His to Own: 50 Loving States, Arkansas

by Theodora Taylor

  “Eight more days,” is all she texts back.

  When I get back to the apartment, John’s already out of the shower, and he’s got our plates set up on the same coffee table where the box Sandy sent me used to be. I can feel his curious gaze on me as I go over to the small wine rack sitting on the kitchen counter. Since it’s Friday, and I don’t have to work the next day, I pick out a white to go along with this week’s beer.

  We’ve established that beer is “old” to John. So I’ve been trying a variety of beers from Pabst to Bud to see if anything sparks a memory.

  But so far, the only thing we’ve really established is that John likes beer and doesn’t “understand” wine.

  He squints at the Stella Artois I set in front of him, takes a swig, and says, “That’s new. But I don’t like it as much as the Yuengling from last week.”

  “Okay,” I say, trying but failing to keep the irritation out of my tone as I take a sip of my wine.

  He continues to watch me instead of eating. And after a moment, he says, “Got something to say, Doc?”

  “No,” I answer, picking up my plate. “You’re just…I don’t know, frustrating sometimes.”

  Another long silence, and I’m deeply aware I’m the only one eating during it. Finally he says, “I’m frustrating you?”

  No, he’s actually the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time. The best part of a shitty day. But of course I don’t say that. Of course, I let the old Nitra take a hold of me and snap, “You just don’t seem to be putting any effort into finding out who you really are. Hell, I think you’ve searched harder for vegan recipes than clues about your past this last month.”

  A dark look flashes across his face. And in an instant, I’m brought back to the episode on the eighth floor. When it looked like he would kill our neuro res because of something he triggered in John’s past.

  But he doesn’t say anything. Just sits there, as if waiting for me to go on.

  So I take another sip of wine, washing down the food before I say, “I mean, let’s face it. You’re a very good-looking guy. The chances of you not have a girlfriend are like zero to—”

  “I could say the same about you, Doc. I’m still trying to figure out how a pretty gal like yourself ain’t already taken.”

  The lazy smile’s back, and now it’s my turn to study him. To wonder what he’s really thinking about this line of conversation.

  “You know what? I’m tired and I’ve had a really long day. Do you mind if we just watch a movie or something instead of talking?”

  A beat. Then, “Sure, Doc. Whatever you want.”

  What I want is to not talk for a while. Or think. So I get up and pop Sweeney Todd into the player, and we finish our dinner, letting Johnny Depp and Helena Bonham-Carter do all the talking and singing. I clear our plates when we’re done eating, and only come back to the living room because it’s easier than having a conversation about going to bed early.

  I settle onto the other half of the couch and keep trying not to think. Maybe it works. The next thing I know, John is waking me with a tender kiss pressed to the side of my head.

  I’m no longer on the other side of the couch, and my head is in his lap. A familiar position at this point, because I’ve been falling asleep during our nightly musical wind down a lot this week.

  Fatigue. That’s a sign of depression, I think to myself. And I have to wonder if all of this: the sleepiness, the unorthodox relationship, the sudden sadness about leaving West Virginia, are latent signs of a grief I’d thought I was dealing with by upending my life to go to med school. My past and my present have been colliding a lot this week and apparently it’s exhausting me.

  “C’mon, Doc,” he says, interrupting my thoughts about Chanel. “Let’s go to bed.”

  When we get to the bedroom, I go straight to my long unused pajama drawer.

  “You looking to get punished tonight, Doc?” he asks my back as I strip out of my scrubs and bra.

  I don’t answer, just reach for the t-shirt I pulled out. But before I can put it on, he’s behind me, hard erection pressed into my back. Reminding me of how fast he can move now that he’s no longer using his cane.

  “How do you think this is going to end, Doc?” he asks, voice low and mean.

  “I don’t know, John,” I answer, purposefully stressing the name I’ve been forbidden to use. “With me sleeping on the couch because I’m too tired and bitchy to do this with you right now?”

  “You tired, Doc?” A hand finds my breast, stroking it, bringing it to life. “You don’t feel too tired to me. And as for the bitchiness, I got some ideas about how to handle that.”

  His hand drops from my breast and slips inside my underwear, fingers working me. I bite my lips, determined not to respond, determined to stay angry for reasons I can’t quite explain. But his touch is magic, and soon I feel my tightly held tension slipping away, my resistance weakening as my body becomes softer and softer.

  “You had a bad day, Doc?” he asks, voice thick in my ear. “You need me to do the doctoring tonight? Make you feel better?”

  I nod. Silently, helplessly, having no idea that’s what I needed until he said the words out loud.

  “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do,” he informs me. “I’m going to put you under me. Punish you for this pajama move you just tried to pull. Then we’re going to talk about whatever the hell is bothering you, because I just now decided we ain’t going to be one of those couples who go to bed mad.”

  Oh God, his touch is melting me. Making even the hardest parts of my heart feel softer. But there must be a little bit of bitchy Nitra left inside, because I answer. “We’re not a couple. I’m leaving next week. We’re just—”

  I cut off when I’m suddenly spun around and all but shoved toward the bed.

  The next thing I know, my back’s hitting the mattress and he’s on top of me. Using his weight to hold me down.

  His erection pushes against me as he reaches across to the nightstand, and even though I’m still wearing panties, I can feel him inside my slit. Hard as stone.

  Same as his expression as he rears back, holding my gaze while he puts on the condom.

  Same as his voice when he pulls aside my panties and roughly pushes himself into me.

  “Say that again,” he growls, voice guttural with unchecked anger.

  It’s an unfair command. Because as soon as I open my mouth to point out all our truths: that we’re not an official couple, that I’ll be leaving soon, that neither of us really knows who the other is—he devours my words with an angry kiss.

  I end up moaning against his lips as he slams my arms above my head and holds them there with his good hand, grinding into me with coarse strokes. So good. So good. I cry out, reveling in the way his lean hips feel between my legs. Loving how he makes me forget. About Chanel. About Ronnie.

  None of that matters as he fucks me into the bed.

  He’s so rough in his take down, dominating me completely in just a few moves, but I soon realize this isn’t the punishment.

  No, the punishment is when he pulls out, then eases back into me. But this time, he doesn’t move. Just kisses me. Lazy as a Sunday morning, even though it’s Friday night.

  “What are you doing?” I demand, nipping at his lips. “C’mon. C’mon!”

  But he doesn’t come on. Not until my entire body cools down, but still doesn’t completely forget the fire he started to build up inside me.

  “If we’re not going to—” I begin in a huff.

  Only to have him start moving inside me again.

  So good. So good. Until he stops. Again.

  “What the…” I try to squirm under him, try to initiate the movement he’s refusing me. But it’s no use. He’s too heavy.

  So we lie there. Until I once again begin to cool down. Only to have him once again start lazily fucking me. Hard enough to feel pleasurable, but not so hard I actually come.

  When he stops the third time, I scre
am out in frustration, tugging on my hands, “Just let me up, if you’re not going to—!”

  “Oh, I’m going to, Doc,” he says, slamming my hands right back down on the bed. “I just need an update on our relationship status before I do.”

  I bare my teeth at him. “I don’t even have a Facebook page.”

  My angry protest only seems to amuse him even more. “Then humor me, Doc. Answer these questions for me. What would you do if the both of us walked out of this apartment together? Would you claim me as your man? Let people know you were my lady?”

  “Claim who?” I all but spit back in his face, hating him in that moment for forcing this conversation after the second longest day of my life. “You don’t have a name, or a social security number, or anything else that proves any of this is real. Most the time I don’t call you anything, because there is literally nothing to call you.”

  He goes still above me, his face colder than I’ve ever seen it. “You think this ain’t real, Doc? You think we ain’t something just because I don’t have a name?”

  He jerks into me, punctuating his next question with a dragging thrust. “Well, what is this you’re feeling between your legs? Who’s nameless dick are you about to come all over because you can’t help yourself? Can’t keep yourself from feeling for me the same shit I’m feeling for you? How many times I got to make you come before you admit no matter where you go, you fucking belong to me. How long’s that going take? How long?”

  This time he doesn’t stop. This time the orgasm he’s been holding back from me rushes through me. Lighting up and then blowing out my entire nervous system, as the pent up pleasure finally has its release.

  He gives me what I want. Which is why I really don’t understand what comes next. Me screaming filthy words as the orgasm threatens to shut down my central nervous system. Me babbling apologies for how I acted, for the insensitive things I said.

  Then me moving beneath him. Begging him, “Please come, baby. I want to feel you. Please...”

  His forehead rests down on mine. “No, Doc,” he says, continuing to hold back. “I love you so fucking much. I don’t want to come in you if you don’t feel the same. I can’t. I can’t…”

  His words get loss in an aching groan. And I can tell holding back like this is hurting him. That he’s in pain. Because of me.

  I don’t owe him my heart. Or my love. I’m leaving in less than a week. The truth is, it would be wiser to draw back, to try to wean ourselves off each other so it doesn’t hurt so bad when I get on the plane to California.

  I think all of that. But out loud I say, “Baby, you know I love you. I’m a doctor and you were a patient, but you’re here with me in my bed. Obviously, I love you. It’s making me crazy!”

  My words do what my body and pleas couldn’t. He comes hard above me, his whole body involuntarily shuddering as I murmur, “I’m sorry. So sorry for confusing you even more with the way I acted tonight. I love you. Love you so much, baby.”

  Chapter 12

  So. Much. Drama.

  The complete opposite of anything I wanted when I came out here. But I don’t take the words back. And I can’t bring myself to regret them. Even when he rises up and climbs out of bed, giving the bad thoughts ample opportunity to rush in and tell me how crazy I’ve become over a guy I just met.

  But the warmth of my confession stays with me as I listen to the sound of him going into the bathroom to clean up. And the truth of my words is still glowing inside me when he returns and gets back into bed, spooning me into his arms, and resting his heavy cast against my naked breasts.

  “I’m going to take that off for you before I leave,” I tell him, fingering the cast. “I just need to run into Meirton tomorrow and get some kind of oscillating tool at the hardware store.”

  “Meirton… can I come with you?”

  “Into Meirton? Sure, I guess,” I say. “You want to get out of the house?”

  “I need to stop by the police station. They still have my backpack from the accident. I’ve been meaning to go there for a while, but…”

  “The bus doesn’t stop here, so you needed a ride.” Belatedly I remember Meirton is where his accident took place. Where he lost his past.

  “Why didn’t you ask me to take you earlier?” I demand.

  “Because I didn’t feel like leeching off of you even more than I already am, but if you’re going there already…”

  Being super-careful about his cast, even though it’s about to come off, I turn around in his arms.

  “Hey, baby, you’re not leeching off me! You’re just getting better. And you’ve done me the service of healing here rather than someplace else. Please don’t ever put it that way again. Plus, all the cooking you’ve been doing? So worth the price of rent, which by the way is like pennies compared to what I’ll be paying in Seattle.”

  I can’t see him in the dark, but I can sense his agitation in the way he pulls me closer, like he’s afraid of losing me even though I’m right here.

  “I like doing for you, Doc,” he says. “Taking care of you. Making sure you’re fed and fucked everyday. But I want to do more for you. Provide for you.”

  I huff out a laugh. “Baby, I’m a doctor! I don’t need providing for.”

  “I don’t know about that. I saw your student loan bill on the counter the other day.”

  I grimace. “Yeah, well, that bill is kind of intense. But trust me, I’ll be all right financially. I don’t want you worrying about my stuff. I’m the only one allowed to worry in this relationship, got that?”

  It’s a joke, but he doesn’t laugh like he usually would. We sit there in the dark, and this time it’s me who can practically hear him thinking.

  I’m not surprised he hasn’t fallen asleep when he eventually speaks up a few minutes later. “I’ve got a plan brewing in my head to follow you to Seattle. You know that, right, Doc?”

  No, I didn’t, but I guess maybe I did, because eventually I nod and say, “Yeah.”

  “And when I find my way back to you, I don’t want it to be like this. You making money. Me not bringing anything in. I want us to be together, make a life together. I want you to forget I was ever anybody’s patient.”

  His hope, stated so sincerely, makes my heart ache. And though I wish I could let him dream, doctors simply aren’t that fanciful.

  “Look, I understand where you’re coming from. I do. I know how it feels to want something it doesn’t necessarily feel like you can have. I’m in West Virginia now because I got rejected from every other combined program I applied to. And I’m super lucky The Children’s Hospital of Seattle happened to be looking for a media savvy fellow this year. But your case…”

  I struggle for a way to break it to him gently. “The thing is, you can’t do much without a proper form of ID. If you want to get a job, you’re going to have to go through a pretty intense process. There’s not much precedence out there for someone without an identity trying to apply for all the stuff people need to be employed, get health insurance, and open a bank account. In most amnesia cases, the patient has a family, or at least some form of ID to connect to a name. Cases like yours are in a legal gray area. You’ll have to pick out a new name. And we’d need to get you a lawyer, someone to advocate for you so you can file for your new name. It’ll be like you have to become a brand new person.”

  “That’s fine with me,” he answers, voice gritty with determination. “Whatever it takes to be with you, I’ll do it.”

  His words are like him. So sweet. So loving. So completely insane.

  “Hold on,” I have to say. “You’re not okay with me calling you John, but you’re like ‘Sure!’ when I say you’ll need a new name and identity in order to come work and live in Seattle with me?”

  “Now you’re upset about me wanting to be with you?” he asks me in the dark, his voice tight with irritation.

  “I’m not upset. I’m just…confused about why you’re willing to take on a whole new life when you haven’
t done much to recover the life you already have. I love you, but I’m also a practical person. So I’m honestly wondering if you shouldn’t start seeing somebody before you make any final decisions about moving out to Seattle.”

  “Somebody,” he repeats.

  “Yes, somebody like a neuropsychologist.”

  John’s arms stiffen around me. “I already saw a head doctor in the hospital. It didn’t help too much.”

  “I’m not talking about a psychotherapist. I mean the kind of specialist we don’t have at UWV/Mercy. A neuropsychologist could assist you with your thinking skills, assess your recent behavior, and help you emotionally process what you’re going through.”

  John’s arms were stiff before, but now they drop all the way down. “You’re using a lot of fancy words to say you think I need to go see somebody because the way I feel about you is crazy.”

  “No, the way I feel about you is crazy!” I shoot back. “I have no excuse. But you have a TBI, and that means—”

  “I’m not crazy. I love you. Why can’t you accept that? Why can’t you just let me love you?” he demands, his voice so even, he might as well be yelling for all the angry emotion I can tell he’s holding back.

  “Because my specialty is cancer. And I’ve seen what happens when people deny what’s really going on. When they don’t take the time to process it. And I can’t tell you how many parents—even the ones with excellent insurance—refuse to let their child see a therapist and end up letting them die without any real sense or understanding of what’s happening to them…” I don’t realize I’m crying until I can’t speak anymore.

  “Doc? Doc?” he says, sounding alarmed.

  A light switches on and the dark is replaced by John’s worried face.

  “What’s going on?” he asks, frowning as he uses his good hand to wipe the tears off my face.

  I shake my head. “Nothing…it’s stupid.”

  “Fuck that, Doc. I said we were talking after I put you under me. And you ain’t under me no more. So talk.”

  I don’t want to talk about it. Any of it. But then suddenly, that’s all I’m doing. Talking. “Ronnie Greenwell died last night. I came into the hospital to do rounds with my attending, and they were like, ‘Sorry, she went into a coma and stopped breathing.” And my attending told her mom what happened. But her mom wanted to talk to me because I’m black, and she wanted to hear it from a black doctor. And I tried to explain it to her, but she just kept saying, ‘You said she could go home. You said she could go home.’ Which wasn’t what we’d said. The only hospice with an open bed is in Pittsburgh, and we’d said she could go home until we found Ronnie something closer to where her mother works in Ohio. I tried to explain this, but Ronnie’s mom didn’t understand, and I couldn’t make her understand. And Ronnie’s not Chanel, but it was hard, because they had the same kind of cancer. And I used to be like Ronnie’s mother. I used to not understand what happened to Chanel either, but now I do. I understand exactly what happens when you can’t find a bone marrow match because your kid’s African-American, and the chemo stops working, and there’s nothing you can do other than make someone who really shouldn’t be dying comfortable while they die. And usually knowing why it’s happening makes it better. But today it didn’t make it better. Her mom kept screaming, ‘I want to take her home! I want to take my baby home!’ At one point, all I could do was hold her and tell her, ‘She’s already home. I’m sorry, but Ronnie’s already gone home.’ Falling back on my mom’s religious platitudes instead of this degree I upended my life for. But I had to tell her that sometimes medicine just doesn’t work. Sometimes it’s completely useless. Just like my degree!”