by Madi Le
"You should stay off that leg."
"I've had worse," she said. There weren't many things that she could absolutely say about her life up to this point; whatever had made her forget, it had taken most of her history with it. The injuries, though, she had a good memory of, because there were plenty since the last she could remember. It had been a long year.
Grant looked at her, his expression a purposefully neutral one. "Do what you have to do, then."
"Thanks for your permission, Sheriff."
"Don't call me that here," he said. "If you're coming, come on."
He stepped into the kitchen. She followed behind. The limp in her leg was almost gone by the time that she made it. It hurt, but she didn't know herself as someone who let herself show pain. She hadn't been afforded the opportunity.
"We've got…" he pulled a jug of milk out of the fridge and looked at it. Then, without a word, he dropped it into the trash. "Water, two sodas, and a bottle of the cheapest stuff money can buy."
He pointed out the bottle. It was made out of plastic and filled with what looked like distilled water. She knew better than to believe that.
"We'll start with the soda and move on to the fire gut when the time is right," Misty said.
"Are you sure? With your hip."
"No," she said. "But this is the first time I've been able to relax for almost two months, and I'd like to spend it relaxing."
Grant looked at her. Aside from the nap, she'd been at it for twenty hours since she'd shown up at the station. She knew that it wasn't any different for him. But she'd been at it longer. This was just another in a long string of close calls. They seemed to be getting closer every time.
"You know what? You're right." He popped the can and handed it over to her. She drank. He opened his own and drank himself. It tasted over-sweet, but she wasn't going to complain. The caffeine hit her quickly, and it did its job, however little it was.
"So. Are you going to tell me anything?"
"Later," she said. "I'll tell you what I can when I can. But I can't now."
"If you say so."
Misty reached up. Her hip didn't let her reach the top of the fridge, where the vodka stood tall. She caught her weight and pushed herself back to the chair. Grant stood and reached up, pulled the bottle down, and opened the cap. It was the only thing that was used in the house, she noticed.
"What's the plan, then?"
"The plan?"
"What are we doing tonight? And tomorrow?"
"We're going to sleep tonight," he told her. He sounded tired, even in spite of the coffee.
"Okay. Where?"
"I'll take the couch," Grant said blankly. "You can have the bed."
"You sure?"
"I'm sure."
Misty thought about it. She needed to think things through. Her mind was racing, and yet the tires of her mind seemed to be stuck in the mud. Nothing moved forward. She needed time to collect herself. Time to calm down. And something else was bothering her, too. A vague feeling of discomfort that she couldn't put her finger on except to say that it was there.
"You know what, no." Grant looked at her, his eyebrow raised.
"No, what?"
"This is your place, I'm not making you sleep on the couch."
"I don't see what other option there is," Grant said slowly.
There was one option that immediately sprang to mind. She bit her tongue to stop herself suggesting it right away.
"I've already bled all over your couch. No reason to get my blood on your bed, too."
"You don't need to worry about that too much," Grant said. "Your leg is pretty well bandaged, if I might say so myself."
She agreed with him silently. "Still, that doesn't mean I can't tear something in the night. It's not like you're a surgeon."
"I have a basic medical training," he said, shrugging.
"My point is, I can pop a stitch in the night. It's far from unheard-of."
Grant looked at her, sipped his soda, and let his eyes drop to the table. "Yeah, okay."
"Good."
She stood up. Her weight swayed. How much of the liquor had she drank? She didn't really think about it.
"Do you need help?"
"No," she lied.
She made it the truth, the same way that she had the last hundred times that she'd asked herself the same question. She forced herself to put one foot in front of the other, keeping the careful balance that was required to keep herself from falling between the floor moving under her, and her hip trying to keep her from putting her weight fully on the leg. But eventually she made it, and eased herself into bed.
A few minutes later, Grant clicked the kitchen light off, and Misty was left in darkness. Her eyes adjusted, eventually, and then eventually she closed them. Her breathing started to slow, then started to even out, and her worries, one by one, stopped bothering her.
Things were going to get worse, she knew. That was the way of the world, and there was no way around it. She was in too deep to try to return to a simple life as some man's wife. Settling down was an option that she'd surrendered for some reason, a long time ago. Now she was left to deal with the consequences. That was how it was going to be.
The pain faded into a vague inkling that it would hurt to put any weight on her leg, and she was left with nothing but the vaguest sense of unease. It started to coalesce into something, and it wasn't until it had completely shaped itself in her mind that she realized what it was.
She hadn't wanted someone as badly as she wanted Grant in her entire life. He was sleeping just a few rooms over, and the only things standing between them were thirty feet on her bad hip, and a lifetime of memories that she didn't have.
She didn't know which was more insurmountable.
Nine ♥
*
Grant unclenched his teeth. He wasn't sure when he had noticed the tightness in his jaw, but it had been minutes since he had decided to slacken it, and he had tried more than once already. It wasn't hard to figure out what bothered him. It had been bothering him since she first looked at his face and saw nothing more than the man in charge.
What had happened between then and now? He'd lived with questions for years. Questions that he knew he wasn't going to get answers to, deep down. It had been alright when she was gone. The questions of why she had gone didn't need answering when she wasn't there to answer. He could force himself to keep his head on straight without her.
But with Misty's return, the opportunity to receive the answers that he'd wanted for so long loomed large, and yet she refused to give him anything. She acted as if she didn't remember him. She certainly acted like a different person, most of the time.
It was only when she was hurt, or scared, that she approached the woman he had known. The glimpses had been enough to make his heart beat just a little bit faster. And it begged the question again. What if she did remember? What if she just needed a little bit of help, and then she would remember the whole thing? His jaw had clenched itself again. He forced itself to unclench and tried hard to keep it that way.
Grant told himself that he had to pee; it wasn't that he was going to check on her. He stood and walked, as quietly as possible, to the hall. The question of what he would do when he finally made it to the bathroom was secondary at that point. Just another step, and he'd be able to look down the hall.
She wasn't on the couch. He knew it immediately, even before he looked at the couch. Grant knew because she nearly bumped into his chest.
Misty saw him, her eyes widening in surprise. The surprise or the pain or both combined to throw her balance off, and she fell into him. Grant's arms wrapped naturally around her shoulders. It had been a long time since he'd had her in his arms. It felt like it had been only a matter of days.
"You surprised me," she said.
"I didn't mean to surprise you. Where were you headed? Bathroom?"
She looked at him a long time without answering, before finally shaking her head.
"Where, then?"
/>
"I was coming, you know, to see you."
"You wanted to have the bed after all?" She bit her lip. "I need to talk to you. I can't sleep."
"Me neither," Misty said.
"You don't remember me at all, do you?"
"No."
The answer was so flat and direct that he was almost surprised by it. Nothing about Misty had been direct since she'd gotten back. It was all a matter of guessing what she was really doing, and what she really meant. The one word–'no'–so completely lacked guile that there was nothing to do but interpret it as a direct and obvious truth.
"Not even a little bit?"
"I don't remember anything," she said. "Not at all."
Grant felt his jaw tighten that time. His chest hurt. "I need a drink after all," he said. He wasn't sure whether he said it for her benefit or not. Either way, he walked over to the kitchen.
He had himself under control. He had his life under control. He was past it now. But he wasn't past it at all.
"You don't remember when we were… dating?" Grant knew what he was doing. And he knew that if she didn't remember anything, then it wasn't as if she'd chosen to forget him in particular. But maybe she just needed a reminder, a voice said. If she loved him then, even a little bit, then a person would remember something like that. Right?
"We were dating?"
"We were engaged," he said. "Weeks out of the wedding."
"What happened?"
"You left," Grant answered. It left out a lot of detail. It left out the hard parts. She'd been so broken up by the whole thing. There was no way that she didn't remember. She just couldn't put it into words. Right? It had meant so much to her. It had torn them both apart.
"I'm sorry I did that," Misty said. The way that she said it was the same as if he'd told her the same about anyone else. Or if he'd told Sloane about it. He took a deep breath.
"You're telling me you don't remember?"
"I don't remember anything before a year ago," Misty told him. "I'm sorry. I don't remember."
"But that thing with the computer. You were a pro."
"I can remember how to do things. I woke up in a hospital one day, and it was like it was the first time I'd ever woken up. But I could, you know… tie my shoes. I could walk. Hell, I could fire a rifle. I could hit a target at fifty meters, albeit not within two inches of center."
"But you don't remember anything else?"
"I was mixed up in…" Grant watched her trying to decide what she wanted to tell him, and he watched her decide not to tell him more. "Some stuff. Bad stuff. I don't know what happened to me that I got myself mixed up in it, but I decided to get out."
"And that's what's happening now?"
"That's what I'm dealing with now."
"There's something else," Grant said. "Can I… talk to you about it?"
She looked at him. She felt sorry for him, he realized. He hated it. He didn't want any pity from Misty Greene. He wanted answers. He wanted to understand what happened. But he didn't want her to pity him.
"What's up?"
"The reason you left."
"Do you know why?"
"Not really," he said. He took a deep breath. "You were pregnant. And you got sick. Really sick. And then you got better, but… the little guy… well, he didn't." Grant grit his teeth and took a few breaths until he could get control of himself again. "It was a hard time for both of us. And then one day, I guess it was just… too much. You went out, and I waited, and waited, but you didn't come back."
Misty looked at him. Grant knew what he must look like. He wasn't ashamed of himself, not really. But he knew that whatever mystique of being a big, tough, smart-talking Sheriff that he might have built up was gone.
"I'm so sorry," Misty said. She reached out and touched his hand.
"And I just… all these years, I wanted to understand what happened."
"I would, too."
"But you didn't come back."
"I'm back now."
"You're not you. You're… someone else."
Misty's eyes snapped shut, and Grant knew vaguely that he'd upset her. It was the wrong thing to have done, but he couldn't bring himself to be angry about it.
"Is that a problem?"
"No," Grant said. "It's not a problem. But I just have to give up on that. There are a thousand questions. And I'm never going to answer any of them."
Misty's hand on his squeezed. "That makes two of us. But if it helps at all, you answered a few. At least for me. Thank you."
Grant swallowed another glass. His head swam, and his cheeks burned, and more than anything he wanted to go lay down and forget the whole thing ever happened. His eyes burned. He wasn't sure that was the alcohol acting on him.
"I should go lie down," he said softly. The words didn't sound like his voice.
Grant pushed himself up. His legs felt wobbly. He wasn't sure how much of that was the alcohol, either. He wanted to blame the bottle for the whole thing, but he looked down at his glass and saw how full it was, and knew better than to believe it.
"Do you need help?"
"No." His voice was hard. He hadn't intended it to sound cruel, but somehow it had come out that way. The Sheriff didn't visibly wince, but only because he managed to contain himself.
He took a step. As loopy as felt, as out of it, as miserable, he was surprised to find the efficiency with which his legs took the weight. He let out a breath and took another step. It wasn't so hard.
He made his way to the bedroom without too much trouble, his head swimming with thoughts of how his life was supposed to be, and how wrong it had all gone. And he knew in his gut that things had all gone wrong for him. What he didn't know was why that had happened.
He fell into bed without pulling his clothes off. They were tight around his shoulders as he tried to get comfortable. That didn't change anything, though. He buried his face in his pillow, tried to clear his mind, and forced his breathing to slow down. He counted four in, then counted five out. In, hold it a moment, and out.
Before the past year, Grant had never been the kind of man who struggled to get to sleep. Things had changed enough in the past year that he barely knew who he was any more. Someone for whom things went wrong.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He looked down, as if it would answer something. He turned over. Reached into his pocket. Looking at the caller ID, he rolled his eyes for a moment, and then pulled the phone out.
"Yes?"
"Grant? Can you hear me?"
"I can hear you," he said.
His mother sounded like she hadn't slept at all. She never seemed to sleep. Every time he thought she might be asleep, he found her lying awake in bed.
"Good, I was worried. You haven't been answering your phone."
Grant let his eyes close, his other hand falling over his face. "Maybe that was a hint that I didn't want to talk."
"Heather called," his mother said said, like it was a suggestion of something more meaningful.
"Oh."
"She says that the official annulment came through."
"I know."
"Are you sure about this, honey? You know, all of that."
Grant's jaw tightened uncontrollably. He had known how the conversation was going to go. The two of them had the conversation a hundred times, and if things kept up the way that they were, then they would have it another hundred times before he could finally be free of it.
"It's a little late to be asking that, don't you think?"
"Oh, honey," his mother cooed, "it's never too late."
Grant's fingers pressed into his forehead. Memories flashed through his mind. Memories that he would have rather left well enough alone, for the rest of his life if he could manage it. He knew better than to believe that he could forget completely. But he didn't know that he couldn't at least try. It had almost worked once.
"It's too late for me, mom. It's late. Why aren't you asleep?"
That made her go quiet; she'd never had an answer t
o that one. Grant had made the choice a long time ago not to think about it.
"I got a call," she said. He wasn't sure whether that was supposed to be an explanation for why she was still awake at two in the morning.
"What's that?"
"One of your deputies was looking for you."
"I bet they were," Grant said. "What did you tell them?"
"I told them that I'd been calling you all day and you weren't picking up."
"Which is true," Grant added.
"You know you can come by here if you're in trouble, right?"
Grant shook his head and rubbed his temples a little harder. She was just trying to help, he knew. It didn't make him feel any better about the situation.
"I'm not in trouble," he lied.
"Okay," came the answer. "Well, come by when you can, okay? I need you to finish cleaning out the attic."
"Yeah." That was a lie, too.
"If you were in trouble, though, you would tell me."
"Of course."
"The girl on the other end of the line sounded worried about you."
"She's worried over nothing. I'm just dealing with some work stuff right now, okay? I can't talk about it."
Grant's mother was silent a little while. For a minute he almost thought she'd fallen asleep. He kept the phone to his ear, though, waiting. And eventually, his patience paid off.
"I'm just worried about you, too."
"You don't have to be worried. I have to get some sleep, okay?"
"I love you."
"Love you too, mom."
"Good night."
"Go to sleep, okay? There's nothing to worry about."
"Okay," she said. Now she was the liar.
"Bye bye."
He tapped the button to hang up the phone, and dropped it into the empty space beside him on the bed. There was no smell to the room at all, which had a smell of its own in a strange sort of way. The lack of any comfort in the place. It was completely sterile. Except for one thing, permeating the house. Something almost totally foreign to the environment. Even more a stranger than he was.
Faintly, there was the scent of Misty's shampoo, or perfume. It had been in his nose since they had sat together at the table, and it had been a distraction that he didn't have time for. Now, as he returned to the solitude and darkness of the bedroom, it was the only thing between him and sleep. His stomach felt like it was going to do a flip.