“Easton Royal, eh?” He scratches his head with a pen while the light bulb turns on. “What is it?”

“I’m wondering about Hartley Wright. My sister said that you came and talked with them about her? I was sitting with my brother. I wondered if you could repeat it. Hartley’s my girlfriend and I want to make sure I don’t screw up.” I smile—or try to, anyway.

“Your girlfriend, eh?” He sighs and tucks the pen in his pocket. “That’s tough. When your girlfriend fell, she struck the front of her head the hardest and that knocked around her frontal lobe. There’s no obvious damage from the CT scan, but we can’t see everything.” He shrugs. “What we can ascertain from the patient is memory loss, mostly autobiographical ones—which means she can’t remember actual events such as how you asked her out for prom, your first kiss, that sort of thing. She may not even recall that the two of you are dating. We don’t know how far back her memory loss goes, but…” He pauses as if there’s worse news than the stuff he’s already punched me in the face with.

I stiffen my watery spine. “But what?”

“But yesterday she said she was fourteen, so it looks like about three years or so of memory loss. Have the two of been dating since then?”

Numb, I shake my head. Seb won’t wake up and Hartley lost her memories. I can’t believe this shit.

“Tough luck, son. She might regain her memories. It’s early yet, so my recommendation is that you wait a bit before you start telling her about all the great times you had. And if you had some bad moments, well, this memory loss is a good thing. I wish my first wife suffered it. I might have ended up better after the divorce.” He winks and jabs me in the shoulder. “Any other questions?”

“Is she awake?”

“She was when I checked on her a few hours ago. You can go see for yourself. Put in a good word for me with your dad, will you?” Doc says way too cheerily and walks off.

I drop my head to my chest and start counting backwards from a thousand so I don’t chase after him and bash his head against the tile.

Beating up the doctor isn’t going to bring Hartley’s memories back sooner, says my better half.

No, but I’ll feel better, I retort.

I pinch the bridge of my nose in frustration. All the time I’m spending here in this tomb-like quiet with nothing but hushed voices and mechanical beeps and clicking machines is driving me crazy. I want to leave, yet the moment I step outside I grow so anxious I want to peel my skin off. Nope. I’ve got to stay here—close to Seb and Hartley.

I make my way to Hartley’s room, knocking lightly as I open the door.

“Mom?” Hartley’s voice calls out weakly.

“Just me, babe.” I reply, rounding the set of sofas and chairs separating the hospital bed from the rest of the suite. My gut clenches again at the sight of her looking small and vulnerable under the white sheets. I crouch down next to the bed and pick up her hand, careful not to dislodge the monitor on her finger.

“Um...” She stares at our connected fingers and then up at my face.

The blankness there rocks me. She has no clue who I am. The doctor warned me, but I wasn’t prepared. What he’d said about her loss of memories hadn’t sunk in. It had floated on the surface of my brain like some random factoid that I knew but didn’t absorb, because it wasn’t important. Had it been because I was so arrogant to believe that she’d remember me regardless? No, it’s because I hadn’t wanted to accept the truth. But now that it’s clocked me in the face, I can’t ignore it.

“It’s me, Hart. Easton.”

Her eyes widen and recognition creeps in. Wait, she does know me. I let out a long exhale. I can breathe finally. Somehow just being in her presence calms me down.

“Fuck, Hart, I’m so glad you’re okay.”

“You keep calling me Hart.” She’s staring at me. “Is that my nickname?”

I pause for a second, because I realize I’ve never heard anyone else call her that, and I didn’t start doing it myself until after the accident. I guess…well, I guess it makes me feel closer to her to call her that, like she’s more than just Hartley to me. She’s Hart, and she’s my heart.

Christ. That’s the cheesiest thing I’ve ever thought in my life. No way am I going to say that to her.

So I shrug and say, “It’s my nickname for you. Not sure about anybody else.” Then I lace my fingers through hers, lifting them both to my lips. Her fingertips are pink, like mine. She must be feeling healthier. A couple of her nails are shorter than the rest. She must’ve broken them in the accident. I run the stubby ones across my bottom lip. “These past two days have been a nightmare, babe. It could’ve been worse, though. That’s what I keep telling myself. It could’ve been so fucking worse. So how do you feel?”

There’s a prolonged silence and then the only fingers against my mouth are my own. I glance up to see her wide eyes staring at me with genuine alarm tinged with…is that fear?

“Hartley?” I ask uncertainly.

“Easton...Royal?” she says as if she’s never said my name out loud before.

Fuck. Fuck.

She really doesn’t remember me.

Her pink skin turns white enough to match the sheets on her bed. “I’m going to be sick,” she croaks, and starts to gag.