I cover the Post-It note—the one I’d been scrawling on all afternoon, over and over, until the paper was more black ink than yellow.
Four imperfect loops: small, tall, tall, small—an exact rendering of the wrist tattoo from the girl in my dream—the dream I haven’t dreamt since waking in the hospital six months ago, the dream that continues to haunt me every day. Some days it’s murky and water-colored. Other days its crystal-fucking-clear. But it’s always, always there.
“You’re free to go, Paloma.” I say. “Thank you.”
Today was my first day back at the office. Someone gave me flowers—fucking flowers. Roses, no less. Don’t roses mean “I love you” or “I’m sorry” or something? And someone else brought champagne cake from some French bakery and placed it in the boardroom. My partners, Tony and Graeme, welcomed me back with a short-but-sweet speech, and then dismissed the rest of the team, the paralegals and assistants anxious to get back to their workstations and hamster-wheel jobs.
It’s ironic—I almost died. And yet, since the moment I was condemned back into my body, I’ve never felt more … dead.
All the color, all the meaning, all the joie de vivre has been sucked out of my life.
For the past six months, I’ve been homesick for a person in a place I’m not even sure exists, at least not in the here and now.
On top of all of that, I’m dealing with short-term memory loss—mostly involving the months leading up to my accident. It’s as if everything that happened during that time was wiped clean. Something like that can really fuck with you, if you let it.
My physiotherapist tried to refer me to a shrink, claiming I seemed despondent, borderline depressed—common symptoms after traumatic events, he assured me. But I’m not depressed. Confused, perhaps. Frustrated beyond all belief. But not blue.
My personal trainer gave me a bottle of ‘mood-enhancing vitamins.’ I chucked them in the trash the moment I got home.
When I tried bringing up that surreal experience to my doctor, he offered a polite chuckle, telling me the drugs they use to induce medical comas can produce “vivid and/or disturbing dreams.”
But what happened was so much more than a dream, more than a series of exchanged words and crystal-clear visions.
I know this woman.
I know everything about her … everything but her name.
It’s like the man I was before her no longer exists.
All I am, all I’ll ever be … is hers.
I toss the sticky square in the trash beneath my desk, then I check my watch. I’m supposed to meet Claire and her husband for drinks tonight. She, too, felt it fitting to celebrate the completion of my recovery and my subsequent return to work.
I shut down my computer, lock my desk, and shrug into my suit jacket before heading out.
The office is quiet, half of it unlit. Most of the staff has gone home for the day … home to their husbands and wives, home to their children, home to their lives.
I used to wear my workaholism like a badge of honor. My unrivaled work ethic was a thing to be feared, a thing to be treasured, a thing that filled my life with the only meaning it ever needed.
But six months of intense physiotherapy and friends who look at you like you’re a shell of the man you once were will force humility in your veins faster than you have time to say sixty-hour-work-week.
And casual sex? It’s a thing of the past. And not for lack of trying.
I’ve had my fair share of hook ups the last few months, the women as gorgeous as they were sexy, intelligent as they were skilled between the sheets—but it doesn’t feel the way it did before.
I found myself going through the motions.
The gratification? The nirvana of a no-strings orgasm? Gone. And the instant I’d cum, I’d hate myself for it. I’d feel as if I betrayed the only woman I loved—even if she wasn’t fucking real.
I hit the sidewalk outside, the early afternoon sun setting and the air turning unapologetically brisk with each step. Up ahead, a woman hails a cab. When she turns to climb in, her dark hair curtains the side of her face, but I manage to catch a glimpse of her sharp jawline and heart-shaped mouth.
My pulse hammers as the cab door shuts and the car takes off, merging into rush hour traffic and a cacophony of honking horns, idling motors, and bus fumes.
She glances out the window as they pass—but it isn’t her.
It never is.
5
Brie
It happens so fast—Grant on one knee, a propped ring box in his hand with a diamond so large it throws sparkles on the wall beside us.
Six months ago, we met in a hospital waiting room.
Five months ago, we had our first date.
Five seconds ago he asked me to spend the rest of my life with him.