Forget Us Not

by Melissa Shirley

  “It won’t do to have you standing outside. Come in.” She pulls me through the doorway roughly by her Miss Manners standards, and I tug Sam in behind me.

  We follow her through the house to the library. To his credit, Sam tries to hide his “holy shit” with a whisper but Mom’s back stiffens, and I know she heard. My father is sitting in his chair sipping brandy from a snifter while he pretends to read a folded section of the newspaper. As I clear my throat, he stands, holding the paper at his side.

  Sam has already been judged and found lacking by my mother. My father is our only hope for civility during dinner. “Daddy, this is Sam.”

  An imposing man on any given day, Dad—Judge William O’Dell Currington Carr—stretches his neck to try to gain the height needed to match Sam. “You like baseball?” He removes his glasses and chews on the earpiece.

  Sam smiles, and the stress drains out of me. “Nothing like extra innings in October.”

  It takes just a minute before Dad smiles, pulling Sam farther into the room. He looks back at me over his shoulder. “Why don’t you help your mother see to serving while your friend and I finish watching the game.”

  Because I’ve been dismissed, I walk to the dining room. Mom’s body language is tight with coiled anger.

  She inspects a fork and drops it with a thunk back in its place. “What in God’s name are you doing with that boy?” She braces both hands on the table and fire seethes behind her bright blue irises. “And bringing him home to dinner?” I don’t know what to say, but it doesn’t matter. She continues without taking a breath as she makes her way from place setting to place setting. “I don’t care what you do when you’re outside this house, but here, we don’t play with the trash, and we certainly don’t bring it to dinner.”

  “Excuse me?” What the hell is she talking about? She doesn’t know him. There’s a red tinge around everything I see. He might not have Carr money, but his family owns a semi-successful business that Sam helped build.

  “That boy, that Camden”—she spits the name as though it sickens her to have it in her mouth—“is the son of the woman who split up your Aunt Sally’s marriage. She’s the reason Sally… “Mom lowers her head and sniffs the air as though her action will cleanse the words. “You know what she did.”

  My Aunt Sally committed suicide on the night her husband left her. I’d never known why he left, only that it destroyed my aunt and led to my grandmother’s stroke on the night she’d been told of her daughter’s death.

  Mom’s eyes flash when she comes around the table as though she is no longer worried about tarnishing her reputation with an assault charge brought by her daughter. “Get him out of here. And if I find out you’ve seen him again, I will disown you, and you will have nothing.” She storms through the door to the kitchen to take the back stairs to the second floor probably in search of the flask she keeps in her top drawer. I waste no time getting Sam out of there, faking an illness to convince him to take me home.

  He wanted to come in, to take care of me, but I sent him on his way. We’ve only been dating for a short time, less than three months, but my heart aches as I know I’ll never see him again. I can’t. My mother is nothing if not truthful in her threats.

  I spend the night crying, cuddled with my pillow, each sob inspired by the tenderness I am missing. From the moment I first saw him, I knew he was my soulmate. From the first time he held my hand, I wanted to spend every minute with him.

  I can live without the money, but I can’t live without Sam. It’s time to be my own woman, someone my mother will have to respect, maybe even admire, for my courage and devotion to something—someone, finally.

  It’s the middle of the night, but I throw on a pair of jeans and drive across town to his apartment. It’s smaller than mine but less sterile, and he’ll be there asleep in his bed. Rather than knock, I turn the always unlocked knob and tiptoe to his bedroom. I need to hold him, breathe him in, and be held in return.

  I flip his blanket back and move beside him. “Marry me, Sam.”

  “What’s wrong? Are you okay?” His voice is slow with sleep, but alarm is written in the lines on his face as he sits up, almost depositing me onto the floor. “Kenz?”

  “I love you.” It’s the first time either of us has said the words to the other, and he pulls me into his arms. I’m safe in the hug I need. There is nothing in the world like cuddling with Sam Camden.

  “I love you, but don’t you think we should…” Whatever else he’s saying doesn’t matter. I’m too busy composing a plan to get him to agree.

  “No. I don’t need to get to know you better. I want to marry you. Waiting a year or two years won’t change that.”

  Though we’ve talked on the phone nearly every day, this would technically have been our sixth date thanks to his work schedule and my month-long trip to Europe in September. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. More than anything.”

  He leans forward to kiss me. I don’t think for a moment of anything other than his arms around me, his body pressing into mine. He’s obviously been in bed for a while and wears only a pair of shorts. I luxuriate in the smooth skin and the hard lines that make his body so mesmerizing. I can’t touch enough of him. Aside from kissing like he’s an Olympic medalist in the sport, he takes complete control, stripping me of my clothes and worshiping my body as though I’m worthy of such attention.

  I’m ready to burst with longing. I cry out, the sensation of being full almost enough to shatter me without a single stroke. My breasts heave against his chest, and my hands clutch at his hair, his shoulders, anywhere I can hang on. He murmurs sweet words my mind is too hazy to comprehend, but as I come apart beneath him, he shudders and kisses me until I lose the last bit of breath I have left.

  Marrying this man is my every dream.

  I awake to complete silence. He isn’t standing over the bed or sleeping in the chair. He’s gone, and I panic—shallow breaths that come one on top of another, blurred vision, trembling that resembles a cold chattering in my arms and legs. The dream doesn’t matter anymore. All I can think of is Sam and where he might be, how I must find him so my heart will slow down and I won’t die from a coronary issue.

  Sitting up completely, I swing my legs to the side and pull myself upright. This is no easy task with all the braces and casts rendering fifty percent of my limbs useless, but I manage to put all my weight on the good leg and try to counterbalance my injuries with courage and desperation.

  “Are you trying to escape?”

  “I woke up and you were gone.” My chuckle stems from relief and my own craziness. “Just call me drama queen.”

  He takes the spot beside me on the bed. His skin is smooth against mine, but the pulse in his neck is throbbing at a rate that almost matches the one pulsing inside me. “I had to go fill out some papers. I didn’t want to wake you. Sorry it took so long.”

  It’s easy to smile now that my lungs are back to normal function. As we sit, the dream comes back to me. I want to ask him about it, but I can’t be sure my mind is showing me truths. Would my mother, who seemed so peaceful, really have been so ugly to me because of Sam? I can’t process the information. Instead, I lean against him, clutching his shirt.

  “You okay now?”

  I nod because I am afraid if I open my mouth, the questions will pour out of me, and I don’t know if I am strong enough to face the answers.

  “What’s wrong, Kenz?”

  I swallow it all back and look up at him. “Am I horrible, Sam? I mean, well…am I horrible?” Genetically speaking, the chances are in favor of some lunacy if my mother is the example we’re using as our measuring tape.

  “Why do you ask?” It isn’t quite the denial I’m hoping for.

  “I just have a feeling.” I can’t explain it, but something inside my mind says there’s a lot more to our story that I need to know. I want an answer, but at the same time, I’m afraid of what it might be.

  His slight smile is a beacon of
light in the darkness of my own fear. “I would say you’re complicated.”

  Complicated? “Hateful?”

  “Moody.”

  His counter answers without explanation frustrate me, and I blow out a long breath. “Moody like a long case of PMS or moody like you sleep with your eyes open because I have access to kitchen knives?”

  “Nothing I can’t handle.” He kisses my cheek, and as soon as his lips are safely out of distance, I flail back onto the bed. Reclining next to me, he leans on his elbow and uses his other hand to brush along my forehead. “Marriage is an adjustment. But I would suffer through a lifetime of bad days to see just one of your smiles.”

  “Have I hurt you?”

  He smiles and rubs a spot on the side of his head. “You threw a pot at me once.”

  The heat of shame rolls up my neck in wave after sudden wave. “I meant your heart. Have I hurt your heart?”

  “It’s not broken. That’s the important thing. And you’re alive.” He shakes his head. “When I think of how close I came to losing you…it’s too much.” His eyes are full of tears, and as one escapes, he lays his head in the hollow space between my neck and shoulder and whispers over and over again that he loves me.

  I want to answer him, if for no other reason than to make him better, but I can’t. A bad feeling in the very marrow of my bones is tainting everything else inside me, darkening my heart.

  After a few moments, he raises his head to kiss me on the cheek. I’ll get to the bottom of this one way or another.

  CHAPTER 6

  SAM

  The doctor released her, and I’m driving as carefully as I can to get her home in one piece. Her mother is meeting us there to help me this first night, but after tonight, it will be up to me to care for her, make her love me again.

  I’m torn between keeping our past hidden and being true to what I know she wanted before. I can’t help but wonder if it’s fair to her to go on as though everything between us is fine when only days ago, we were at a breaking point in our relationship. If she comes to love me again before her memory returns, will she stay in love with me when it all comes back to her? And do I owe it to us to try or should I let her go because that’s what I know she wants?

  As I pull into the driveway behind her mother’s BMW, she gasps, and my heart sinks. “I know. It’s not much, but…”

  Her finger taps against the window as she traces the roofline on the cold glass. She turns to me. “What?”

  “I know you wanted something bigger, and we’ll get it, I promise.” I don’t care if I have to resort to robbing banks.

  “Why would I want something bigger? It’s so lovely.” She turns back to the house. “Look at the points, the roof…it’s a fairytale cottage.” Her smile brightens the inside of the car, and she fidgets in her seat. “And the lights inside make it so homey and welcoming. Why would I want anything else?” After another confused look, she gushes on for a minute about latticework windows and stone facing, even something about planter boxes for the spring. As though she knows I need to hear them, she stops mid-sentence. “It’s our fairytale.”

  God help me, if she goes back to the way she was, I might hit her over the head to try to bring this part of her back.

  “Do you want to go in?”

  She reaches to smooth her hair as if she’s afraid of what the house will think of her. “I feel like I should be wearing a ball gown and singing with birds.” She’s said as much to me before, but more with disdain than this tone of happiness.

  I stop at the door to slip the key in, and she runs her fingers over the wood. “Oh, a curved top.” She’s found wonder in a door. I like seeing everything through her eyes, as though all of our life together is a marvel.

  I want nothing more than to carry her to bed and tuck her in, but she pulls on my neck the same as she would yank the reins on a horse to force a quick whoa. If she owned one more ounce of sheer strength, she would have broken my neck for sure. “Wait. I want to see.”

  “Okay.” I cradle her, stepping in a small circle so she can take in the three walls and the opening to the kitchen.

  It isn’t enough for her, and she squirms in my arms. “Put me down.”

  “Doctor said only walk as you need to.”

  She cups my cheeks with her hand and uses her eyes to enchant me. “Please.”

  “For a minute.” I’m powerless to deny her.

  Her mother comes down from the loft and frowns. “Sweetheart, you should be in bed. I’ve made it up for you.” My mother-in-law shoots me a squinty look. I can’t tell what it means, so I ignore it.

  Kenzie also ignores her mother and gazes over her shoulder at me. “Did we just move in?”

  “No. Dad gave us the house right after the wedding.”

  “And I didn’t hang a picture or put out a single do-dad or whatnot?” She glares at her mother as though there is blame to be placed there. I should talk to her about it, but I don’t want to risk upsetting what we have going on. Mrs. Carr’s problems with Kenzie are hers. I have my own to deal with.

  “We were hoping to move so you didn’t want to…um…”

  “Move?” She hops around to face me. “No. I could never love any other place as much as I love this one.” Before I can answer her request, she sucks in a breath. “Oh, we could sand this floor and make it shine like a new penny. Can we?”

  “If you want.” I’ll spend a few months on my knees with a hand sander it if it will make her happy.

  “A few coats of paint, some pictures on the walls, and a shiny floor, and it’ll be our perfect place.” She holds out her hand, and I reach to take it. “Show me the rest?”

  Kenzie hops along with equal excitement to run her hand over the outside of the brick oven in the kitchen. With a grin, she stares at the handmade cabinets and slides out of her slipper to toe the stone floor.

  I’ve never heard anyone become so excited about a bathroom or a closet hidden in a wall, but to her, these things inspire wide smiles. With every word that gushes between her lips, I fall a little more in love with my wife.

  It’s after ten when I finally convince her to let me carry her up the stairs to our loft bedroom. As the door swings open, she frowns and wiggles until I set her on her feet. “Careful.”

  She uses the door frame to pull herself farther inside. For a full minute, her mouth gapes open and I’m stalled beside her, waiting for a reaction I’m not sure will make me feel very good about myself. “I get that you’re a big guy and all, but do we really need a bed that has its own zip code?”

  We make our way into the room, and I sink onto the mattress I haven’t seen for four days. “You said you can’t sleep if I’m too close.”

  “This monster was my idea?” Her brow creases. “No.”

  “Afraid so.”

  “Was I blind before the accident as well as being a dumb ass?”

  I want to flirt with her so badly, to be careless and in love once more. “Are you saying you like the way I look?”

  “I’m saying…” She swallows hard, takes a breath, and lifts her chin. “I’m saying I can’t see how a woman who isn’t blind or stupid would kick you out of her bed.”

  I chuckle as she hobbles closer. “You didn’t kick me out. You just wouldn’t let me cross the fifty-yard line.”

  She keeps her arms between us—I think because she is too fatigued to reach up—when I hug her. “Ever?”

  “Not in a long time.” I’ve held, hugged, and touched her more in the last four days than I have in last six months.

  She narrows her eyes. “We should fix that.”

  I’m burning to kiss her, but it hasn’t been so long since she told me she didn’t like the way I do it, and the memory is a sharp stab in my stomach. Instead, I press her head against my chest and hope she can hear the way my heart beats for her.

  Using as much upper body strength as I believe she can muster, she shoves my shoulders. Because I have a good memory, and there are a lot of heavy glass pe
rfume bottles within her reach, I step back.

  “For the love of Jesus, Sam, what’s your problem?”

  I stagger and almost lose my balance at the fight in her words. Please, God. It can’t be over already. “What?”

  “You’ve kissed my neck, my cheek, the top of my head, my shoulder, my fingers. What’s the problem with these?” She runs her hand over her mouth. “Lips, Sam, it’s where a lot of people do their kissing. I’ll be happy to show you how if you’re unsure.”

  Thankfully, she’s a different kind of feisty than her former self and waging a battle I’ll take up arms to fight with her. “Don’t blame me, sweetheart.” The words sound rougher than I mean them and I smile to soften them. “You’re the one who said you didn’t like kissing me, so I stopped trying.”

  Instead of backing down or away, she holds out one hand palm up, and her eyes flash at me. “Why would I do that? Do you suck at kissing?”

  “I don’t know. You tell me. You’re the one making the rules.”

  She scoffs. “Not good ones, apparently. Why would you even consider staying with me?”

  I am weak for her—my friends call it whipped—but even I don’t understand the depths of what I have always felt when she walks into a room, when she looks at me with those fiery eyes. “Leaving you has never been any more a choice for me than loving you. We fight, and we argue, and we say things that are wrong, and sometimes they hurt, but when I thought I was going to lose you, I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t sleep. You’re all I’ve ever wanted, and if that makes me less of a man, then I’ll be happy that way. And I don’t care what anyone but you says about it.”

  Her smile is my reward. “Can I ask a favor?”

  “I just gave you the key to the castle. You can ask me anything you want.” If she wanted a pint of fresh blood, I’d go to the kitchen and get a knife.

  “Meet me at the fifty-yard line tonight and kiss me goodnight?”

  After such an emotionally charged few minutes, I can’t help but laugh at her choice of wording, and a bigger man than me would admit his anticipation. So, I’m not one bit ashamed of sweeping her up and putting her in the center of our mattress. “Let’s get you to bed.”