sorry, Jimmy. All bullies are cowards trying to hide their own weakness by directing attention to someone else.” She glanced at me. “That doesn’t make what you endured easier, does it?”
“It happened. Nothing can change it now.”
“Tough guy, are you? Like Marc Antony. A stoic soldier, but your eyes give you away.”
I coughed. Redirect.
“Marc Antony,” I said and nodded at her drawing. “Part of your Egyptian studies?”
Thea leaned her cheek on her folded hands like she was warming herself before a fire. “Marc Antony is part of the romance. A love story with Cleopatra. He went to war for her. Died for her. When they told her he was dead, she put her hand in a basket with an asp. Can you imagine? Loving someone so much that the thought of life without them is too unbearable?”
“No,” I said. “I can’t.”
Her gaze dropped to my hand on the table and her fingers reached to trace the scars on my knuckles.
“These tell a story, don’t they?” She traced one of the fine lines on my first knuckle. “You put your hand in with the snakes, too.”
I nodded slowly, savoring the feel of her warm skin on mine. “So they’d leave me alone.”
“And did they?”
“Eventually.”
“I’m glad.” She put her hand in mine completely, her fingers wrapping around and holding tight. “I’m being too… something. Personal. Delia would throw a fit, but I feel like…”
“Like what, Thea?”
“Like I have to hold on to this moment, you know? Or you… I don’t even know you and yet I don’t want to stop talking to you.” Her hand squeezed mine. “I don’t care if you have a stutter, but please keep talking to me, Jimmy. Okay?”
My mouth went dry at the nameless desperation in her eyes.
Jesus, does she know she’s trapped? She can’t. Impossible…
“I won’t,” I said. “I’ll talk to you every day. I promise.”
Thea breathed a small sigh of relief and released my hand. “Thank you. That makes me feel better.”
With a final smile—a parting smile, I realized—she took up her pen and then froze.
She’s resetting.
Confusion passed over her features. She looked up at me, flinching a little to see a big man in close proximity. I instantly leaned back to give her space.
“How long has it been?” she asked.
“Two years,” I said, my voice hardly more than a whisper. “But the doctors are working on your case.”
“Yes, they are.” She smiled hesitantly and found my nametag. “I’m Thea Hughes.”
Seven. Seven times now.
“Jim Whelan,” I said.
She offered her hand. Again. I took it robotically, enduring her one-pump shake. Again. Her fingers didn’t linger in mine but released immediately, the way you do with a stranger.
“Nice to meet you, Jim Whelan.”
Fuck. I can’t do this.
I rose to my feet. “I have to get to work.”
Her face fell. “Oh. Bummer. Will I see you again?”
I could promise her I would, but she wouldn’t remember. There was no promise. I could tell her the sky was falling or my name was Abraham Lincoln and she wouldn’t know the damn difference. It’d vanish, like every other word we’d ever spoken to each other. I vanished every time her reset hit and was recreated over again in Thea’s eyes. I could be whatever I wanted; whomever I wanted. And yet she was the one woman I might’ve had a chance to be myself with.
The terrible irony of it was like copper in my mouth.
“Sure, Miss Hughes,” I said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Chapter 5
Thea
(five minutes earlier)
I open my eyes for the first time.
A beautiful man sits across from me. Strong and built. His hands are large, his knuckles scarred. His biceps and forearms are cut with lean muscle. He’s wearing white. A uniform?
At the next table sits an old man with a dent in his head.
Am I in a hospital?
Yes, because there was an accident and now I’m back.
Jesus, how long have I been away?
My heart pounds and blood rushes to my ears. My hand is clutching a pen and my knuckles hurt. It’s hard to breathe. There was the accident, and now I’m here in this room. But how long between then and now? How did I get here? How much time have I lost?
“How long has it been?” I ask the beautiful man.
“Two years,” he says in a low voice, almost a whisper. “But the doctors are working on your case.”
He’s right. The doctors are working on my case. That’s one of the Things I Know.
My name is Thea Hughes.
There’s been an accident.
The doctors are working on my case.
This man knew that, which means he must know me somehow. My hands unclench a little.
“Yes,” I say. “They are.”
But two years? God, I’ve been away a long time, but I’m back now. I ease a sigh of relief and the panic ebbs. Still, I can’t find… something. Something is lost and I need to find it. If only I knew what it was.
I find the guy’s nametag. Jim.
Jim is beautiful. And sexy. His sexiness is like a black leather jacket—it makes any outfit look good on him. He doesn’t sprawl in the chair, doesn’t man-spread like he owns the furniture or like he’s commanding the room to pay attention to him. His posture is quiet, arms crossed on the table, shoulders a little hunched. He doesn’t know how sexy he is, which makes him even more delicious. I fight a crazy urge to press my face into the crook of his neck and inhale him. Can’t help it. I haven’t been touched in forever. No sex. No food. No drink. Nothing.
Instead, I offer my hand. Delia is always yapping at me to be polite. And not that I mind touching this guy. “I’m Thea Hughes.”
He sounds almost disappointed as he answers, “Jim Whelan.”
Even his name is sexy. Masculine. Solid. But a softness lurks in him, making him more like a Jimmy than a Jim. I’m about to say so when a sudden, pained look crosses his handsome features and he rises to his feet.
“I have to get to work.”
Disappointment bites me deep. I don’t like being alone. A silence loiters on the outskirts of Jim and me—tight and airless—and it’s so scary.
“Oh. Bummer,” I say casually, hiding my desperation. “Will I see you again?”