“You’ve done enough, don’t you think?” There is more of a bite to my words than I intend. I really meant that he’s already been here for two weeks straight, sitting by my side while I was unconscious, going to my apartment to try to find out more about me, getting me a tablet and a brand new phone.
He has to fight the urge to physically recoil from my words and I want to pull them back immediately. I want him to smile again.
“No, I don’t.” He stands up straighter, pulling away from me. “I’ve actually stolen time from you. I can never do enough to fix that.” His phone buzzes in his hand, pulling his attention away from me.
“Go, take your call,” I murmur, sinking back into the bed, flipping the cover on my tablet.
Charles looks like he doesn’t want to take it, like he wants to keep this conversation going, but his phone keeps vibrating.
I don’t start to really regret my words until it’s night and I’m alone. Like the many nights preceding, Charles pushes the boundaries of visiting hours until one of the nurses threatens to call security. It’s during these dark hours, when I’m left alone with the gifts Charlies has given me that I let my mind drift to this man.
It’s bizarre how I’ve come to rely on his visits, even when he’s working. It’s been a different experience getting to know someone through watching them. We chat, of course, Charles telling me a little about what he does at a private equity firm his dad is the CEO of, but it’s how his shoulders relax when his friend Jack is on the phone. When it’s his father on the phone, his entire body reacts. He sits up straighter, any trace of a smile or a laugh on his face vanishes, and he uses what I like to call his “business voice.”
When he and I do talk, Charles probes into easier topics with me: college, where I grew up, what my parents were like. He tries to avoid things that may have occurred in the last five years. It’s a small mercy, one that I still try to puzzle out when I’m alone at night.
When I try to divert my mind from Charlie, my mind instantly clicks to Vivian. I reach for my phone a thousand times to call Vivian, but I stall, not knowing her number. My number is the same, and I know in my heart, somehow, that she’s not in my life anymore. People change and grow, but we always texted daily, even when we were living together.
My loneliness only grows in the darkness of my hotel room, and while I stare out the window at the city lights, I wonder if loneliness is what keeps Charles here with me during the day.
Chapter 2
“Iwanttogoback to my apartment,” I say to Charles as he grabs my bag from the bed. I’m sitting in a wheelchair because it is hospital policy when leaving. I want to argue that I should be given some leeway since I do have to work on strengthening my knee. The threat of a seventh floor walk-up looms large over me, so I don’t push it.
Charles pushes out a huff of air through his nose. He doesn’t have to tell me he disagrees. He doesn’t have to do anything else for me to know he disagrees.
“If that’s what you want, Elia.” Charles cuts an attractive figure in slacks and a polo.
Since my clothes were cut off my body the night of the accident, I was going to have to wear scrubs out until Charles gave me a simple beige dress. I nearly wept with relief at the buttons that ran down the whole front of it, making it easy for me to dress myself for the first time. It didn’t need to be something fashionable, just something I could do myself and not worry about the cast on my leg or push my shoulder uncomfortably. Ashley, whoever she is, is a godsend for getting me clothes.
Our PickMeUp! driver is annoyed at how long it takes Charles to help position me comfortably in the back seat so my broken leg can stretch out beside me. I’ve been told for a week how lucky I was. It was a clean break so healing should be easy. The knee surgery went well. My wrist could have been so much worse. My helmet saved my life. I could have broken my hip and more.
It’s hard to feel lucky when you feel alone in the world.
I scroll through my contacts. Chinese food, sushi joint, a temp agency, and the law firm I worked for ages ago. I tried calling them one day when Charles was in his office for a meeting he couldn’t avoid. The new receptionist didn’t know who I was, and I left a message for one of the partners to call me back but they never did.
I know a person is never the best judge of character for themselves, but I like to think that I was a good person, a good worker, not the type of woman whose friends would be totally and completely AWOL, not the kind of employee that wouldn’t even deserve a callback. I know I could check social media and find my friends, but I’m not sure I’m ready emotionally for any fallout from the last five years. For now, I can live in this little amnesia bubble pretending like none of this is real.
Pulling up to the building already tells me this is a bad idea, but Charles is too much of a gentleman to say otherwise. He helps me out, leans my new fashion accessory, crutches, against the car, and slings my purse over his shoulder.
“Put your arms around my neck,” he offers when I’ve finally made it to the door opening. I fight to hide how exhausting just that was. I don’t protest, sliding my arms around his neck as his hands grip my waist, pulling me out. We’ve moved past him needing to ask if this is okay; past me fighting him.
Charles’ face is so close to mine that I can feel his breath tickling the hairs on my neck as he lifts me from the seat. My dirty brain supplies how easy it would be for him to lift me onto a table and press his hard body against mine, and damn it if I don’t let my mind wander. He is singularly focused on getting me to my feet while I’m thinking about the thrill of having him close to me and the arousal that sends through my body.
“I think blue is more your color,” I say, my voice ragged, gesturing at my purple purse hanging from his shoulder.
Charles gives me a grin, adjusting it on his arm. “I think this looks nice with my eyes.” He smiles and I think, it does, it really does.
He pulls my keys from his pocket and gives me my crutches so he can open the doors. Directly beside my building, I see the name of the Chinese food restaurant and across the street is the sushi place. Awesome, I apparently never went far from this place.
I wish something would jog my memory. The smell of the trash on the street is not unique to this part of the city, nor is the smell of fried rice wafting through the doors of the restaurant. We walk through the entry and Charles stays behind me as I navigate crutches on the stairs. More than once, I get them stuck on a stair, falling back into his chest. His hands steady me, gripping my hips until I get them right again. I hope he can’t hear the pounding of my heart when I lean against him. Two weeks in the hospital has destroyed my stamina, leaving me sweating as we make the climb.
“Sorry,” I grumble, focusing on the next step.
“That's why I’m here.” I can hear an edge of pain in his voice, but I can’t look at him and see the pity I know is there.
The pain throbbing in my arm and leg makes me want to cry. I shouldn’t be using both crutches, but I didn’t want to leave the other one at the entrance of the building to be mistaken for trash. Hitting the landing on the fourth floor, I see the error of my ways when I just can’t do it anymore. I throw one crutch and then the other at the wall before sitting on the stairs and crying. It’s stupid and vain, but I hate how weak I feel. I hate how my body feels like it’s betraying me for being injured and I hate how unfamiliar this place is.
Charles looks unsure at first but then braces one hand on the wall and the other on the railing to look at me. He’s more in my face than usual, an annoying wrinkle of concern between his brows. I don’t expect him to comfort me—we hardly know each other—but it does force me to stop crying.