Before & After

by Nazarea Andrews

  Relief sags my shoulders. "Hang on," I yell. It takes a few minutes, but I make it to the door and pull it open.

  Tommy is standing there with a bag of food and a hopeful look. “You hungry?

  I tilt my head. “Tommy you don’t have to take care of me. I’m ok.”

  He hesitates, some of the light in his going out. “Sorry. I—you remind me of my wife. She was stubborn and brave. I didn’t mean to be pushy.”

  “How long ago did she pass away?” I ask, softly.

  Grief flickers in his eyes, “Four years ago. They said it’ll get easier, but it doesn’t. It just gets familiar.”

  "Peyton. My name is Peyton," I say. "And I am hungry. I was working." He glances over the bed, at the little notepad that I've scribbled on and ripped apart, the notebook that's spread out with names and lines crisscrossing like a fucked up map.

  "Well, eat something. And try to get some sleep tonight," he says.

  I nod and take the bag. "Thank you."

  "Need me to bring you anything in the morning?"

  I shake my head and he wilts but doesn't push. Just gives me a quick smile before he ducks out. "Lock up behind me," he advises and then he's gone.

  I do.

  It begins a routine that quickly becomes comfortable. He comes by in the morning with breakfast and whatever random thing he thinks I need. And in the evening, when his shift is ending, he comes by again with dinner. Sometimes he stays and we talk about the hotel and what he did during the day. He learns quickly that I don’t like questions and stops asking after a few days. But he’s a constant presence, with stories about his wife, and the forty years they spent together before cancer ripped apart their happy life.

  It still bugs me when I call him for the first time.

  “Tommy? It’s Peyton, in 337.” I hesitate and he laughs.

  “I only know the one Peyton,” he teases. “Now what do you need?”

  “Do you think you could help me downstairs? I have appointments at the hospital all day—”

  “I’ll be right down. Get your stuff together.”

  He hangs up before I get the “thank you” out of my mouth and I let out a little sigh.

  When Tommy knocks on the door five minutes later, I’m ready and vaguely nervous. I’ve got more information about the retrograde amnesia, and about myself.

  But knowing that I’m the daughter of a politician from Tennessee, that I hate my family and spent a good chunk of my high school years in and out of rehab—none of that tells me why I’m living in Austin or who the hell Rike is to me.

  And it should have come back by now. That’s the part that bothers me the most. That my memory is still gone.

  “You’re quiet today, Peyton,” Tommy observes.

  “Do you think, that if a person doesn’t remember where they came from, they’re still bound by the decisions that they made before?” Tommy throws me a startled look and I wave a hand dismissively. “Never mind.”

  “Is that what’s wrong? That you can’t remember?”

  We’ve talked, briefly and vaguely, about my accident. He knows something is wrong, and sometimes, when he’s talking about a movie he’s watched recently, I stare at him with a blankness that is frightening.

  I stare at the city we’re driving through. I feel a strange longing for it, even as I find it too big and too foreign. It’s not Nashville. Not Sweet Water. I miss my quiet, backwater little town in the middle of nowhere Tennessee.

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  “Peyton, no one gets to decide who you are but you. Even if you had your memories.”

  I think of Rike, and how easy it is to be with him. How present he is, even when we were both lost in our own worlds.

  How fucking happy I was.

  I’m so tired of thinking about him, of being pulled into feelings I don’t know what to do with, and that stupid fucking feeling of loss.

  I can’t mourn losing someone I never had. And maybe, before was different. But Rike was never mine. Not the me I am today.

  I let the thought roll around my head as Tommy pulls into the visitor bay at St. David’s. There’s a line of cars waiting and I sit quietly, waiting as he inches forward until he finally puts the truck in park and hops out, tugging my wheelchair down before he helps me out and helps me into it, stepping back and letting me situate myself. When I nod at him, he grabs my black purse—a new purse, one he brought to me on the third morning at the hotel—and wheels me to the sidewalk. “I’m going to park, and I’ll take you in,” he says.

  “Tommy, you don’t have to do that,” I say, but he’s already jogged away, sliding into the truck and pulling away to park. He’s going to be in trouble if he stays with me. They’ll miss him at the hotel.

  “Peyton.”

  I jerk and look around. The voice is vaguely familiar, and it clicks suddenly when I see Scott. He’s walking toward me, smoking.

  He looks like shit, exhaustion clear on his face even under the oversized sunglasses and ball cap. He’s hunched forward, almost hiding. “God, where the fuck have you been?” he breathes, leaning down and hugging me.

  I’m stiff in his arms, and he seems to realize it, because he pulls back and stares at me.

  “Holy fuck. You don’t know, do you? You still don’t know who we are.”

  “Feel free to clue me in,” I snap.

  He takes off his ball cap and ruffles his hair, a scowl lining his forehead. “I’m going to fucking kick his ass.” Scott crouches. “This wasn’t the deal. We wouldn’t have agreed if we knew it was going to take this long for him to come clean about shit. I’ll talk to him.”

  “Don’t,” I say, and his face goes pale. “I don’t know who or what I was to you or Lindsay. I don’t know what Rike is playing at. And I don’t fucking care.”

  “Peyton, you don’t mean that,” he protests.

  “I do. I’m not that girl. I don’t even fucking remember that girl. So if he wants to play god with someone’s life and memories, he’ll have to find someone else because I’m done.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  It’s a good question. I refuse to go to my parents. That bridge isn’t quite burned, but I’d set fire to it before I crossed it.

  “It’s not your concern,” I say.

  “You’re my girlfriend’s best friend, and you’re Rike’s—” He stops, and I lean forward.

  “I’m what? What the hell am I to him?”

  He shrugs. “You’re his. You think you can walk away, and he might even let you, for a time. Because he’s a dumbass. But it won’t stick, Peyton. Rike doesn’t know how to be without you.”

  I smile, so cold it hurts even me. “He’ll have to fucking figure it out.”

  “Peyton?”

  Scott tenses, and his gaze darts to Tommy. Back to me, questioning.

  “Pey, is he bothering you?” Tommy asks. He sounds cold. Threatening, for the first time since I’ve met him, and Scott straightens slowly.

  “Dude, she’s practically family,” he says. As if it were true, and an excuse. It’s neither.

  “We’re going to be late,” I say and Tommy’s pushing me forward.

  “You’re really just going to leave. Let this random dude into your life, and ignore your family? Is that it?”

  “My family?” I bark. “Are you fucking insane? Because keeping shit like who I am isn’t what family does. Fuck you, Scott.”

  Tommy pushes me forward, another two steps.

  “Lindsay is paralyzed. She won’t ever fucking walk again, Peyton. And she needs her best friend. You don’t want me or Rike—ok. But she needs you.”

  I glance back at him, and I know he's telling the truth.

  "I'm sorry," I whisper. "I really am. But I need to figure out who I am and what the hell I'm doing. I can't be strong for someone else if I can't even figure out where I belong."

  He gives me a sad smile. "You belong with us, Peyton. You always have."

  ***

  Tommy is quie
t the entire way home, after my appointments end. He gets me back to my hotel room, and I curl up on the bed. The doctor had nothing helpful to say, and no clue why I haven't remembered anything. She's ordered new scans of my brain, but what the hell will that do?

  I'm so tired I can't even think, and Scott's words are still running in my head, an endless loop that keeps mocking me.

  "Why are you walking away from them?" Tommy asks, pulling chocolate milk from my mini fridge and pouring a cup. He’s watching me as he settles into his chair and sips it thoughtfully. Waiting for an answer I don’t have.

  I'm quiet for a long time, thinking about it, and he finally stands. "Don't push away people who care about you because they did something out of misguided good intentions. My Luce did that once, a few years after we married. It was right after we found we couldn’t have children. She thought I should find someone who could give me children. Almost destroyed us.” His dark, old eyes find mine, and I can see the sadness there still. “Don't throw away a life you've built because you're scared and can't remember building it. You come from good things and good places, and that guy, he cared about you. Maybe it's okay to think about that. To care about it too."

  "They know who I am and they’re not telling me."

  "But maybe Rike has a reason for it. Maybe you should listen to his reason." He hesitates. "What do you have to lose, Peyton?"

  I think about it for a long time, when he's gone. Until my eyes are drooping closed.

  Nothing. I have nothing left to lose.

  Chapter 9: Before

  The tattoo shop has become one of her favorite places. Which makes me irrationally happy. She’s becoming a fixture in my life. Her flame red hair brightens my view from the stage on Thursday and most Fridays, and she shows up at Keegan’s unexpectedly—the old bastard even warms up to her when she stops by and chats with him before she drifts to me and snuggles into my side.

  But for all that we’re together (for all intents and purposes), she’s keeping part of herself wrapped in secrets and dodges my questions. There’s so much she doesn’t say—questions she dodges and slides away from, a past that she doesn’t want to share with me.

  She’s balancing cross-legged on a stool at the bar while Scotty and I finish the setup and I glance at her, her eyes distant as she taps away on that damn computer.

  “What is she working on?”

  I shrug.

  “You don’t know?” Scotty demands, his voice startled.

  I give him the flat warning glare that usually manages to shut him up, but he just shakes his head, laughing. “Ask her.”

  “Tried that,” I grunt. He huffs, a quiet noise of displeasure, and I nod.

  “Are we playing the new song?" He asks.

  I hesitate. I don't usually sing. I prefer to be in the background, playing drums while Scott plays rock god. It's where I'm comfortable--I've never wanted to be a rock star. I just want to create shit.

  But occasionally, I'll write something that is too personal and he'll insist. I glance at where she's perched at the bar in a gravity-defying contortion as she works on something she won't share.

  "Let's play it by ear," I say simply and he grunts in acknowledgement. "Can you finish this?" An eyebrow arches but he nods and I slap him on the back before I jog across the bar to where she's sitting.

  I come up behind her, slipping my arms around her waist and pressing a kiss to the curve of her neck. I inhale the scent of her and get a quick peek at the computer screen, the words blurring as she closes it quickly and turns in my arm, her lips lifting up and finding mine. I smile against her as her fingers dig into my scalp and she shivers a little as I lick across her lips before pulling back.

  “What do monkeys wear when they cook?”

  Her eyes brighten and one corner of her lips hooks up into a grin. “I don’t know. What?”

  “An ape-ron.” I deadpan and she laughs.

  I lean in and steal another kiss, desperate for the taste of her laugh.

  Peyton always tastes sweet and light, almost addictive, but when she’s laughing, it’s more than that—it’s like drinking down sunshine, and I can’t resist that. She sighs a little and I swallow my groan as I pull away from her, licking my lips to catch the last bit of her taste.

  “Are you staying for the whole set?” I ask huskily.

  She shrugs, her shoulders bare and delicate above a little tank top that makes me itch to pull it off of her. “Depends on how adoring your fans get.”

  I bite down on the acidic response that wants to rise. I haven’t touched a girl—haven’t even looked at one—since before that first night that I talked to her. It’s been hell to listen to Scott fucking girls at the loft while I sat with my hard-on and fantasies of her lips around me. But I hadn’t touched them and I hadn’t pushed her for the more I knew she’d willingly give. Because there were too many secrets between us still.

  “What are you working on?” I ask abruptly and her eye widen. Shutter. Block me out, and even though I expect it, it still fucking hurts.

  She sees it and reaches for me. “Jokes.”

  I pull back and shake my head. “This won’t work if we refuse to trust each other,” I say and her eyes flare with hurt and denial. I hate seeing that look in her eyes. But I bite back the apology and step back, toward the stage.

  I want her to stop me. To explain. She doesn’t, and with a sigh, I return to Scott. Slip behind my drum set and sprawl on the stool. “I need to get fucked,” I grit out.

  His eyes widen, and I know what he’s thinking. That it’s a bad idea, that I’ll hate myself for it later, that I’m self-sabotaging.

  But he doesn’t say any of those things. He just nods at me and kicks off the set, and I follow him on the drums.

  And I know that a pretty girl who looks nothing like Peyton will fall asleep in my bed tonight, after my best friend and I fuck her for hours.

  If I know him at all, he’s already picked her.

  Chapter 10: After

  I want to drown myself in you,

  consume your soul,

  until there is no you. no me.

  only us.

  (Rike’s poems to Peyton)

  The phone is sitting on the table in front of me, and I twitch, smoothing my pants down. Again. I should have set this up for anywhere but here. It occurs to me now, when it’s too late to do anything to fix it.

  I let out an unsteady breath and push my hair back. Stare at the phone. He hasn’t called to cancel, so I have to assume he’s coming.

  I almost scream when the knock on the door comes, even though I’m expecting it. Waiting on it. It still startles me. I shift and wheel my chair to the door and pull it open.

  Rike is standing there, and for just a moment we stare at each other. His eyes are desperate and alive with hunger, raking over me.

  When Rike looks at me, it’s not just seeing. He devours me with his gaze, claiming every inch of me, a familiarity that hasn’t made sense. It does now, and I feel the press of his gaze on my bare toes, up over my legs and still healing body, lingering a moment on my breasts, and finally, coming to meet my own gaze. It’s invasive, like a touch, and I want to be bothered by it more than I am. I want to slap him into submission, want to remind him that I’m not his to look at that way. But instead, I flush, and almost purr, blossoming under the scrutiny.

  “Come in,” I say, and he takes a step into the room. If I were standing, we’d be pressed against each other. As it is, I’m left craning my head back to stare at something other than his crotch. I scoot my wheelchair back, retreating to the far bed, where I sleep.

  He’s quiet while I maneuver from the chair to the bed. “Do you want anything? I’ve got some beer in the fridge.”

  Rike’s eyebrows climb and I shrug. “I don’t like it very much, but Tommy brings random shit by.”

  His features cloud. “You love beer,” he says.

  I blink at him. I haven’t had a beer in years. Since high school. And I hated it.


  “Who is Tommy?” he asks.

  “A friend. He’s been helping me while I stay here—I’m not incredibly mobile with that thing,” I say. He nods. I could add more—explain more—but frankly I don’t think he deserves it.

  “Scott and Lindsay both say you know me. They know me. And neither of them are telling me shit, because you won’t let them.”

  “I have my reasons, Peyton. I need you to trust them.”

  “I can’t,” I say. “I don’t know you.” He flinches and I point at him. “And see that. Right there. That tells me I should and that you aren’t willing to tell my how or why. You do realize how fucked up this is, don’t you?”

  He’s quiet, staring at me.

  I want to sketch that look. Because it’s stealing my breath and breaking my heart.

  “I’m trying, sweetheart,” he whispers. “I need you to work with me.”

  “I want to,” I confess, and his gaze darts to mine. “This is terrifying. Not knowing anything—I want to know. I want to trust that you do and you’re doing this for a reason. But I don’t know you. And I need a reason to trust you. You want me to work with you. But you’re holding all the cards, and I need you to give just a little.”

  He exhales heavily and shifts. I tense and he goes still. “Can I hold you? For just a minute?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I miss holding you. Because seeing you and not being able to touch you is killing me. Because I don’t want to say this.”

  I nod and relief brightens his features as he pushes off the wall and comes to sit next to me. Not content, he reclines against the bed, and pulls me down next to him, arranging me to fit against him. One arm props under my head, and the other wraps around my waist, his fingers playing on the skin exposed under my tank top.

  I can feel him, pressed against me at all points, his scent washing over me, and his lips on my hair.

  And it feels so fucking right. Tears sting my eyes.

  “I met you three years ago,” he says. “You were in my bar, and I was playing the drums. And I think I loved you before we ever spoke.”

  ""We were in love?" I ask.