by Lee, Nadia
Except for the times he insisted on that you travel even when you said you were getting tired of it. The times he implied—subtly—that you should do what he wants whether you like it or not because he’s the one who’s been providing for you. Who knows if that wouldn’t include giving yourself to an important investor?
What the…? I shiver, unsure where that cynical voice is coming from, and uncomfortable with it. If he were such a morally bankrupt man, he wouldn’t have spent his own money to keep me in the hospital, given me the care I needed. He would’ve listened to the doctors who told him that maybe I should be taken off life support. Or later…the advice that any incremental improvement in my physical and mental health was going to cost too much to make it worthwhile. Not that they put it so bluntly, but that’s what they meant.
No, what Jamie Thornton did has nothing to do with Sam. Rapists rape because they’re rapists.
“Here. This might help you feel better.”
Tony offers a tumbler of…something. My eyes drop to a small bottle of whiskey. It might help, but I’m feeling too nauseated from the attack to risk drinking and making a mess. “I might throw up.”
He stares curiously, like what I’m saying doesn’t compute.
“In your car. This nice, expensive car.”
“Don’t let that stop you. The car can be cleaned.”
His response surprises me. Most guys think their cars drive on water, especially one as nice and expensive as this. Even Byron, who’s pretty laid-back, babies his Maserati and won’t let anybody eat or drink in it. So why is Tony so cavalier when he and I are virtually strangers?
“It’s just a car,” he says. “If it can’t be cleaned, I can replace it.”
My cheeks grow hot as I realize I said the last part out loud. “Well… If you’re sure,” I say, a bit more primly than I should to hide my embarrassment, then take the drink and knock it back.
The fiery liquor warms my belly, and the heat starts spreading immediately. Soon my tremor vanishes.
“Thank you,” I say. “You were right. It helped.”
He starts to say something, then changes his mind and hits a few buttons on the center console. Schubert’s Fantasie fills the silence, each note beautifully poignant. As the music goes on, my heart seems to expand with hot, fierce longing. I notice with shock that my eyes are wet.
Why am I reacting like this? I’m pretty sure I’ve never played it—I don’t like duets, especially ones that require you to share a piano, because it feels too intimate—and this piece isn’t particularly tragic.
I turn my head away and surreptitiously wipe my face dry. I’ve met Tony twice so far, and both times I’ve shed tears. He must think I’m a broken faucet.
I want him to turn the music off, but I don’t know how to ask without appearing unreasonable. The music isn’t offensive. It isn’t loud. There’s nothing wrong with it…except somehow it’s making me grieve for things I’ve lost—my earlier memories, my old life, my now-dead ambition to be a concert pianist.
“Are you all right?” Tony asks.
For a moment, I feel like he can sense everything. But it’s dim inside the car and he probably can’t see much. “I’m fine.”
“‘Fine’ is the last word a woman in your condition should be using.”
I squirm, uncomfortable how he isn’t letting me get away with the arsenal of empty words I use to disguise how I’m really feeling. I’ve started doing that because every time I’m a bit too honest, Sam frets, then insists on having me see a specialist, whose prescription for what’s ailing me is always something Sam would’ve suggested I do anyway—like traveling, online (but never on-campus) college, shopping, a nice, long retreat alone in some secluded place to listen to my inner voice…
Then the habit continued because I didn’t want to worry Julie or Byron. They aren’t close enough to Sam or Marty to gossip about me, but they’re in a similar social echelon and do socialize with one another. Julie or Byron might let something slip.
But not Tony, I realize. Tony and Marty obviously don’t get along at all, so Tony probably isn’t close to Sam, either. Ironically, his disdain and unfriendliness toward the Peachers make him the perfect person for me to be honest with.
“You’re right,” I say. “I’m not fine. I’m…”
“Yes?”
“Angry. Shocked. Humiliated.” I pause for a second, then add, “Frustrated. Scared. But determined to not let it beat me or make me afraid.” I look down at my hands. “I wish I knew how to throw a punch like you.”
“I hope you never have to.”
My stomach flutters at the fiercely protective tone in his voice. Nobody’s ever spoken to me like this before. His reaction is thrillingly intense. “Have you done this before? Rescued a damsel in distress?” The words tumble out before I stop them. I can’t blame the liquor because I only had one.
Tony turns to me, his face stony. “Once. A guy tried to get an eighteen year-old girl drunk and force a kiss—and much more—at a party. I stopped him, but not before he got to grope her. I should’ve broken every bone in his hand for that.” I have no doubt that if the man were here, Tony would do exactly that.
“I’m sorry to hear that. But you saved her, right?” I say, trying to point out the good he did.
“I was too late. If I had been there earlier, he wouldn’t have gotten near her.” His voice is quiet.
“You can’t protect people twenty-four/seven, Tony. I’m sure she was grateful you helped her, just like I am that you helped me.” I reach out and pat his hand, wanting to cheer him up. It’s unfair that someone who tries so hard can feel so down about himself, while bad people go on blithely like they did nothing wrong.
He looks at my hand on his, then raises his eyes to meet mine. A current of awareness passes between us. It isn’t just attraction. It’s more…like we both understand how unjust and cruel the world can be regardless of what we do.
But oddly enough, he looks even more disappointed and sad. “Thank you,” he says softly.
“You’re welcome.”
The car stops in front of Byron’s penthouse building. “Thanks for saving me…and for the ride.” I open the door and get out of the car.
Tony climbs out as well and looks at me, his gaze expectant.
Oh. The jacket. I begin to shrug out of it, but he puts a hand on my shoulder.
“Don’t,” he says. “You should keep it.”
“But it’s your jacket.”
“You need it more than I do at the moment.” His gaze drops to where my strap broke.
I can feel my face heat, and I look away. I totally forgot.
“I’ll walk you to your door,” he says.
“You don’t have to.” It occurs to me he must’ve been on business at the Peacher & Son event. He sure wasn’t there to hang out with Sam or Marty.
“I insist. I’ll sleep better knowing you made it home safely.”
From the resolute way he speaks, I know he isn’t budging. And honestly, I don’t want to argue. Maybe something terrible happened later on to that girl he saved, and he’s trying to make sure nothing happens to me. It’s sweet and considerate.
I let him escort me all the way to my place on the top floor.
“Thank you. As you can see, all safe and sound. You can sleep well tonight,” I say brightly, hoping the darkness in his eyes will ease and unsure what else to do. I’m not equipped to deal with this kind of thing. Maybe I was good at comforting people before, but I’ve forgotten how. The majority of people I’ve met since waking up from the coma are medical professionals. Sam. Marty. My two closest friends are Julie and Byron, and they’re pretty well adjusted. Basically, I’m the biggest mess in the picture.
Tony stares at my mouth, and my lips prickle. His eyes narrow. “You have a cut.”
I touch the left corner of my lower lip and wince at the slight sting. I hadn’t noticed.
He lifts a hand, and the backs of his long fingers almost brush my cheek.
All the air rushes out of me, and I start to bite my lip until I remember the cut.
“It needs to be looked at,” he says. His expression is unnaturally calm, but that only tells me how furious he really is. “Can’t believe I missed that.”
“My hair was covering my face,” I say. “And it’s not that bad. I didn’t notice either.”
“Do you have a first-aid kit?”
“Uh… I don’t know.” I’ve never asked Byron. “But I can check.” I enter the passcode and press my index finger to the biometric reader on the digital lock.
Tony puts a hand at the small of my back and ushers me inside. He leads me to a couch and exerts a gentle pressure on my shoulder to sit. Then, after rearranging the jacket around my shoulders to keep me completely covered, he goes to the kitchen, rummages around and brings back a small bag of ice wrapped in a clean towel.
“Here. This’ll help with the swelling.” Instead of handing me the ice, he crouches in front of me and presses it gently against my mouth, his eyebrows pulled together in intense concentration.
I try to take the ice away without touching him. But my hand brushes his, and I feel the connection as intimately as a kiss. I look at him, not understanding why my reaction is so extreme—tears the first time we met, and now this. My brain injury can’t be the cause. If it were, I would have responded like this to someone sooner. Not one of the men I’ve met made me feel the way I do with Tony.
He takes my right hand and gently turns it over. His thumb traces the faint scar that cuts across my palm from pinkie to the base of my thumb. The muscles in his jaw work, and his intense scrutiny leaves me jittery.
“How did you get this?” he asks, his voice taut.
“In a car accident. It was a long time ago.”
He lifts his gaze to my face. There are questions in his dark green eyes, and suddenly I’m not ready for them, whatever they may be.
“Do you have any painkillers?”
“Huh?” That’s the last thing I expected him to ask.
“Aspirin. Advil. Tylenol.”
“I have some Advil in my bedroom.”
He nods, then helps me up. “Which way?”
“That way.” I gesture, almost in a daze. None of this is what he wanted to ask earlier. What I saw in his eyes wasn’t some ordinary inquiry.
He starts to escort me. I want to tell him I’m fine and can manage on my own, but that’d be a terrible lie. My knees are too shaky. Maybe it’s the sudden relief at realizing I’m home and safe that’s making me feel weak.
I wonder vaguely if I should’ve offered him something to drink. After all, he helped me and brought me home. He even gave me that nice whiskey, and I haven’t even asked him if he wants a glass of water. But somehow I don’t.
He takes me to my bedroom. As his gaze sweeps the room, he seems to relax a bit. “Do you want to call someone to stay with you?”
“No. It’s just going to be me.” As I speak, I suddenly realize I don’t want to be alone in the vast place. Not that I think it’ll be unsafe or anything, but… “You have to go soon, right?”
“No. Why?”
“Um. I don’t…” I hesitate as something glimmers in the back of my mind, tickling me like a tiny feather. Somehow this scene, this scenario, doesn’t feel new. It’s similar to the sensation I get when I sit in front of a piano and start playing the first thing that comes to me and end up with a perfect Chopin étude. If I resist or second-guess myself, my fingers freeze and I can’t play at all.
Trust.
If I don’t trust my instincts, I may never recover all my memories. I inhale sharply, then let it all out. “I don’t want to be alone right now. That’s all.”
“If you want me to stay, I will,” he says.
Oh. I didn’t expect him to agree so easily. He should be at least somewhat reluctant, since he has to be a very busy man. Suddenly, I’m flustered, unsure. What if I’m just imposing on him, and he can’t bring himself to say no because he feels bad about what happened?
“You’re thinking too much,” Tony says. “I don’t mind. Really.”
“Do you want me to show you to a guest room?” I blurt out. I realize my mistake. Instead of just going with the flow of my instinct, I stopped, questioned and got anxious. Now the sliver of memory that was shimmering at the edge of my mind is gone, leaving me frustrated and annoyed. I feel like I missed a question on a test I should’ve known the answer to.
“Don’t worry about me. Take care of yourself.” When I don’t respond, Tony peers at me. “Do you want to brush your teeth? Clean up and change?”
“N—” Actually, I do. I want to wash up and wash away everything that happened this evening. “Yes.”
“Go ahead. I’ll wait.”
“Okay.”
I grab a change of clothes and go to the bathroom. I lock the door, the latch closing quietly, and run the water. I brush my teeth with extra toothpaste. It stings in the cut, but I don’t care. I need to erase the disgusting, slimy feel of Jamie Thornton’s tongue. After gargling four times with mouthwash, I strip, dumping everything on the floor, and walk into the glass stall. I adjust the water until it’s almost scalding and scrub myself with enough soap to clean an entire high school cheerleading squad. It’s too bad there’s no bleach in the bathroom.
After I dry myself, I put on a white Tweety Bird night shirt and shorts and come out. The bedroom’s dimly lit by the one small lamp on my bedside table. Tony’s still there, just like he said he would be. The sight’s comforting, like a shield between me and the world. How strange that I’d feel that way about him. But how many guys would come to my rescue the way he did, make sure I got home safely and take care of me?
He’s in one of my two chairs, which he’s moved closer to the bed. His back is slightly curved, his legs stretched. The pose looks indolent and relaxed—a predator in repose—but there’s nothing indolent and relaxed about whatever is going through his head, from the icy intent in his narrowed, faraway eyes.
I check the time. I was in the bathroom for almost forty minutes. He shifts, and the light hits his hand. I notice a rust-red crusting over the knuckles.
“You’re hurt,” I say.
He looks slightly amused at the idea. “Me?”
“Your hand.”
He glances down, flexing his fingers. “It’s nothing.”
I go to the bathroom and bring back a warm, wet towel, along with his jacket. I give him the jacket, then take his hand and gently wipe away the blood, checking to make sure there aren’t any serious injuries. Once I’m done, I eye the other hand. He gives it to me without a word. It’s bloody, too. I clean it with care.
“Told you it was nothing.” Tony’s voice is artificially facile, an attempt at nonchalance that doesn’t really come off. “Go to sleep, Iris.”
“You’re probably busy. I shouldn’t have asked you to stay.” I shouldn’t continue to impose when I’ve lost what little hold I had over that thread of memory.
A corner of his mouth lifts into a faint smile. “After you go to sleep.”
“I can’t fall asleep while someone watches,” I say, climbing into bed and pulling the sheet all the way to my chin. Part of me thinks what’s happening here is surreal, but another part is anxious, full of anticipatory flutter, as the same little feather that tickled my mind earlier returns, this time more persistent.
He leans back in the chair and looks up at the ceiling. “Nobody’s watching you now. Sleep.”
“You can’t just order someone to sleep like that.”
Did he flinch? I can’t really be sure.
I stay tense under the sheet, waiting for lightning to strike and reveal some piece of memory that’s buried in my head, but nothing comes. Disappointment slowly permeates me, and I swallow a sigh. I should’ve known it wouldn’t be that easy. But this is the closest I’ve ever gotten to sensing memories that have nothing to do with music in the last thirty-odd months.
And I know instinctively that Tony is
the key.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Anthony
Eventually, Iris falls asleep, the quiet sound of her breathing even and slow. I ease the kinks out of my stiff neck and study her in the dim light.
When she asked me to stay, I felt like a man given the key to a treasure chest. Edgar said I was confused, projecting onto her what I want to see.
But looking at her freshly scrubbed face, I can’t help but notice the same delicate curves of her cheekbones, the same small nose and full lips. How can I be confused? I worshipped her, have her etched in my heart and soul.
Then what was Lauren?
That was different. I was younger. Still wallowing in grief.
So you don’t grieve for Ivy now?
Of course I do. I’ll always grieve for her, the way I still grieve for Katherine. But looking at Iris, I have to question if she really is Ivy somehow—
She died, Tony.
I take her long-fingered hand in mine gently. Just look at it—that’s Ivy’s hand—
Lauren had long fingers, too. They don’t mean anything.
If Edgar could hear half these thoughts or the debate I’m having with myself right now, he’d worry himself sick.
Maybe I am crazy. How much is sanity worth if clinging to it means walking away from this woman right now and never looking back? Because if I accept that Edgar is right, I need to get the hell out of here and forget I ever met Iris.
I trace the scar on her palm with my forefinger. Isn’t it proof that I’m right? But when I asked her about it, she said it came from a car accident. And she wasn’t lying. I looked at her carefully for even the slightest hint of deception, but there was nothing.
If Iris is really Ivy, and bent on pretending like she doesn’t know me to punish me, then Ivy’s become a remarkable actress, one who can stick to her role even through a traumatic attack.
Some things about her add up all too well—her musical ability, her appearance, the scar on her palm. Other things add up to a one-way ticket to an asylum. Her reaction to me, as though I were a complete stranger. The lack of tattoo—if she’d had it lasered off, it wouldn’t have left a scar like that. Her ties to Sam, whose sleaziness has grown along with his bank account, and Byron Pearce, who thinks I’m a piece of shit.