Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 127249 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 636(@200wpm)___ 509(@250wpm)___ 424(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127249 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 636(@200wpm)___ 509(@250wpm)___ 424(@300wpm)
Chapter
Eleven
Tatiana
* * *
I wake up groggy and thirsty. “So thirsty.”
The skin on my knees and palms burn, and my temple throbs.
Dante appears in my vision, holding a cup with a straw to my lips. “Here you go, darling.”
He helps me to sit up. I’m in the same big bed as earlier, but now I have a drip in my arm connected to a transparent bag of fluid hanging from an IV pole that stands next to the bed. The curtains are open, letting the golden light of the afternoon sun filter into the spacious room.
I look down at myself. I’m wearing a nightdress I don’t remember.
“I washed and dressed you,” Dante says as if reading my mind. “Here.” He brings the straw to my lips again. “You need to keep hydrated.”
Sipping a few small mouthfuls of the cold water, which is just about the best thing I’ve ever tasted, I take him in.
The new ink on his hands is alluring but also unsettling because I don’t remember those tattoos. His hair is tousled, and a couple of days’ worth of stubble darkens his jaw. His handsome face is familiar but older. Laugh lines crease the outside corners of his eyes. Or maybe they’re from frowning. He’s always been a charmer on the surface but way too serious for his own good.
I glance around me. The room is still strange. Something about being here frightens me. It feels… wrong.
My question is tremulous. “Where am I?”
Brushing back my hair in a tender gesture, he offers me a patient smile. “At our home.”
“Our home?” I look at my left hand where the diamond twinkles on my ring finger. A wedding band fits against the engagement ring, spelling out the answer. “We…” I continue uncertainly. “We got married?”
Even though his smile doesn’t falter, his tone is strained. “You don’t remember?”
Panic rises inside me again. “N-no. What happened to me? Why don’t I remember?”
“Shh.” He strokes my hair. “That’s all right. Tell me what you do remember.”
My brain feels fuzzy. I try to think. “The night we planned. My father was going to a party. You were going to come back when Mom was asleep and sneak me out so we could spend the night together.”
He tries hard not to show his feelings, but he can’t hide the shock and concern that flash through his amber eyes. “What about the accident?” He puts the cup on the nightstand and gently traces the plaster stuck above my temple. “Do you remember anything about the event that gave you this wound?”
I do my best to recall what happened to me only to pull a blank. “I just remember running into that store and asking the sales lady for a phone.”
“And you don’t remember anything between that and the night I was going to smuggle you from the condo?”
I shake my head, spiraling down a black, bottomless pit as my anxiety escalates.
Needing to hold on to something, I grip his hand. “What’s happening to me, Dante?”
“Hey.” He lifts my hand to his lips and kisses the back. “It’s nothing to stress about. You hit your head and suffered a shock.”
I can hear the lie in his words. That’s not what he believes. I know him too well.
Rubbing his finger just below the broken skin of my knuckles, he says, “We’ll figure it out.”
At that, I relax a little. As long as Dante is with me, I’m safe. But then I tense again. “Noah?”
“You remember him?” he asks with a mixture of hope and surprise.
“Yes.” Tears spring into my eyes. “How can I not?”
And then everything inside me falls apart… because Noah is four years old.
“No.” I gasp, clinging to Dante as the truth cuts through me like a blunt knife. I lost a chunk of my life. “Four years.”
What the hell happened to me? Why can’t I remember anything between that night and now? I don’t remember being pregnant. I remember Noah, Dante, and my family and friends but nothing about our wedding or Noah’s birth.
“Hush, darling.” He sits down on the edge of the bed and kisses me on the lips. “I’ll get you the best doctors. We’ll fix this.”
On the verge of hysteria, I ask, “What if we can’t?”
His smile stretches, exposing his dimple. “Then fuck it. We’ll live with it. You’ll get to know me all over again.”
Some of my anguish subsides. Not making a big deal out of what’s wrong with me helps. It gives me hope that he’ll stay with me, no matter what. Even if we can’t fix this, he won’t abandon me.
A tear slips free and rolls over my cheek. “I didn’t forget you.” If there’s one truth I know, it’s this. “I love you too much.”
Instead of seeming happy about that, he appears as if I’ve driven a stake through his heart.