Page 4

hell, high water, or husband

Ayla

The next morning, I go to therapy, which is recommended for all patients with head trauma. The shrink is fine, albeit a bit patronizing. I’m not an idiot, nor has my ability to cogitate been impaired.

Or so they say.

It’s literally like someone erased a portion of my DVD playback and I’m stuck with a chunk of the movie having no audio or video while the clock timer keeps running.

I’m not in a good headspace during the assessments, though, and I know enough to know that my being stressed or anxious can skew test results. That’s with everything. I can’t imagine that mental tests are any different, especially when memory is involved.

I’m agitated because I woke up hurting. Fitful sleep combined with vivid dreams means I don’t feel rested at all.

Soreness in my body, screaming pain in my head, and the icing on the fucking cake is I wanted a shower.

Yep. That’s what set me off. It’s been six days.

Six days since I woke up and left my home and was airlifted off a boulder due to what we can only assume is a fall.

And at six days, no one could stop me from showering and getting all the funk from my skin. I was so gross, I’d started itching. That’s a no go.

I was going to bathe come hell or high water.

Or my legally wed ass of a husband.

Hell, high water, or husband—that should be the saying. I don’t know which is the lesser of the three evils.

Christian fucking Barone wanted to be with me in there.

He was concerned . Yeah, fuck that. I don’t need his concern now and I sure as hell didn’t want it this morning.

I do not know him. Having a complete stranger watch me shower is near the top when it comes to things that feel like absolute violations.

Not that I know the nurses or want them watching me either.

But their eyes are clinical, and they do it for a living.

It’s not leering; it’s hospital liability.

For some reason, I was okay with one but not the other and that started another round of terse conversations that ended with him getting his way.

Again.

I’ve known the man less than twenty-four hours, and I wonder what I saw in him in the first place that made me have a second date, much less accept a marriage proposal. Maybe this isn’t my first head injury.

Now that’s a sobering thought.

He left for work when I went to therapy, and it was a good thing too. I was damn close to asking for a divorce.

What stopped me were Liam’s words from yesterday banging around my head.

When it was that I told my brother Christian dotes on me or spoils me is beyond me.

But sometime in my blackout era, as I’m now referring to it, I let my hard as nails brother know I was safe and happy.

Gag. I even used the words “dream man.” Double gag.

I know this only because Liam is not prone to exaggeration. He’s wildly and brutally honest. The kind of honest that’s painful, but the kind that’s liberating, too, because at least I always know the truth.

Although the when, where, and why of how Liam came to have that information is outside my understanding. But he recalled it and gave it back to me in a hospital bed in a time of fear. He must’ve known I needed it.

My brother isn’t mush. Except for me, he doesn’t have a soft spot at all. So him giving me that whole spiel was intentional. I just don’t know his intent.

Both arguments are volleying in my head. The left hand with its controlling, cold, unknown man and the right with its doting, spoiling, dream man. It’s an unwinnable fight, though. Because I do not know him.

I don’t care what Christian says. I don’t know him.

I don’t care what Liam says. I don’t know him.

No one is going to convince me of something at this point. I need to see for myself.

My door flies open again, and I brace, expecting the object of that anxiety to command the room with his mere presence and his finely chiseled jaw.

Instead, my dad looms, his shadow pouring into the room with the lights from the hall.

“Oh good. I wanted to talk to you, Ayla.”

“Hi, Dad. What’s wrong?”

He kisses my forehead, before plopping into the chair at my side. His eyes linger at my temple and the row of sutures there.

“My girl, I wanted a word alone with you. I won’t take much of your time. How much do you remember?”

“Of what?”

“Of everything.”

“The ordeal? Nothing. But I remember everything prior to a handful of years ago. I don’t know where the memories dip out, but the last year or two is blackness.

Why?” I pause and ask the question that’s been dancing on the edges of my mind.

“Have I had a previous head injury? Is this the second time I’ve had this experience? ”

He looks taken aback. “No. Aside from some let’s call them lapses in judgment , you’ve never had any mental issues.”

Lapses in judgment?

“Christian Barone is one example. I don’t know what he said to convince you to marry him, Ayla, but you need to be smart. Be very cautious. That man cannot be trusted.” He looks toward the door as if he’s racing the clock to communicate a dire message.

“Why do you say that, Dad? ”

“Because I know him. I’ve known him for years. We’ve known him for years. He’s dang?—”

The door pushes open, and a nurse enters. I’ve never seen her before. She carries a food tray. Next to my fork is a paper cup with a few pills in it. I take those immediately, hoping they address the piercing pain in my head and the soreness in the rest of my body.

She scans the barcode on my ID bracelet after setting down the tray and I notice what I missed yesterday. Allergies: Penicillin, hazelnuts

“Go gently with the food. We can bring you more, but you’ve had an empty stomach for a while.

” This is the same speech I heard at breakfast when they denied me coffee.

I explained that half of my headache was probably my body needing its morning fix, but they didn’t care and blew right past my desperate request.

I look down at the clear, pale-yellow soup before me and the bold red gelatin. I didn’t have my tonsils out. And I’m not five.

“Hard to go hard on broth and collagen.” I’m sure my sarcasm and frustration shine through the mumblings and grumblings of this non-caffeinated woman who has half a mind to do something illegal for a decent sandwich.

“I understand. Things will be back to normal in the next few days.”

“You mean with my diet.” It’s not a question.

She looks uncomfortable. “Yes. The body is resilient, and you’re young and in great shape.”

“My resilient body needs coffee.”

“Tomorrow. I’ll make a note.” She smiles as she leaves.

“Ayla.” My dad’s voice is urgent. “Do not trust that man. Watch everything. Listen. You’re too smart to get suckered in. I’m only a phone call away if you hear anything or see anything that worries you.”

“Thanks, Dad.” I spoon the broth into my mouth. It’s bland, except for the salt. This isn’t heart patient soup. This is keep-your-blood-pressure-up soup. I wish there was any flavor to it besides chicken bouillon and salt.

I slide the spoon to the tray and drink from the bowl. It’s not good. I don’t like it, but I’m hungry, and if I leave anything, they’ll be stingier at dinner.

“How’s work?” I ask my dad when I set down the bowl and reach for the Jello.

He begins telling me about current challenges in the Denver commercial real estate market but gets tight lipped after tipping his head to the door.

It swooshes open and in saunters the man I’m wed to. The word husband seems too intimate for a man whose middle name I can’t even guess at.

And the bastard walks in with a paper cup from my favorite coffee place. It’s salt in a wound, and he’s flaunting it in my face. I clench my jaw and feel my blood pressure rise.

Maybe it’s the soup.

Certainly, it’s the fight this morning where he felt entitled to see me naked.

But, waltzing in here drinking a coffee when I’m however many days in without a cup is cruel.

I’m sure my face registers my anger.

“Seamus.” Christian nods curtly to my dad before rounding the bed to drop a kiss on my forehead. “Hey, Princess.” His soft murmur there vibrates across my body.

Grrr.

My dad stands, squeezes my hand, and heads to the door.

He taps the jamb once he hits the threshold, his ring clanking against the metal frame, and turns back to me.

“Remember what I said. I’ll be back soon.

” He eyes the man at my side before lumbering through, his shoes squishing with every step of retreat.

“What did he say?” Christian’s suspicion is evident as he turns from watching my dad to eyeing me.

“Nothing much. We talked business a bit, and I complained about the food.”

“And you need to remember that conversation because it’s important?”

Shit. “Apparently.”

“Cut the shit, baby. That man couldn’t play poker to save his life, and thankfully, you’re not a great bluffer either. Your face is too expressive. Besides, you’ve got too much let it rip and let the cards fall where they may in you to want to. So, I’ll ask again.”

“He’s worried about me is all. And he knows the black hole that is my memory is irking the shit out of me. So he wants me to be smart. And the food sucks. I’m not lying.”

“I can’t fix the food, but I’m not above liquid contraband.” He sets the cup down on my tray. “Toasted marshmallow s’mores latte with cinnamon instead of graham cracker sprinkles.”

I grab the cup and bring it to my lips, taking one huge inhale before sipping. I moan as the rich flavor hits my tongue. When I open my eyes, Christian is assessing me.

“What?”

“Your eyes when you have your first sip of coffee are a step away from your eyes when I’m moving inside you. It’s been more than a week, and I needed to see it.”

“Oh.”

All my fire and all the anger I’ve held onto and I have the eloquence of a two-year-old. Oh . That’s what I came up with.