His Forbidden Bride: 50 Loving States, West Virginia

by Theodora Taylor

  “Seatbelt,” I answer, nodding toward his untouched strap.

  A small frown of disgust mars his face as he pulls the belt across his body. “I don’t think I like seatbelts,” he says, after he’s clicked it into place. “Feels like I’m trapped in a goddamn cage.”

  “You were riding around on a motorcycle without a secure helmet and you don’t like seatbelts,” I say as I pull away from the curb. “So what you’re trying to tell me is you’re either a very dumb bitch or suicidal.”

  He goes tense and very, very silent in the passenger seat.

  And I regret my words almost as soon as I say them.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell him. “That was unnecessary. I can be catty sometimes.”

  “You got nothing to be sorry about, Doc,” he answers.

  Yet I am sorry. For what I said. For the fact that we aren’t any closer to finding out who he really is. Also because I don’t love the idea of him having another episode like the one in the hospital in a place where there’s no trained medical personnel to sedate him.

  “So this men’s shelter I’m driving you to is run by a church,” I tell him, regurgitating what Ken told me on the phone in lieu of stewing in my anxious thoughts of what might happen to him going forward.

  It feels like I’m reassuring both him and me when I say, “I looked them up on the internet and they seem like really good people. Really good people. The community is lucky to have them. Ken and I made sure the hospital social worker called ahead to update them on your case. They’ll try to help you with some job outreach, but it’s going to be tough going because you don’t currently have a birth certificate or a social security number. They’ll have to figure out how to get you paid…”

  I trail off, scaring myself with that line of thought. Of thinking about how John will fare until his memories finally come back.

  “Anyway, here’s your phone back,” I say, reaching into my purse with my free hand and passing it to him. “Please don’t hesitate to use it if you need anything. Anything at all. And of course, I’ll try to visit whenever I can.”

  Until then, I might as well have been babbling to myself, because he doesn’t say one word until I offer to visit him.

  “No. No, Doc, I don’t want you visiting me there,” he answers with a firm shake of his head.

  “Why not?” I ask. “Seriously, it wouldn’t be a problem for me to stop in after work. It’d be like having an old fashioned home visit from the doctor. I could check in on you, make sure your healing process is coming along as it should…” Help you get home when you finally remember who the hell you actually are, I add to myself silently.

  I don’t particularly like romance novels, but for whatever reason, I feel desperately invested in John finding his happy ending.

  But he doesn’t seem at all concerned with the many practical reasons why a visit from me, a medical professional, might be a good thing.

  “After work—that would be at night? You want to come visit me at an all-men’s shelter at night?” He asks these questions like I’m certifiable.

  “Well, not exactly at night, per se,” I answer. “I get off at six, so it would be more like early evening…before sunset.”

  But he just shakes his head, his face stony and unyielding. “No. I don’t want you visiting me there, Doc.”

  “Okay…” I answer, not really knowing how else to respond. After a moment of thought, I come up with, “Then maybe we can have lunch sometime. I bet there’s a restaurant we can meet up at.”

  “Yeah,” he agrees, a little of the stone slipping off his face. “Let’s meet somewhere. That’d be better. I could see you on the weekend, maybe.”

  “Yes,” I agree with more enthusiasm for the idea than I’m actually feeling. A coffee shop meet-up just doesn’t feel like a good enough substitute. But I tell myself it’s better than nothing as I follow my navigation app southeast to a small neighborhood just outside Washington, Pennsylvania.

  Really, he’s lucky. According to the hospital social worker, a lot of these places have waiting lists a mile long—especially for men. John was lucky there was a place to take him within the tri-state area. And Washington is a super cute city. Lots of old tan brick buildings, a quaint little downtown, and it’s less than a thirty minute bus ride from Pittsburgh.

  I might be able to convince John to let me visit him at night after all, I think as I drive through Washington’s classic American downtown.

  But the neighborhood we eventually end up in isn’t the sort with cute little corner cafes, or even a Starbucks. In fact, the only buildings not abandoned on the seedy street we pull onto is a methadone clinic and a halfway house—which I know after a few years in my rural medicine program often takes the place of rehab centers in smaller cities. There’s also a bar, I note, scanning further down the street. Wonderful.

  We pull up to the Union Baptist Men’s Shelter. It’s a squat, red brick building with one solitary steel security door. The door’s been painted over several times with various shades of blue, probably to cover up gang tags, and it looks very, very heavy. I’m sure there are people inside, but the door remains firmly shut when we come to a stop at the curb alongside the building. I very much doubt anyone will be coming out to meet us.

  But if John is freaking out anywhere near the level I am, it doesn’t show. His face stays neutral and he even throws me a lazy smile as he unbuckles his seatbelt and says, “Well, thanks, for everything, Doc—”

  He cuts off, slamming backwards into the passenger seat when the car suddenly accelerates forward. Speeding, not just merely rolling, away from the shelter.

  “Oh my gosh, I’m sorry!” I say, glancing at his cast-covered arm, then at his leg, which is better, but definitely doesn’t need to be subjected to the sudden movement as I drive like a maniac away from the men’s shelter where I was supposed to drop John off.

  Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh! I scream in my mind. Out loud I yell, “What am I doing? What am I doing?!?!” as I continue to drive from the shelter with my hands tight on the wheel.

  But I don’t stop. And John doesn’t say a word as I round a corner, my tires making a screeching sound straight out of The Fast and the Furious. Fact is, I’m asking my Prius to step way outside its comfort zone as it speeds away from the men’s shelter faster than an ambulance.

  I can’t believe what I’m doing. Can’t reconcile it. But when we finally come to a stop sign at the side of a two-lane road between nowhere and nowhere, I check my Waze app to discover I’m over three miles from my intended destination.

  I rest my head against the cool steering wheel. Breathing hard. Still not believing what I’ve done.

  I can feel poor John watching me in that quiet way of his as I squeak, “What am I doing? What am I doing? What am I doing?” over and over again.

  Which is why I can only laugh when he finally clears his throat and asks, “So Doc, what are you doing?”

  I shake my head, still resting on the steering wheel. Weary, though my day off has technically only just begun.

  “I have no idea.”

  Chapter Six

  But I guess I must have some clue. Because the next address I insert into Waze is my own. Yes, the place where I live. Even though I’m a doctor, with a medical degree, at the end of a three-year residency, driving around a former hospital patient who, up until a short while ago, I was supposed to drop off at a shelter.

  “This is just for a little while,” I explain to John as we walk through the door of my one-bedroom apartment. “I’m going to talk with your social worker on Monday. I bet there are lots of housing programs for people with disabilities. Places where you can live until your memory comes back. She probably didn’t look into it because you didn’t have anyone to advocate for you, but I’ll call her. And I bet it only takes a week or two, tops, until we’re able to find you somewhere better than that shelter to live.”

  John doesn’t answer, and I’m once again hit with the feeling that I’m provid
ing more reassurance to myself than him—and not doing a particularly great job of it.

  No matter how many words I throw at this situation, I don’t feel any better about my unorthodox solution to John’s current problem. John, for his part, seems more interested in checking out my little second-floor apartment than in listening to anything I have to say about him moving out of it soon. He walks around the living room, taking in everything, before coming to a stop in front of my beige couch. His self-tour doesn’t take long. There’s just not that much to see, thanks to the space’s total absence of pictures or anything else that would indicate someone actually lives there.

  Luckily, the apartment had come fully furnished. Otherwise, John would be sleeping on the floor tonight. I haven’t added a stick of furniture or ambience to the place since I moved in, and it looks exactly like how I intended it to be when I came to the small college town of North Independence seven years ago. One step up from a hotel rental until I fulfilled my program obligations and could move.

  Even so, I cringe at the beige couch. It’s perfect for me when I’m nestling in for a weekend of editing Chemo Kids Sing clips on my laptop, with the TV running old musicals in the background. But it’s only six feet long. His feet will probably hang over the sides.

  Which is how I find myself offering, “Hey, why don’t you take the bed?” as I cross the room to stand in front of him. “I practically live on the couch anyway.”

  He tilts his head to look down at me. “You brought me here, Doc. To your home. And you think I’m going to take your bed and let you sleep on the couch?”

  “Well, the couch is probably not big enough to accommodate you, and I don’t want you sleeping on the floor—especially with your recent injuries.”

  He holds up his right hand and shakes his head. “Doc, stop. Just stop,” he says, like I’m confusing him more than the amnesia. “You brought me here. To your home.”

  “Yes,” I answer. “And I want you to be comfortable here.”

  He considers my words, then says, “The only place I’m going to be comfortable is in your bed.”

  “Yes, exactly!” I answer, relieved that he finally gets what I’m saying. “So please don’t feel bad about taking it—”

  But then he steps closer to me and says, “That don’t mean I’m going to let you sleep on the couch, Doc.”

  It’s the word “let” that sets off the first alarm bells. I find myself swallowing hard, my brain scrambling to deny, deny, deny what my instincts are telling me he’s really trying to say.

  “Okay,” I say, taking a step backwards. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”

  “Maybe on your part.” He takes another step forward, and this time, he only leaves enough space between us for his cane. “You understand I ain’t a dog, Doc? That you can’t just bring me home and foster me.”

  “Actually, I’ve never had a dog,” I babble.

  “And you still don’t got one,” he informs me, his face somber. “If a dog’s what you want, take me back to that men’s shelter and go to the pound.”

  “No,” I answer, my brain completely fried by what I’ve done, and what is happening now because of it. By his sudden nearness, the way he looms over me in the small space between the couch and the coffee table. But somehow I manage to say, “I don’t want a dog. First of all, it’s against the terms of my lease. Second, I don’t really have the time or the lifestyle to keep up with one. Third—”

  He kisses me before I can finish with my list.

  Not like a dog.

  Not like a patient.

  But like a man.

  A man who knows exactly what he wants.

  And is the world supposed to spin when someone kisses you like that? Maybe I need to schedule an MRI. Because I’ve brought a guy I barely know home with me. And when he kisses me, everything tilts and twists, whipping us around and around each other like we’re on a carousel.

  But I’ve been in relationships before, and unlike his, my memory is still fully intact. I know this is not what a kiss is supposed to feel like. I know someone’s lips claiming yours shouldn’t suddenly unhinge you and make you feel like you’re going to fly away.

  However, that’s exactly how I feel when John kisses me.

  And I grab on to him, if only to make the spinning stop. Wrapping my arms around his neck to get my bearings.

  But clinging to him only makes the spinning worse. And when John’s arms wrap around me as he deepens the kiss, the world spins even faster.

  I can’t think like this. Can’t breathe. All I can do is kiss him back, waiting for it to stop.

  And then it does. Not because the kiss ends, but because we collapse on the couch. His cane crashes against my uber-bland, seven-year coffee table. Then his heavy body is on top of mine. Rolling and kissing, rolling and kissing. So much muscle memory as he shoves down his hospital-issue sweatpants.

  I can’t believe this is happening. But then again, I can. It all feels so inevitable. His lips claiming my mouth…me kissing him back. His hands pulling down everything beneath my waist…me watching as my joggers and underwear go flying over the coffee table. His long body settling on top of mine…

  My thoughts cut off when he suddenly pushes into me. Penetrating me deep with one claiming thrust. Not like a first-time lover, but like someone who was always meant to be there.

  And the way he looks at me in this moment, like every dream of his has finally come true…

  “I knew you’d be ready for me,” he tells me. “Knew you wanted this just as bad as me.”

  With a lazy smile, his hips lift and he pushes in again, his dick dragging against my clit as he does so. He sinks into me even deeper this time, and I moan as my core tightens around his cock, swallowing it whole.

  The grip of my sex pulls a matching groan out of him. “Oh God, you fit me, Doc. Can’t believe how good it feels here inside you.”

  I chuff out a laugh and answer with the truth, “Me either.”

  Then his lean body starts moving between my legs, hard and powerful despite the accident. At first his strokes are slow. As if he’s relearning his broken body, learning me.

  But he proves to be a quick study, because soon the lazy smile is back on his face. He watches me, eyes hooded with lazy intention as he takes me with deep, penetrating strokes.

  I watch him. So curious about him and the one-of-a-kind feelings he’s arousing in me. But not for long. A crude orgasm erupts inside me, and all too soon I’m crying out, my sex tugging on his as a wave of unadulterated pleasure courses through my body.

  My only solace for coming so quickly is that he is not unaffected.

  “Doc…” he groans, kissing me again. His thrusts take on a certain sharpness, becoming way more intense before he explodes inside me with another pained groan.

  “Ah fuck, Doc,” he says, lowering his head again. His forehead presses into mine as he kisses me. Then he asks, “Is it…is sex always like that for you?”

  For a moment, I can’t talk. But eventually I find the words to confess, “No, it’s never like that. At least it’s never been like that until now.”

  He considers my words. “I don’t think it’s ever been like that for me either.”

  “And, um…” This part makes things even more awkward. “We’re supposed to use a condom. Condom—is that new or old for you?”

  “Old. Real old,” he answers like it’s a very familiar concept. But he doesn’t seem cocky about it, just matter-of-fact.

  “Yeah, well, we should have used one. I have an IUD, so we’re okay on that front—”

  I cut off when I see his confused look and explain, “You know, birth control?”

  “Yeah,” he says with a nod. “That’s old, too. But not this IED.”

  “IUD,” I correct. “It’s kind of like permanent birth control that they surgically put inside you, so no kids, but, um…we don’t exactly know…”

  Unfortunately, I have to be blunt because, hello, amnesia victim! �
��We don’t know if you have any sexual diseases.”

  “I don’t,” he answers. “They told me I didn’t at the hospital.”

  “Okay, but still, I’m a doctor and I should’ve known better. I have no business having unprotected sex.” I wince. “Especially with a patient.”

  He doesn’t know me. Not really. But he must sense how close I am to unraveling into a panicked spiral, because he calmly answers, “Doc, I’m not your dog. And I’m not your patient.”

  Then before I can respond with another “but” he says, “But I will promise to put on a glove next time… as long as you promise to let me sleep with you in your bed tonight.”

  Chapter Seven

  I’m pretty sure I’m going straight to hell for what I just did with John. Or at least straight to the front of the hospital’s review board. Maybe both.

  I still can’t believe it after my shower, even as I replace the Henley and joggers I was wearing earlier with a t-shirt and pair of jeans. Did I seriously bring a John Doe patient home? And then almost immediately spread my legs for him?

  I think about hiding in my bedroom for longer than I want to admit, but eventually I make myself return to the main room. There I find him with his clothes back on, bent over my empty fridge.

  “Sorry about the no-food situation. I get a regular delivery from the grocery store on Sundays and Wednesdays,” I explain to him. “That way, the ingredients are always fresh, and I have to cook or risk them going bad. It’s my way of trying to stay healthy. Plus a lot of the stuff I need to cook is special order, so that gives the grocery store time to get it in…”

  I trail off. I’m babbling again. And I once more think about how cool and confident I used to be before I burned my old life to the ground in order to move out here without my parents’ support or approval.

  “What do you do on Saturdays, then, Doc?” he asks, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

  “Well, I tell myself I’ll go out to eat. Like drive into Pittsburgh where they have vegan restaurants. But usually I just end up ordering enough Chinese food to get me through the weekend.”