“But the possibility of not making it?”
“Yes, smartypants. That’s why I did it.”
He doesn’t acknowledge my nickname, not that I expected him to. “And you broke your arm?”
I nod. “Nearly cracked my head on the lip of the pool. Flinging my arm out gave me the winning inch.”
After a small pause, he asks, “Have you had any other close calls?”
“You know I have,” I say, eyeing him. “I’m sure Jameson told you.”
“I know about the cliff-diving in San Diego when you were pulled into the rocks by rip currents, and I know about the base jump into the Cave of Swallows when your chute malfunctioned.”
I smile grimly, nodding at him to continue.
“I know you’ve bungee jumped, skydived, parasailed, rock climbed, have earned a number of speeding tickets. How many car accidents?”
“Just the one that landed me here.” I lean forward. “Which was an accident, by the way. My flip-flop got caught under the brake pedal. Criminally stupid, but not suicidal.”
“What about the other accident?”
I frown. “There was no other accident.”
Chastain opens a drawer in his desk and pulls out a thick file. Mine. He flips through it until he finds a single sheet of paper.
“March 3, 2016. You were involved in a ten-car pileup on the 405 after a semi lost control and jackknifed.”
I shake my head. “Wrong patient, boss. That wasn’t me.”
He reaches into the file and pulls out an eight-by-ten photograph, holding it up for me to see. I stare at it uncomprehendingly—it’s my face, bruised and bandaged. I’m wearing a neck brace and a hospital gown.
I have zero recollection of it. Jerking to my feet, I cross the room and snatch the picture from his hand.
“You don’t remember that photo being taken?”
My stomach clenches and a chill radiates down my spine. “No. No.” I force myself to look up, to focus on his face. “Where did you get this? Are you sure it’s not from my accident last month?”
“It’s time stamped,” he answers softly.
In the bottom corner of the photograph is printed the date. 03.03.16. But it doesn’t make sense. It’s impossible. In March of 2016, I was…
I was…
I sway on my feet. Blood rushes in my ears, drowning out ambient noise. Cold sweat breaks out all over my body.
“I don’t feel so good, Doc,” I whisper.
Chastain jumps from his chair and grabs me just as my knees buckle. He lowers me to the floor, then brushes the hair from my face.
“Amelia? You need to trust me, and if you can’t trust me, trust Jameson. You’re here because of the accident in March two years ago.”
“You’re lying,” I say through harsh breaths. “A trick. I’m dreaming.”
“Breathe. Just breathe.”
With his arm under my knees, he lifts me onto his lap and holds me tightly. Fingers stroke my hair and down my back. I start shaking and can’t stop.
“Did I die?” I ask shrilly. “Is this… after? You’re the devil?”
He exhales sharply. “You didn’t die, though sometimes I do feel like the devil where you’re concerned. We’ll figure this out, Amelia. Together. I promise.”
I tuck my face into his chest, clinging to him like he’s the last rock in the goddamn ocean. “I don’t believe you.”
“Then I’ll have to believe enough for both of us.”
“I’m broken,” I whisper.
His lips graze the top of my head. “Everyone’s broken. Some of us are just better at gluing the pieces back together.”
I laugh, still shaking. Teeth chattering. Unhinged.
“Well, at least I don’t want to fuck you anymore.”
“Oh, and why’s that?”
I lift my head, finding his electric eyes. “I don’t fuck people I like, much less people I trust.”
He grins like I just told him he won the lottery. “You trust me.”
I scowl. “I’ve never had a man this excited to be off my sex radar. I think I’m insulted. Help me up. I don’t want to be in your lap if it’s not doing anything for you.”
He bites his lips to dampen his smile but can’t mask the sparkle of amusement in his eyes.
With some awkward navigating, we manage to get to our feet. I pull down my T-shirt from where it rode up my stomach, and Chastain tugs at his tie.
“Do you feel better?” he asks.
“A little discombobulated, but yes. Clearly the only cure for a mental breakdown is reminding me you don’t want to get in my pants. Nothing like a blow to the ego to put things in perspective.”
He bites his lower lip so hard it turns white. I roll my eyes. “Laugh at me, Leo. Do it.”
He does.
I frown at him the whole time, pretending I don’t love the deep, infectious sound of his laughter. Finally, he quiets.
“Are we done for today?” I wait for his nod, then blurt, “Amnesia?”
His humor fades fast. “Selective, post-traumatic amnesia, yes.”
I hug my arms to my chest. “I have a bad feeling about this. What if I’m not supposed to remember? This is fucking surreal. And Jameson knows about this?”
He nods again. “It’s why he called us. You’re safe, Amelia. I’ve got you.”
“Is that what you think?” I ask sadly, then shake my head and walk to the door. “No one’s got me, Doc. Too many missing pieces.”
10
love and war
day 9
“Amnesia?”
“Yeah.” I take a drag of a contraband cigarette. “Wild, right?”
“Dude,” Callum says heavily. The tip of his cigarette glows in the darkness. “Wild.”
“For real.”
We trade wry glances at our juvenile vocabulary.
Callum pivots to face me, turning his shoulder against the back wall of his cabin. “What do you think happened?”
“Like you said, something bad.” I blow a stream of smoke toward the starry sky, then flick the cigarette to the ground and smother it with my shoe. “Or maybe nothing?”
I don’t like the question in my voice, but can’t help it. I wouldn’t be here if it was nothing. I just hope it wasn’t something hugely tragic. Had someone been in the car with me? Had anyone died?
We stand silently for several minutes, each of us lost in thoughts. Callum finishes his cigarette and pops the cherry out before tossing the butt.
“I had a restraining order put out on me.”
I tense. “You don’t have to—”
“It’s okay. I want to.” He sighs. “Another model. Her name was Frenchie.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
He snorts. “Yeah, everyone called her French. Anyway, we fell into bed after a photoshoot last April. The chemistry was unbelievable. We ended up spending a weekend together. I fell in love.”
I don’t say anything, mainly because I hear the curl of sarcasm in the last word.
“I thought she felt the same way,” he continues, a thousand miles of regret in his voice.
I feel a sympathetic squeeze in my chest. Poor Callum.
“She blew you off?” I make myself ask.
He nods, features tight in the moonlight. “She had a boyfriend. I couldn’t handle it. Long story short, I tried to break them up. I thought if she was single, she’d remember how good we were together. Obviously, she saw my actions in a different light.”
I scuff dirt with the toe of my shoe. “You stalked her?”
“Yep, although I really didn’t see it that way. I thought I was loving her.” He pauses. “I have obsessive love disorder.”
I consider saying something flippant, like there are millions of women who’d welcome being obsessively loved by him, but I bite my tongue.
“Do you know what real love feels like?” he asks, voice tight with need. “Dr. C has described it, but I think a woman’s perspective would really help me.”
I listen to my heart, which is suddenly beating hard. Anxiety tingles down my arms.
I shouldn’t have smoked that cigarette.
“I’m the wrong person to ask,” I say finally. “I mean, I love my brother, and I can tell you what I know about that.”
He stares at me, silent and rapt.
“It, uh, makes me feel anchored. Jameson is like a weight that pulls me down, holding me to the world. I feel comfort when I think of him. And, um, I guess a big part of it is that he knows everything about me. All my flaws. And he still loves me.”
“How do you know?”
“I just do. I feel this… bond. Trust, I guess. No matter what happens, or how much we fight, he loves me and I love him. That’s all I’ve got, sorry.”
“That sounds nice.”
I glance at him, seeing his soft smile. “Yeah, it is.”
Studying his perfect features, ethereal in the moonlight, I wonder how it’s possible that Callum doesn’t know what love feels like.
“What about your parents?”
He shrugs a shoulder. “Foster kid.”
I wince. “Sorry.”
Callum waves away my apology. “But you’ve never been in love?”
My heart kicks my ribs again. “I thought I was. Two times. My high school boyfriend and my ex-fiancé, Kevin.”
“Will you tell me? Describe how you felt about Kevin?”
He sounds so freaking needy, I can’t deny him. But the truth comes like knives from my throat. “Kevin wanted to take care of me. I wanted to let him, and I tried to take care of him, too. He loved the version of me that was perfect wife material. I was seduced by the idea of being that person.”
“That doesn’t sound healthy,” he says dryly.
I huff. “Yeah, well, this isn’t Camp Healthy People.”
He snickers and I grin back at him.
“In the end, we were both acting. I don’t think we really knew each other at all. I found him banging our next-door neighbor.”
“Ouch.”
“I was angry, obviously. But I wasn’t heartbroken. I didn’t feel that empty, hopeless feeling people talk about. I dumped his record collection on the front lawn and set it on fire.”
Callum barks a laugh. “Holy shit, Mia. Remind me not to get on your bad side.”
I bump his shoulder with mine. “I like you, you’re safe.”
Silence descends once more, but without its previous strain. We watch the sky. Spy a few shooting stars. A breeze kicks up, tickling our exposed skin with warm drafts.
“I’m getting better,” he says mutedly, almost to himself. “Some things Dr. C has told me are finally making sense.”
“Like what?”
“Hard to explain.” He tilts his head toward me. “The fact I’m not obsessing over you is pretty amazing. It’s almost enough to make me fall in love with you.”
“Me?” I scoff. “Buddy, I’m ten miles of bad road. You’d be better off with Kinsey.”
Instead of laughing, he says gravely, “You really don’t see yourself at all.”
I scowl. “Quit it. We both know I’m a hot mess.”
“Are you?” he asks cryptically. “I don’t think you’re crazy. I think you’re complicated, and passionate, and terrified of the depth at which you feel things. It’s easier for you to pretend you don’t feel anything at all. A coping mechanism.”
“Wrong.” I cross my arms over my chest, wishing I had another cigarette. We smoked his last two. “The problem isn’t that I can’t feel anything, it’s that I can’t feel fear. And believe me, I’ve tried. I’ve put myself in horrible situations. Dangerous ones. Short of strolling naked into a biker bar, I’ve walked some shady lines. Scared the shit out of everyone who cared about me. Everyone except myself.”
“Because you don’t care about yourself,” he states sadly.
“Meh,” I say dismissively, having heard that assessment many times. I counter it with the same logic I always use. “If I didn’t care about myself, I’d simply jump without a parachute.”
“Self-loathing and being suicidal are different,” he says gently. “This I know.”
I rub my face roughly. “Fine, Dr. Rivers. You win.” Peering at him over my fingers, I snarl, “I liked you better when you weren’t playing therapist. Chastain’s bad enough.”
He laughs. “He’s growing on you, isn’t he?”
“Like a sexy fungus.”
Callum thinks this is hysterical and bends in half with the force of his laughter. I try to hold my frown, but my lips quirk. Eventually he recovers, standing to wipe his streaming eyes.
“Don’t try to seduce him.”
My brows rise. “Why not?”
All traces of laughter vanish from his face. “For both of your sakes. I don’t want Dr. C to lose everything because of you.”
I open and close my mouth a few times before finding my voice. “You’re making a rather large assumption on his behalf.”
Callum stares at me, eyes fathomless in the shadows. “It’s not an assumption.”
My pulse makes itself known again, this time between my legs. Ignoring the insistent throb, I say, “Just because you want to bone me doesn’t—”
“Let me put it to you this way,” he interjects. “When we met, you immediately triggered my obsessive disorder. A part of that means I become hyperaware of potential challengers. Competition. I’ve seen him look at you when he thinks no one’s watching.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I shouldn’t be telling you this.”
Unnerved more than I care to admit, I feign affront. “I’m not going to seduce my therapist, no matter how hot he is. That’s low, even for me.”
“Good,” he grinds out.
“Happy?” I snap.
“Yes!”
Our gazes lock in an angry battle. It lasts ten seconds before we grin and succumb to laughter.
I nudge his shoulder. “I’m going to bed. Wanna come?”
He groans. “Fuck you, Goldie.”
I waggle my eyebrows. “That’s the offer.”
Chuckling, he turns away. “I like you too much to have sex with you,” he throws over his shoulder.
“Hey, that’s my line!”
His laughter fades as he rounds the corner of the cabin. When I hear the open and close of his door, I relax against the wall, still warm from the heat of the day.
My body hums with the need for sleep, but my head spins like a carnival ride. Complete with disorientation and nausea.
Since my session this morning, all I can think about is the accident I can’t remember. I spent hours holed up in my cabin, skipping lunch to piece together the months of 2016.
I have a vague recollection of a Christmas party, then New Year’s. In February, I caught Kevin cheating and left his dumb ass. The next event I remember is white water rafting with some friends in June.
Between March and mid-June, there’s nothing.
Nothing.
11
smoke and mirrors
day 10
It must be after midnight by the time I rouse myself from the void of questions in my mind. The night is darker than before, the moon nearly set, and the air temperature almost classifies as chilly.
Hugging my arms to my chest, I shuffle around Callum’s cabin toward mine. My sneakers scuff against fine gravel and the occasional larger rock.
I’m five steps from my door when I hear a feminine squeal. Freezing mid-step, I strain my ears for a repeat of the sound, and when it doesn’t come, I tell myself I imagined it.
Then it happens again. This time, the squeal is followed by a low moan. Eyes scanning the cabins, I see only one with light shining behind the curtains.
Kinsey’s.
My limbs tingle. Like an automaton, I turn and walk past Callum’s cabin, Nix’s now vacant one, and come to a stop.
“Please, please, please…”
The low chant reaches my ears through the partially open door.
Why is the do
or open?
Driven by a need to know if my worst assumption is true, I tiptoe to the narrow swath of light. I’m sure my heart is pounding, but I can’t feel it. All I feel is the overwhelming compulsion to know.
I have a clear view of the bed and Dr. Chastain’s back. Beneath him, Kinsey thrashes and moans. I barely notice they’re both clothed. I just see him. On top of her.
Then Kinsey whimpers. “Please don’t make me. Please, I don’t want to, I don’t want to…”
Finally, I feel something. A whole lot of something.
My sailing fist slams the door open. “What the fucking fuck!” I yell. “Get off her!”
Chastain jerks back, sliding off the bed and whirling around. His glasses are askew, his hair in disarray.
Motherfucker.
I hate him.
Totally. Irrevocably.
My palms slam into his chest before I’m even aware of crossing the room. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I scream at him.
He glances back at Kinsey, who’s looking groggily around the room. She seems really out of it. Glazed eyes. Bedraggled hair and rumpled, barely there pajamas.
“Did you drug her?” I screech, shoving him roughly. It doesn’t matter that he’s a wall of solid muscle and barely moves. “You’re scum! A fucking monster!”
“Amelia,” he snaps, cheekbones flushing with anger. “Return to your cabin. Now.”
Hysterical laughter bubbles in my throat. “Are you nuts? There’s no way I’m leaving you with her!”
“Amelia, it’s all right,” says a woman behind me.
Turning, I see Nurse Nora standing near the kitchen, a clipboard in her arms and an anxious look on her face.
Adrenaline drains away in a rush, leaving me shaky and cold. “What the hell is happening here?” I ask her.
Kinsey moans, her head thrashing from side to side. Out of the corner of my eye I see Chastain move back to the bed.
“Night terrors,” answers Nora gently. “We’ve been monitoring her sleep since she arrived.”
The Fall Before Flight Page 6