“Did I ever paint the picture for you?” I ask.
She pulls out her phone and taps around on it before showing me the picture. It brings tears to my eyes because I know how much she missed her dad.
“I love this painting,” she says. “But I also hate it because it was the beginning of the end for us.”
“How do you mean?”
“You discovered you had a knack for painting people’s memories. Especially when you went on location to the spot of the memory. I was so proud of the painting, I showed it to everyone. I put pictures of it online. I showed it to gallery managers. I pimped you like there was no tomorrow.”
I look up at her, and everything that people have told me about my career starts to make sense. I try to hold back the tears. “So you asked me to paint this and then I went and became some kind of diva artist who would leave her best friend at the first sight of fame.”
She smiles at me sadly. “It all happened so fast. I think you just got caught up in the glitz and glamour.”
“I’m such a bitch,” I say. “Can you ever forgive me?”
Lydia studies me. “You’re not a bitch. Not anymore. You’re different,” she says.
I laugh. “You’re different, too. What happened to us?”
“Well, you got a good knock on the head and I found a man to knock sense into me.”
“You look happy,” I tell her.
“I am.” She grabs my hand and puts it on her belly. “Feel.”
I rest my hand on her stomach as her baby kicks and squirms. Then I lean over and talk to her baby bump. “I hope you realize what a great mom you’re getting. I hope she’ll let me be a part of your life because she’s one amazing woman.”
I look up at Lydia and she smiles. “I think that can be arranged.”
“Really?” I say hopefully.
She nods. “Dan and I don’t have any sisters, and this little one needs an aunt.”
More tears prickle my eyes as I pull her in for a hug. And as we embrace, I can feel our friendship returning almost as if the past three years never happened. Which they didn’t—for me, at least.
I escort Lydia to the lobby when she leaves.
“Please thank your friend for bugging the hell out of me,” she says.
“I will.”
As Lydia gives me a parting hug, I wonder if Denver knows just how much he’s changed my life.
“Your mail, Ms. Francis,” a woman says after Lydia leaves.
“Thank you, uh … I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name.”
She hands me a stack of letters. “You never knew it,” she says. “It’s Carrie. I work the front desk. I heard about what happened to you. I’m sorry.”
“I’ve lived here for years and never bothered to learn your name?” I ask, appalled at myself.
She shrugs.
“I’m the one who’s sorry, Carrie. And please call me Sara.”
She smiles. “Okay, Sara. Have a nice day.”
“You too, Carrie.”
I ride the elevator back up, wondering why Oliver would ever waste his time with me, knowing what a terrible person I was. He doesn’t seem to be a terrible person. You’d think that terrible people would attract each other. Then again, he told me I was different around him. I must have felt safe enough with him to pull down the façade. I must have felt with him back then the way I do with Denver now.
And I close my eyes for the rest of the ride up, knowing that I really do owe it to Oliver to try to make things work between us.
I decide to call out for groceries. I’ve learned that Oliver’s favorite meal is chicken parmesan. And although I have no idea how to make it, and it’s a struggle to read the recipe, like everything else in my life these days, I figure I need to learn.
Chapter Twenty-four
The outpatient therapy room is like a cross between a gym and a kindergarten classroom. There are exercise machines, mats, pulleys, and bars, but there are also books, puzzles, Play-Doh, and shape-sorting containers.
I’ve stopped complaining when Lisa, the cognitive therapist, asks me to perform simple tasks like putting various shapes into their proper slots. I get why I have to do it now and I can see the progress for myself. It’s gotten much easier over the past week. I didn’t realize I was having to think about it before. I didn’t get that people should just pick up a shape and know where it goes without having to analyze it. And since she always makes me do it with my left hand, it’s like two therapies in one.
Denver looks over my shoulder as Lisa has me stacking pennies, playing dominoes, doing ‘easy’ Sudoku, and putting together jigsaw puzzles.
“Now, I’d like you to start with the number twenty-one,” Lisa says. “I want you to add three to it three times and then take away seven from the last number.”
It seems easy enough, but I find myself struggling to do it as quickly as I’d like.
“That’s an interesting mental exercise,” Denver says.
Lisa nods. “It helps with processing and organizing information because the brain must hold several details at once.”
It’s amazing the things the therapists notice that others don’t. That I don’t. The physical things, like my left side not working as well as my right, are obvious. But when it comes to processing information, you don’t know what you don’t know.
It’s a lot of work coming to the rehab facility every day. But I know it’s necessary. And it doesn’t seem as much like work on the days Denver is here with me.
After my time with Lisa, Donovan puts me through my paces working my left leg harder than he ever has. When he’s done with me and I’m cooling down on the foot bike, Denver pulls up a chair. “I have a surprise for you if you can come back to my place after therapy today.”
I find it hard not to smile. I love that after a few weeks of outpatient therapy, he still likes to come and keep me company sometimes.
I raise my eyebrows. “Your place? Just what kind of surprise are we talking about?”
He laughs. It’s a boisterous, friendly laugh. But the glance we shared for a millisecond before that is not lost on me. Did he have the same fleeting thought that I did?
“Do you have the time?” he asks.
“I’ve got nothing but.”
“I wasn’t sure if you had plans with Oliver.”
I shake my head and look at the ground. “He’s out of town until Saturday.”
Denver studies me. “Sara, you looked upset just now when you said that.”
“I did?”
“You two are making progress, aren’t you?”
I shrug. What am I supposed to say? That over the past week, I’ve become much more comfortable at home? That Oliver has been so kind and patient, giving me the time and space I need to accept my circumstances? That every night before bed, he kisses me and I’ve gotten more used to those kisses? That I think I do miss him now that he’s gone?
But I don’t say any of it, because even though I know that’s what everyone wants for me, I can’t help feeling guilty. And I’m just not sure why.
“So, how’s Nora? Are you two going out much?”
He sucks his cheek into his mouth, making a popping noise. “We go out some. Caught a movie the other night and she cooked dinner for me on Sunday.”
I smile. I smile even though I don’t feel like smiling. Because although I have no right to be, I’m jealous over the thought of Nora cooking him dinner. At the thought of him being at her apartment. At the thought of them being intimate.
The timer goes off on the foot bike, ending my exercise.
“You did good this morning, Sara,” Donovan says. “Go enjoy your lunch and then you can go see George.”
George is my speech therapist. He’s trying to get me back to reading and comprehending normally.
When we’re in the courtyard eating lunch, Denver asks if I want to read some more of the book we’ve been reading.
I put down my slice of pizza and wipe my mouth. “No. I’ve g
ot some mail to go through, and with Ollie gone, I thought maybe you could help.”
Denver looks surprised. “Ollie? I’ve never heard you refer to him by his nickname. I know you try to use it when he’s around, but typically when you speak of him, you use his full name.” He regards me thoughtfully. “I’m glad to see you getting back to normal.”
“I’m trying,” I say, pulling out the stack of mail. “Most of these are medical bills. They’ve started piling up.”
“I’ll bet. I hope you have good insurance.”
“Oliver says I do.”
I’m not sure why I consciously chose to call Oliver by his real name just now. But it doesn’t go unnoticed by Denver.
I open some of the bills and pass them to him. “If you can read them for me and make sure there aren’t any surprises. I can pretty much understand them, but I want to make sure I’m not missing anything.”
“Of course,” he says, paging through the papers.
I open something from a brokerage firm while he’s looking those over. My eyes bug out when I see the numbers on the page. “Oh, my God.”
“What is it?” Denver asks.
“Uh … I guess it’s my portfolio statement.” I stare at it in disbelief. “I mean, I knew I had money. My parents left me well off, but this …”
I show him the bottom line and he blinks several times as he looks at it.
“Holy shit, Sara. I guess your investments must have done well for you over the past three years. That or you sold a crapload of paintings.” He pats the stack of bills. “Oliver was right, you don’t need to worry about being able to pay these.”
I shake my head as I try to let reality sink in. “I had nowhere near that amount before.”
“Well, I guess in addition to being a prolific artist, you must be a savvy business woman.” He peruses the pages of my statement then looks up at me. “Your name is the only one I see here. You and Oliver have separate accounts?”
“We do, but he said we were going to open a joint one after the engagement. We just never got around to it. I think he’s working on doing that now.”
Denver wrinkles his brow. “Maybe you want to slow down on that, Sara. Things seem to be going well for you right now. I’m not sure you should go making any big changes.”
I shrug. “Maybe.” Then I pull out the Stephen King novel we’ve been reading together. “How about we take turns reading pages until my next appointment?”
He smiles and grabs the book from me. “As long as it’s not one of Baylor’s books.”
We share a look, and it’s more than evident we both remember exactly what happened when he read Baylor’s book to me. Neither one of us pulls our eyes away. Neither one of us blinks. It’s like we’re lost back in that moment. A moment that never should have happened, yet it was one of the most perfect moments I can remember.
I avert my eyes, wondering if I shared any such moments with Ollie over the past year. The first touch. The first kiss. The heated moment when you just know you want to be with someone.
My first kiss with Oliver was awkward and forced and something people were encouraging me to do. After that, they became easier, more pleasant. Comfortable, even. But they aren’t what I’d call passionate. Heated. Emotional. They aren’t like the perfect kiss Denver and I shared.
Denver reads to me, but I don’t hear the story. I get lost in his words. The low timbre of his voice and the soothing way about his delivery.
“Sara?”
I snap out of it. “Uh, what?”
He hands me the book. “Your turn.”
I read the words carefully and meticulously, the way the therapist taught me. I stumble over a few. It must be difficult for Denver to listen to me read this way, but he doesn’t say a thing. He never does. He just looks content as if he’s enjoying the story.
“Time’s up,” he says fifteen minutes later. He picks up the remains of our lunch and throws them in the nearest trashcan. “I have to head out, but I’ll pick you up at three.”
I narrow my brow at him, wondering where he’s going.
He smiles. “All part of the surprise.”
~ ~ ~
“Don’t be mad,” he says as he walks me up to the door of his townhouse.
“Why would I be mad?”
“Because you didn’t ask for this. I took a chance. If you don’t want it, it’s okay. I don’t want you to feel obligated.”
He looks nervous.
“Denver, just show me the surprise already. You’ve had me guessing all day long.”
He opens the door, letting us in. It’s quiet inside. I’m not sure what I expected—some kind of surprise party, maybe? Except that I don’t know very many people.
But he said something about me not feeling obligated. I’m utterly intrigued.
“Have a seat,” he says, motioning to the couch. “I’ll be right back.”
While he’s gone, I look around. I knew he lived at his sister’s place, but I’ve never been here before. It’s nice. Much different from my loft. More casual and homey. I like it. I wonder if Oliver would ever be amenable to moving out of our place into somewhere more inviting like this.
My eyes stop when they fall on the painting of his family in the blizzard. He’s hung it in the sitting room where Aspen keeps her piano. I smile knowing he put it in such a prominent place. He’s told me how passionate his sister is about the piano, and I wonder if she looks up at the painting while she plays and remembers their parents.
I like to think he looks at it and remembers, too. Remembers them. Remembers me.
I hear a noise before Denver comes back into the room. It sounds like the meow of a kitten, and I look around to find his cat. He never said anything about having one.
Then Denver comes down the stairs holding the cutest little white and yellow furball. I walk over to him as he holds the kitten carefully, like the way you might hold a new baby. “Oh, my God—you have a kitten.”
“No. You have a kitten,” he says. He looks at me hesitantly. “That is if you want him.”
“You bought me a kitten?” I say with a slack jaw.
“You seemed so lonely after you left the rehab center and moved back home. I know you have your painting to keep you busy, but since you aren’t traveling now and Oliver is gone all day long, I thought this little guy might keep you company.”
I take the tiny precious ball of fur out of his hands and pull it to my heart. “Oh, Denver, I love him.”
He looks relieved. “Thank God. I know he’s no replacement for Freckles, but I thought—”
“You know about Freckles?”
I nod. “Lydia told me.”
I sit down and the kitten explores my lap before curling up in the crook of my arm. My eyes begin to tear up. I swallow the lump in my throat.
I look over at Denver. “How do you always know the perfect gifts to give me?”
He smiles brightly. “I’m glad you think so.” He sits down next to me and pets the kitten. “So, what are you going to name him? Freckles, Jr.?”
I laugh. “No. He deserves his own name.”
Denver scrunches his brows in thought. “Cotton? He kind of looks like a big cotton ball. Or maybe Puff? Oh, how about Fluffy?”
I hold the kitten up and stare at him. I shake my head. “No, those won’t do. His name is Kokomo.”
The corners of his mouth turn up. “Kokomo,” he says. “After your mom’s favorite song.”
I close my eyes, wondering how this man gets me so much. The man who sat day after day by the bed of a comatose woman, learning about her from the stories of others.
He reaches over to pet Kokomo in my lap. I put my hand on his and stare into his eyes. “Thank you, Denver.”
His eyes burn into mine and I swear a million unspoken words pass between us. Intense words. Passionate words. Confusing words.
Confusing because I’m with Oliver and he’s with Nora.
Confusing because I’m torn between needing to remember my
past and wanting to start a new future.
Confusing because his words tell me one thing and his eyes, another.
But that doesn’t stop me from wanting this moment to freeze in time. And that doesn’t stop him from slowly leaning closer to me. My eyes flicker to his mouth. My tongue darts out to wet my lips. My heart starts thundering in my chest.
Kokomo meows, breaking apart our moment. Denver jumps up off the couch and runs his hands through his hair.
“I’ll just go get his stuff,” he says, leaving the room. “Then I’ll take you guys home.”
And as I watch him walk up the stairs, I wonder—just for a moment—what life would be like if I were here in this townhouse with Denver. With Kokomo. Just the three of us.
But then my phone rings. I look at it and see Ollie’s face on the screen.
“Hello?”
“Miss me, luv?”
I look at the empty stairs and then down at my new kitten. Kokomo is staring up at me like he’s waiting for my answer. I give him a pat on the head as I think about the past week and all the progress Oliver and I have made.
And I nod. “Actually, I do.”
Chapter Twenty-five
For the third time in the past six weeks, I watch Joelle’s twins, Ashley and Zoë, play on the floor of my loft with the new toys I bought them, and I remember Oliver telling me I hate kids. When I was twenty-one, I never paid much attention to them, but what twenty-one-year-old does? Lydia and I had better things to do than play with kids and plan families.
“They are so precious,” I say to Joelle when Zoë gives her sister a hug.
Joelle laughs. “They’re such a handful, sometimes I have to stop and remind myself of that.”
I reach up and run my finger along the scar on my scalp. “Try not to forget,” I tell her. “Because you just never know what could happen.”
She looks at me sympathetically. “I’m so sorry we drifted apart, Sara.”
I shake my head. “You have nothing to feel sorry for. It was all my fault. But everything has changed now, and I plan on being in your lives. Next time, maybe I can come to your house. I’m sure you’re tired of lugging your kids and all their gear into the city.”
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