Forgotten Promises (The Promises Series Book 2) (5 page)

IT’S A DREAM; it has to be. No, not a dream, a nightmare. One of those horribly vivid Technicolor ones that you need to lie still and spend ten minutes untangling to determine whether it really happened. The kind of nightmare that leaves you breathless, trembling in a cold slick sweat. Yes, that’s it. I’m having a nightmare; I just need to try relaxing, and it’ll be over soon. I’ll wake up. I’m clutching onto that notion until the nurse removes the cannula from my arm, the sharp scrape of the needle being removed against my sensitive, sore skin lets me know that I’m very much awake. I watch in morbid fascination as the tiny puncture wound starts to seep deep crimson droplets of blood; I can smell the metallic tang.

“Here, hold this cotton bud to your arm tightly. It will stop soon,” the nurse says passing me a small fluffy white bud that looks like cotton candy. I take it from her and press it to my arm as instructed. I don’t trust my voice not to crack, so I don’t attempt any form of response. Instead, I remain silent and focus on breathing in and out, in and out, inhale, exhale.
You’re fine, Blair,
I tell myself. My emotions are winning out; I feel anything but fine. My vision is starting to blur from the tears that are gathering in the corners of my eyes.

“Are you okay, sugar?” the elderly plump nurse asks. “You should have let me know if you have a phobia about needles.”

I smile and nod my head. She eyes me carefully for a few seconds. “Okay then, that’s the IV all out. Just press the buzzer if you need anything,” she says, already halfway out of the room.

Mom went back to her hotel to shower and change into a clean set of clothes. I was thankful to be left on my own, but now I wish I wasn’t. He didn’t know me. There wasn’t a single spark of recognition in his beautiful azure eyes. I replay the whole sorry interaction like a movie stuck on a loop in my mind. The first tear falls and bursts the damn, more are quick to follow. The silent tears turn to sobs, the sobs turn to wails and then before I know it I’m pounding my fists as hard as I can into the bed in complete and utter frustration. By the time I’ve calmed down, my arms are aching, and I have the beginning of a headache forming behind my eyes. The throbbing around my stitches is a welcomed distraction from the emotional pain. This is so unfair! Why is this happening? I should be happy that Ethan woke up, but I can’t focus on anything other than the agony I feel coursing through my heart. He doesn’t even know who I am.

“Blair?” Moira whispers as she takes a seat next to my bed. “Honey, are you awake?”

I don’t think I can do this; I don’t want to talk to anyone, I just want to lie here and pretend that none of this is happening. I’m contemplating keeping my eyes closed and faking sleep. Maybe if I don’t respond she’ll leave again.

“Blair, Ethan’s asking for you.”

This has my attention. I bolt upright in bed, pushing the covers away from me and ignoring the smarting in my stomach that the erratic movement caused. “He’s asking for me?”

She gives me a small smile and nods her head gently. “Yes.”

“Wait, does that mean he remembers me?” My voice has risen a few octaves with the hope that’s surging through me. Her face falls and she looks like she’s about to cry.

“No honey, not yet.”

I feel my body sag as I release a long breath. “Oh.”

I excuse myself to the bathroom and splash water on my face; I’m hoping that it will quell the heat in my cheeks and dampen the overbearing desire I have to cry again. I look at the reflection staring back at me and almost don’t recognize it. My eyes are puffy and red behind my glasses, my face is blotchy from the huge volume of tears that have rained over my cheeks, and my hair is limp and lifeless. I feel like I should care, but in truth I don’t. I have zero energy and feel completely drained. I look down at my watch and realize that my mom’s been gone almost two and a half hours; she should be back soon.

I follow Moira down the hall to the elevators, and as we step in I notice she doesn’t press the button for the ICU. I rock back and forth on my toes as she glances over and catches my confusion. She tells me that Ethan was being transferred to a different ward before she came to my room. The elevator descends and then comes to a stop at floor eleven. “This is us,” she says as I follow her lead and stop by the ward’s entrance so we can sanitize our hands. There’s no buzzer for the door; I guess anyone can visit, unlike the protocol upstairs. We make our way through the doors and down the dingy mint green corridors until we reach the room at the very end. Ethan’s sitting on the bed with his cell in his hands, swiping the screen and eyeing it like it’s some foreign contraption.

“Blair’s here honey,” Moira announces as I walk in behind her and stand at the bottom of the bed feeling completely self-conscious. A couple of days ago I would have walked into the room, and thought nothing of taking a seat in Ethan’s lap. Now I feel like an intruder, like I’m an unwelcomed guest.

I hate it.

He throws the phone onto the bedside table and looks up at me with a small smile. My heart feels like it stutters in my chest as his dimples flash, and I want so desperately to run over and kiss him, to climb into his lap and cling to him. I want to tell him that I’ve never been so scared as I have been over these past few days, not knowing if he was okay. His wrist is bandaged, he has a small dressing on the side of his head, and the hair around it looks to have been shaved. There’s a yellowing bruise on his cheekbone and he’s sporting more scruff on his face than I’ve ever seen on him before, yet he’s still beautiful. I settle for a small wave and then drop my hand quickly. Who waves, honestly? God, I hate how awkward this feels. The room is filled with an uneasy silence, and Moira informs us that she’s leaving me to visit with Ethan while she goes and grabs another coffee. I don’t know if I’m relieved that she’s going or if I’m scared to be here by myself. Moira had mentioned that the doctors have asked that we let him try and recover his memories on his own, not push him or cause any unnecessary stress that could prolong his condition. I have absolutely no idea what I’m allowed to say to him.

“So,” he says nodding his head and I just stare blankly back at him.

“We’re dating?” I’m not sure if it’s a statement or a question so I just nod my head in agreement.

“Come sit down—you're making me nervous,” he huffs while throwing me a dazzling white smile and patting a spot on the bed next to him. I almost leap at the chance to be closer to him, but I calm myself and move around the bed slowly and sit facing him, Indian-style.

“I’ve got to admit, this feels pretty surreal and a little awkward,” he says looking straight into my eyes.

“Ha, it really does,” I say with a small smile. “It’s worse than that first day in the library.” He gives me a strange look and then I realize that he has no idea what I’m talking about. He can’t remember staring at my boobs in the library the first time we ever spoke because he can’t remember me. I shake my head in a gesture that’s meant to say,
never mind.

“I—”

“We—”

We both start to talk at the same time and then freeze.

“You first,” we say in unison and then laugh.

“Jinx,” he says and winks. It’s playful and familiar, and I want to burst into tears all over again that I can’t lean forward and just kiss him. He’s staring at me so intently that I don’t quite know what to do with myself. I fiddle with the hospital band around my wrist and wait for him to fill the silence.

“You’re beautiful,” he tells me. “How did I manage to con you into dating me?”

My shoulders relax a little, and I let the warmth of his complement wash over me. I sigh inwardly and revel in the first soothing and cheerful feelings I’ve had since he woke up not knowing me.

“I think you drugged me,” I reply. He laughs, and it makes my heart soar.

“So I guess that we’re pretty serious?” His face is lowered, and he looks up at me through his long dark eyelashes. Men shouldn’t be allowed to have lashes that perfect.

“My screen saver is of you, sleeping.” He smiles almost bashfully as he looks over at his phone.

“You have a picture of me sleeping?” I reply, surprised, and his cheeks color immediately. He stutters and tries to respond, but it’s obvious he has no clue what to say.

“Relax, it’s fine, I just didn’t realize you had a picture of me asleep. If you go through your photo stream there’ll be plenty of pictures of us goofing around.” I’m not sure why I just told him to do that. How awful must it be to see pictures of a time and a person that you can’t recollect? Nice going, Blair.

“I’ve already gone through them,” he answers with a hint of a cocky grin playing at his lips. “Look, I know this is weird but when I saw you earlier, even though I didn’t remember you, seeing you cry hurt.”

I look up at him a little startled by his admission and wait for him to continue. I can feel my heart slamming against my chest, and it’s taking all my energy to stop myself from crawling over the bed and taking hold of him.

“I have a feeling that we are in a serious relationship, but I don’t know if that’s the case or if we’re just having fun and messing around?” It comes out as a question, and I’m not sure what to respond. It feels so strange to have to tell him that we are in a committed relationship. I look into his clear blue eyes, and I can almost see the need for answers. Like it’s somehow palpable.

“We love each other.” The words are out before I can catch them, and I brace myself for his reaction. I’m not sure what I’m expecting, but when he brushes his hand over mine and says, “Good,” I feel like I can finally breathe properly for the first time in days.

GOOD? WHAT KIND of response is good? Holy shit, I think I’ve just told her I love her—kind of. I’ve never said that before. Or maybe I have. For all I know I tell her I love her all the time. I’m not sure I even know how to be in love with someone. I don’t think anyone except my mom has ever loved me before, but then again I wonder if she actually loves me at all? I mean, if she did she wouldn’t have stood by doing nothing all these years as I struggle in this existence, desperately trying to impress a man that seemingly hates my guts, and likes to remind me of this with his fists. I shake the thought from my mind as I look up from my hand sitting on top of Blair’s. The anxiety of thinking about loving her is causing it to tremble. She’s watching me. Can she tell what’s going on in my head right now? There’s a hint of a smile on those perfect plump lips and I can’t drag my eyes away from them. It’s weird; my mind doesn’t remember her, yet I’m pretty sure my body does. I didn’t mean to take her hand; it was a subconscious decision. I’m not a hand holder but there’s no way I’m pulling away first. This feels too good, and it’s threatening to make her smile.

“You’re starting to freak me out.”

Wait, what? I blink a few times trying to refocus my thoughts.

“Earth to Ethan,” she laughs. The sound makes my body hum, and every single nerve is aware of her proximity and it’s making me hard. I feel myself twitch before remembering that I’m wearing cotton pajama pants.

Shit.