by Bromberg, K.
“That’s normal. Sometimes—”
“Fireworks on pit row,” he cuts the doctor off. “Waking up overdressed.” Colton’s eyes lift and find mine with the words that let me know he remembers me, remembers my memorable pre-race wake-up call. A slight smile curls up one corner of his mouth looking so out of place against the pallid tone of his usually bronze skin.
And if he didn’t own my heart already—if he hadn’t tattooed every single inch of it with his unmistakable stamp—he just did.
I can’t help the laugh that bubbles up and spills over. I can’t stop my feet from moving and stepping up to the edge of the bed as his words fade and his eyes track my movement. My grin widens, my tears fall faster, and my heart swells as I feel relief for the first time in days. I reach out and squeeze his hand resting on the mattress beside him.
“Hi.” It sounds stupid, but it’s the first and only word I can manage, my throat clogged with emotion.
“Hi,” he whispers, that lopsided grin I love ghosting his mouth.
We just stare at each other for a beat, eyes saying so much and yet lips speaking nothing. I lace my fingers with his and I see the alarm trigger in his eyes again when he tries to respond but his hand doesn’t.
“It’s okay,” I soothe, unable to resist. I reach my other hand out and cup the side of his face, welcoming the feeling of the muscle in his jaw ticking beneath my palm. “You’ve gotta give it some time to heal.”
Emotions dance at a lightning pace in the green of his eyes as he tries to comprehend everything. And in this moment the ache in my chest transforms from the fear of the unknown to sympathy over watching the man I love struggle with the knowledge that his usually virile, responsive body is anything but.
“Rylee’s right,” Dr. Irons says, breaking the connection between us. “You need to give it some time. What else do you remember, Colton? You woke up underdressed and knocked four times,” he prompts, his face masking the mystification he must feel over not understanding the meaning behind these statements. “Then what?”
“No,” Colton says, wincing when he shakes his head instinctively. “First knocking and then waking up.”
My eyes snap up to Beckett’s because of all people he’ll understand that this is not the order in which the events happened. Dr. Irons notes the startled look on my face and shakes his head for me to remain quiet.
“Not a problem. What else do you remember about the day regardless of the order?” Colton gives him a strange look and the doctor continues. “Sometimes when your brain has been traumatized like yours has, memories have a way of shifting and changing. For some, the sequence of events may be off but they’ll still be there. For others there are some memories that are completely clear and others that are lost. I have some patients who remember the day of their trauma perfectly fine but have a void of time during other times or events that have happened. Every patient is unique.”
“For how long do these voids usually last?” Andy speaks up from the side of the bed.
“Well, sometimes for a little while and sometimes forever … but the good thing is that Colton seems to have memories of the day of the crash. So it would seem that a small chunk of time has been lost for him. As days pass, he may realize he doesn’t remember other things … because really, until he is reminded of something, he doesn’t even know he’s missing it.” Dr. Irons looks around the room at all of us and shrugs. “At this time it wouldn’t seem far off to reason that you’ll regain all of it, Colton, but I advise caution because the brain is a tricky thing sometimes. In fact—”
“The national anthem,” Colton says, relief flooding his voice at reclaiming one more memory from the darkness within. I smile at him in encouragement as he clears his throat. “I … I can’t …” Frustration emanates off of him in waves as he tries to remember. “What happened?” He blows out a breath and looks around at everyone in the room before scrubbing his left hand over his face. “You were all there. What else happened?”
“Don’t force it, sweetie.” It’s Dorothea speaking. “Right, Dr. Irons?”
We all look over at Dr. Irons, who nods his head in agreement, but when we look back at Colton, he’s fallen asleep.
We all breathe in a collective gasp. All fearing he’s slipped back into a coma. All our minds racing into overdrive. Dr. Irons puts the brakes on our panic when he says, “This is normal. He’s going to be exhausted the first couple of times he wakes up.”
Shoulders relax, sighs are exhaled, and relief is restored, but our concern never completely abates.
“We know he seems to be—that his brain seems to be—functioning well so far,” Quinlan says as she steps up to the bed. “What can we expect now?”
Dr. Irons watches Colton for a beat before he continues, meeting all of our eyes. “Well, each person is different but I can tell you that the longer it takes Colton to remember, the more frustrated he may become. Sometimes in patients their disposition changes—sometimes they have a temper or are more mellow—and sometimes it doesn’t at all. At this point it’s still a waiting game to see how all of this has affected him long term.”
“Should those of us that were there fill in the blanks for him of what he can’t remember?” Becks asks.
“Of course you can,” he says, “but I can’t guarantee how he’ll respond to it.”
I resume my seat bedside as Dorothea comes over to kiss me goodbye on the cheek before leaning over to press her lips to Colton’s forehead. “We’re just heading to the hotel to get some rest. We’ll be back in the morning. Don’t you dare give up.” She steps back and stares at him for a beat more before smiling softly at me and leaving to join Andy and Quinlan in the hall.
I sigh out loud as Beckett gathers the remaining trash from our late night dinner we’d had while impatiently waiting for Colton to wake. I glance over from my book that I’m really not paying attention to and watch Becks’ methodical movements. I can see the toll the past week has taken on him in the bruises beneath his eyes and the scruff on his usually clean-shaven face. He seems lost.
“How you doing?” I ask the question softly, but I know he can hear me because his body stops momentarily before he puts the last bit in the trash can and shoves it down.
He turns and leans his hip against a counter behind him and just shrugs as our eyes meet. “You know,” he drawls out in his slow, resonating tone that I’ve come to love. “In the sixteen years we’ve known each other, this is the longest we’ve ever gone without talking.” He shrugs again and stares out the window for a moment at the media trucks in the parking lot. “He may be a demanding smart-ass, but I miss him. Call me a pussy, but I kinda like the guy.”
I can’t help the smile that spreads on my lips. “Me too,” I murmur. “Me too.”
Becks walks over to me and presses a kiss to the top of my head. “I’m going to head back to the hotel. I’ve gotta take a shower, check in with my brother, and then I’ll be back, okay?”
A growing adoration for Becks blooms within—the ever true best friend. “Why don’t you stay there tonight and get a good night’s sleep? In a real bed instead of the crappy chairs in the waiting room.”
He chuckles derisively and shakes his head at me. “Pot calling the kettle black, huh?”
“I know, but I just can’t … and besides, I’ve been sleeping in these crappy chairs in here.” I pat the seat of the one I’m sitting on. “At least this has more padding than those out there.” I angle my head and watch him mull it over. “I promise to call if he wakes up.”
He exhales loudly and gives me a reluctant look. “Okay … but you’ll call?”
“Of course.”
I watch Becks leave and welcome the unique silence of the hospital room. I sit and watch Colton, feeling truly blessed indeed that he’s here and whole in front of me—that he didn’t forget me—when it could be so much worse. I send a silent prayer up as time passes, knowing I have to start following through with the various barters I made to the great beyond to
get Colton to come back to me.
I field a couple of texts from Haddie, check in on the boys and see how Ricky’s math test went today, before texting Becks good night and telling him Colton’s still out.
The early morning hours approach and I can’t resist anymore. I slip off my shoes, pull the clip out of my hair, and position myself in the only place in the world I want to be.
At Colton’s side.
THE MORNING LIGHT BURNS THROUGH my closed eyelids as I try to rouse myself from the deepest sleep I’ve had in over six days. Instead I just burrow in deeper to the warmth beside me. I feel fingers brush across my cheek and I’m instantly alert, my body jolting with awareness.
“Morning.” His voice is a whispered murmur against the top of my head. My heart floods with an array of emotions but what I feel more than anything is complete.
Whole again.
I start to move so I can look into his eyes. “No doctors yet. I just need this. Need you. No one else, okay?” he asks.
Seriously? Is the sky blue? If I could, I’d whisk him out of this sterile prison and keep him all to myself for a while. Forever or more if he’d let me. But rather than letting the flippant comment roll off my tongue, I just make a satisfied moan and tighten my arms around him. I close my eyes and just absorb everything about this moment. I so desperately wish we were somewhere else, anywhere else, so I could lie with him skin to skin, connect with him in that indescribable way. Feel like I am doing something to help heal his broken memory and damaged soul.
We lie there in silence, my hand over his heart and the fingers of his left hand lazily drawing lines up and down my forearm. There are so many questions I want to ask. So many things that run through my head, but the only one that I manage to say is, “How are you feeling?”
The momentary pause in his movement is so subtle I almost don’t catch it, but I do. And it’s enough to tell me that something’s wrong besides the obvious.
“This is nice.” It’s all he says and that further solidifies my hunch. I give him a bit of time to gather his thoughts and work out what he wants to say because after the past few weeks, I’ve learned so many things, least of which is my inability to listen when it matters the most.
And right now it matters.
So I sit in silence as my mind wars with the possibilities.
“I’ve been awake for a few hours,” he starts. “Listening to you breathe. Trying to make my right hand fucking work. Trying to wrap my head around what happened. What I can’t remember. It’s there. I can sense it but I can’t make it come to the forefront …” he trails off.
“What do you remember?” I ask.
I desperately want to turn, to look into his eyes and read the fear and frustration that is most likely marring them, but I don’t. I give him the space to admit that he’s not one hundred percent. To balance that inherent male need to be as strong as possible, to show no weakness.
“That’s just it,” he sighs. “I remember bits and pieces. Nothing flows though, except you were there in most of them. Can you tell me what happened? How the day went so I can try to fill in what’s missing?”
“Mmm-hmm.” I nod my head gently, smiling at the memory of how our morning started.
“I remember waking up to the best sight ever—you naked, on top of me.” He sighs in appreciation that causes parts within me that have been ignored over the past week to stir to life. I don’t even fight the smile that spreads across my lips when I feel his growing arousal beneath the sheet next to me. Glad I’m not the only one affected by the memory.
“Becks came in without knocking and I was pissed at him for that. He left and I do believe your jeans were on the floor and your back was up against the wall in a matter of seconds after the door was shut.” We fall silent for a moment, that undeniable charge crackling between us. “Sweet Christ what I wouldn’t give to be doing that right now.”
I start laughing and this time when I shift myself to sit up and look at him, he allows me. I turn to face him and can’t help the chills that blanket my skin when I lock eyes with his. “Now I don’t think Dr. Irons would approve of that,” I tease, silently sighing with relief that we feel like we are right back where we left off before the accident. Playful, needing, and each other’s complement. I can’t stop my hand from reaching out and lingering on his cheek. I hate the thought of not being in contact with him.
“Well,” he says, “I’ll make sure that’s the first thing I ask Dr. Irons when I see him.”
“The first thing?” I ask and swallow around my heart that’s just somersaulted into my throat when he turns his face and presses a kiss into the palm of my hand. The simple action knotting the bow on the ribbon already tied around my heart.
“A man has to have his priorities.” He smirks. “If one head’s fucked up, at least the other one can be used to its maximum potential.” He starts to laugh and winces, bringing his left hand up to hold his head.
Alarm shoots through me and I immediately reach out to push the call button, but his hand reaches out and stops me. And it takes a second for me to register that it’s his right hand he’s just used. I think Colton realizes it at the same time.
He works a swallow down his throat, his eyes shifting to watch his hand as he releases my arm. I follow his gaze to see his fingers tremor violently as he unsuccessfully tries to make a fist. I notice a sheen of sweat appear on his forehead below the bandage as he wills his fingers to tighten. When I can’t bear to watch him struggle any more, I reach out and grab his hand in mine and start massaging it, willing it to move myself.
“It’s a start,” I reassure him. “Baby steps, okay?” All I want to do is wrap him in my arms and take away all of his pain and frustration, but he seems so fragile that I fear touching him, despite how much it would lessen the lingering unease that tiptoes in my head. My usual optimism has been put through the ringer these past few weeks, and I just can’t seem to shake the feeling that this isn’t the worst of it. That something else is lurking on the horizon waiting to knock us down again.
“What else do you remember?” I prompt, wanting to get his mind off of his hand.
He gives me his recollections of the day, little pieces are missing here and there. The details aren’t too major but I do notice that the closer he gets to the start of the race, the bigger the voids are. And each piece of the puzzle seems to get harder and harder to recall, as if he has to grab each memory and physically pull it from its vault.
Giving him a moment to rest, I return from the in-suite bathroom to put away the mouthwash he’d requested. I find Colton looking out the window, shaking his head at the media circus below. “I remember being in the trailer. The knock on the door.” His eyes angle over to me, salacious thoughts dancing within his glints of green as I return to my seat on the bed beside him. “A certain checkered flag I never got to claim.” He purses his lips and just stares at me.
And resistance is futile.
It always is when it comes to my willpower and Colton.
I lean in, doing what I’ve wanted to do desperately. Giving into the need to feel that connection with him—to feed my one and only addiction—and brush my lips against his. I know it’s ridiculous that I’m nervous about hurting him. That somehow the lascivious thoughts behind our innocent brush of our lips are going to cause pain to his healing head.
But the minute our lips touch—the minute the soft sigh escapes his mouth and weaves its way into my soul—I find it hard to think clearly. I withdraw a fraction, needing to make sure he’s okay when all I want to do is devour the apple tempting me.
But I don’t have to because Colton hands it to me on a silver platter when he brings his left hand to the nape of my neck and draws my mouth back down to his again. Lips part, tongues meld, and recognition renews as we sink into each other in a reverent kiss. We’re in no hurry to do anything other than enjoy our irrefutable connection. The annoying beep of the monitors is overtaken by the soft sighs and satisfied murmurs signaling th
e affection between us.
I am so lost in him, to him—when I feared I might never taste him again—all I can think about now is how will I ever get enough of him?
I feel the tightening of his lips as he grimaces in pain and guilt immediately lances through me. I’m pushing him too hard, too fast to soothe my own selfish need for reassurance. I try to pull away but his hand holds my head firm as he rests his forehead against mine, noses touching, breaths feathering over each other’s lips.
“Just give me a sec,” he murmurs against my lips. I just nod my head slightly against his because I’ll give him a lifetime if he asks.
“These headaches come on so quick it feels like a sledgehammer hits me,” he says after a moment.
Concern douses the flames of lust instantly. “Let me get the doctor.”
“No,” he says, pounding his left hand against the bed making the rails shake. “This place brings me back to being eight.” And the argument that was about to roll off the tip of my tongue dies. “Everyone looking at me with worried eyes and no one giving me answers … except this time I’m the one who can’t give answers.”
He laughs softly and I can feel his body stiffen again with the pain. “Colton …”
“Uh-uh. Not yet,” he says again, stubbornly, as he rubs his thumb back and forth across the bare nape of my neck trying to soothe me when it should be the other way around. “I remember my interview with ESPN. Eating my Snickers bar.” He gets a rather odd look on his face and averts his eyes momentarily. “Kissing you on pit row and then nothing for a bit,” he says, trying to distract me from wanting to get the doctor.
“The drivers’ meeting.” I fill in. “Becks was with you then.”
“Why would I remember eating a candy bar but not the meeting?”
And I draw the connection in my own mind with the missing information that Andy had filled in. Because the traditional good luck Snickers bar is tied to his past—the first chance encounter he had with hope in his life. “I don’t know. I’m sure it will all come back to you. I don’t think—”