by Jewel E. Ann
I loved every aspect of Holly’s job. Wellness visits. Prenatal visits. Postnatal visits. Happy families. Tiny babies. Women feeling alive again after working with Holly to get their hormones balanced—to get their lives balanced again. Very rewarding work.
Holly and I had Thursday off to recoup from a long night of waiting for that sweet girl to make her way into the world. I was so tired and grateful for the time to get some sleep. After hours of not moving an inch in my bed, Rory woke me up.
“Are you having dinner with us?” She ran her hand through my hair.
I blinked my heavy eyelids open. “Um …” I rolled onto my back and stretched. “Yeah. I think so. What time is it?”
“Six.”
“Yeah, I’d better get up so I can sleep later.” I sat up and rubbed my eyes.
“No rush, sleepy head. Dinner won’t be ready for another thirty minutes if you need a shower or whatever.”
I nodded. “Yeah, I need a shower, at least to wake up.”
“Okay.” She kissed my head and left my room.
I padded to the bathroom and stripped into my bra and panties. There were no clean towels on the shelf, which meant Rory probably hadn’t taken them out of the dryer.
I opened the door and crossed the hallway to the laundry room. Sure enough, clean towels were in the dryer. As I crossed the hallway again, I made a casual glance to the side, seeing something move. Someone move …
Fisher stood maybe three feet from me.
Me in my bra and panties.
Me holding the bath towel in my hand instead of covering my body.
He didn’t hide his wandering gaze, not one bit. And I didn’t hide any part of my body. After a hard swallow, he met my gaze. “I’ll use Rory’s bathroom.”
“K,” I whispered, wanting some tiny part of his lost memory to return upon seeing so much of my bared flesh. With no rush, I moseyed into the bathroom and shut the door.
Then I showered and touched myself while replaying Fisher’s slow inspection of me. My hand pressed to the side of the shower, eyes pinched shut, jaw slack as I came, feeling weak in the knees.
Feeling empty.
Feeling impatient.
Feeling confused.
With wet hair, jeans, and a long-sleeved tee, I made my way to the kitchen. “Smells good.” I smiled at Rory while taking a seat next to Fisher, the only seat left to take.
Rose passed me the dish filled with chicken and roasted veggies. “New baby?” she asked.
“Yes.” I spooned food onto my plate. “A girl. Ivy Elizabeth. Tons of black hair. Ten fingers. Ten toes. And a strong, beautiful cry. When it was finally time, she pushed three times. It was a water birth. Fourth child.” I laughed. “I’m not sure why we were there. The mom did everything. She knew when to push. When to rest. How to breathe. She grabbed the baby all by herself. Ivy cried. The mom put her right to the breast. It was … beautiful.” I realized I had tears in my eyes, and I quickly blotted the corners.
“Oh … that sounds amazing, sweetie,” Rory said, clearly not missing my emotions.
I refused to look at Fisher. What did he think of my sappy side?
“So … how was everyone else’s day?” I asked.
“Crazy, as usual.” Rose laughed.
“How was your day, Fisher?” Rory asked him.
He wiped his mouth. “Fine. I’ve been playing catch-up this week, driving around to see where we stand on all the jobs. It’s weird. So hard to describe. I don’t remember the projects, but I know what to do. I have these skills that my brain does remember. And all I need are the plans and an update on where each project stands, and I magically know what to do. So then I met with new clients over lunch. And I spent a few hours this afternoon in my workshop. Who knew I had unfinished projects? I don’t remember starting them, but again … I know what needs to be done. When I get this fucking cast off, it will be easier to do things. I need to grow an extra hand to help hold things when I glue and clamp pieces together.”
“When are you seeing Angie again?” Rory asked.
“Saturday. It’s my dad’s birthday, so they’re having a get-together, and of course, she was invited.”
I couldn’t read him. Was he fine with that?
“Things going okay?” Rose asked while I kept my focus on my plate.
“I suppose. I’m trying, but sometimes I feel like she doesn’t think I’m trying hard enough. She texts or calls me every day. And I think on the days I don’t suggest we go somewhere or do something, that she’s disappointed. Sometimes I don’t answer her call because I don’t know what to say. So then she texts me. And since I don’t really know her yet, I can’t possibly read her.”
“Before Rose and I moved in together, we called or texted each other every day. I think it’s normal for two people who are in love to talk every day. So you can’t blame her for that.” Rory did the best job of playing the middle ground. Trying to be the facilitator, the peacemaker.
Fisher nodded slowly. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right.”
Unless you don’t love her. Do you love her?
“What do you need help with? In your shop? Because I’m up now. I won’t be sleeping anytime soon. After dinner, I could help hold stuff for you.”
“Just a corner shelving unit. And that would be great.” He gave me a sideways glance.
I eased my head to the right just enough to give him a tiny smile, still unable to hold his gaze for more than two seconds. “No problem,” I mumbled.
And just like that, we ended the Angie subject, and the mood lightened.
After dinner, I walked with Fisher to his house.
“Thanks for saving me,” he said, playfully nudging my arm with his like I had done to him in Target.
Everything between us felt effortless and natural.
“Saving you?” I looked both ways before we crossed the street.
“All Rory talks about is Angie. I miss my beer drinking friend who used to tell me stories about her time in prison or her dreams of owning her own salon again.”
“Rory has told you stories from prison? She hasn’t told me any.”
“I’m sure they’re not stories she cares to share with her daughter.”
I frowned.
“Speaking of stories, I love watching you come to life talking about your job.”
My face filled with heat. “You mean when I lose my mind and kiss my mom’s friend.”
“You know…” he bumped the side of his body against mine again “…I don’t have to just be Rory’s friend. I can be your friend. The friend you kissed because you were so excited. I thought you might wet your pants.” He opened his garage door.
“I wasn’t going to wet my pants.” I scoffed, following him down the stairs to his workshop. “But I did lose my mind. I was just so excited. So I don’t want you to think I kissed you for any other reason than you just happened to be the only one in the room when I got drunk on an adrenaline and dopamine cocktail. I literally would have kissed anyone in that moment.”
He eyed me over his shoulder, squinting as he flipped on the rest of the shop lights. “I’m not feeling quite as special at the moment. Why did you have to take that away from me?”
I laughed because it was funny, right? He wasn’t serious. I didn’t know how to handle him being serious about kissing me. Not yet.
As much as I wanted to steal back the naked fisherman, I didn’t want to hurt Angie. But what if he didn’t love her? If you loved someone, you wanted to hear their voice. Every text felt like a digital kiss. A wink of acknowledgment. That “hey, it’s just me letting you know I think the world of you.”
“Sorry,” I said jokingly. “I’m sure you’re really disappointed I didn’t set out to intentionally kiss my engaged friend.” And I added my signature eye roll to fully sell my innocent intentions.
Fisher seemed to let it all slide with nothing more than a grin. “I’m going to glue these two pieces, then you’re going to hold them together while I clamp
them. Okay?”
“Okay.”
He glued. I held. He clamped.
We did this with a half dozen parts to the shelf.
“Perfect.” He finished propping up the last two clamped pieces.
I ate up that look on his face, that look of satisfaction. I’d forgotten how much I missed watching Fisher do what he did best. Well, one of the things he did best.
“I am,” he said, running his hand over the smooth board, his back to me.
“You are what?”
“I’m … disappointed that you didn’t intentionally set out to kiss your friend when you were overcome with excitement. And …” He slowly shook his head. “I’m not proud of my feelings. Still, they’re unintentional which makes them feel so very real. So here I am … waiting for my memory to return so I can not only remember Angie but remember why I agreed to marry her. And maybe that’s tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow I get my memory back, and it will make the feelings I’m having right this minute seem inconsequential. Nothing but the wandering mind of a crazy man.” He turned, wearing a sad face.
“But what if my memory never returns? What if I spend months going on dates with Angie, dates where I’m not really thinking about her because I’m really wondering what Nurse Capshaw is doing. Is she working on crossword puzzles for me? Is she shopping at Target without me? Is she running in her sexy running shorts? Or is she delivering someone’s baby and grinning from ear to ear? Is she so excited that she needs someone to kiss? And if I’m on a date with Angie, how can I be the one Nurse Capshaw kisses? And why is my thirty-three-year-old brain thinking about a woman ten years younger than me? Is it the accident? Did I permanently damage something? And after all these thoughts, my brain circles back around to the possibility that I might remember everything tomorrow. It’s quite the quandary.”
Yes. So many quandaries. I was in quite the quandary myself.
“Well …” I inhaled and released it slowly. “I don’t know how to respond other than to say that this Nurse Capshaw is a very lucky nurse. If she knew your feelings, I’m certain she would be flattered. And maybe a little sad too. Sad that you’re feeling so tortured by your thoughts and the uncertainty of what tomorrow or a thousand tomorrows after that will bring. And I wish I had the answer for you. But I don’t.”
With several easy nods, he seemed to process my words. I was so ready to go knock on his door and say, “Hey, remember me?” But I knew he didn’t.
“I finished your crossword puzzles. Do you want to see them?”
“You mean, do I want to check your work?”
“No. My work is correct. I mean, do you want to see them. I’m bragging, not looking for confirmation that I did them correctly.”
I giggled. “So much confidence for someone who wasn’t even sure he liked crossword puzzles.”
“I still didn’t say I liked them.” He passed me and headed up the stairs. “I was just painfully bored.”
Sure, Fisher …
I followed him into the house.
“Beer? Wine? Water?”
“Wine would be great. I’m not on call for the next seventy-two hours.”
“Wine it is.” He pulled a bottle of wine from his wine rack, a corkscrew, and two glasses. “Let’s go downstairs.”
“Is that where your crossword puzzles are at?”
“Yes. I’ve framed them and hung them on the walls.”
I laughed. “Sounds about right.”
The puzzles weren’t on the wall, but he flipped on my favorite globe lights and led me to the screened-in porch. So many memories.
The folders of puzzles were on the table along with several pens.
“Have a seat.” He nodded to the chair where Rory used to sit.
I took a seat on the sectional, instead, in the exact spot we slept that night over five years earlier.
“You took my spot.” He frowned, handing me my glass before trying to uncork the wine.
“Fucking cast,” he grumbled, fumbling with the corkscrew in his left hand.
“Let me.” I took the bottle from him.
He kept his frown pinned to his face; it only made me grin bigger as I easily uncorked it.
“And this isn’t your seat.” I poured myself a generous glass before handing him the bottle. “It’s where I used to sit. And I know you don’t remember that, but I do. So sit somewhere else.”
He turned and started to sit on my lap.
“Fisher!” I held up my glass so it didn’t spill.
On a hearty laugh, he adjusted his aim and sat right next to me. It was a little weird since it was a big sectional and there were two chairs as well.
“There they are. Read ’em and weep.” He nodded to the puzzles.
“I don’t need to read them. I have no doubt that you finished them. And I’m not a weeper.” I sipped my wine.
“My cast comes off Monday.”
“That’s exciting. And nobody signed it. Not even Rory. Fisher, you need better friends.”
“I’ll second that. Here…” he leaned over me, putting way too much of his body heat and woodsy scent right under my nose “…you sign it.” He handed me an extra fine-tipped Sharpie. That’s how confident he was in solving the puzzles I gave him.
“You’re getting it off Monday.”
“So.”
I shook my head, set my wine glass aside, and removed the cap to the Sharpie. Then I pulled his casted arm into my lap, bringing him close to me again. So close his breath brushed my forehead.
My heart screamed for me to do something more, but my brain unsheathed its own sword of common sense.
He was still engaged. I thought. Actually, I didn’t know.
I lifted my head just enough that our mouths were sharing the same oxygen. Fisher’s gaze fell to my lips for a breath, my lips that parted slightly. Then he met my gaze again.
“Are you going to kiss me?” he said.
He. Said. It!
It flipped my world on its head. Opposite world. A new kind of déjà vu.
I dipped my chin and pressed the tip of the Sharpie to his cast, making slow strokes, thinking extra hard to make each letter because I was writing it upside down so that he could easily read it when I was finished.
I’m thinking about it.
Keeping my chin tipped to my chest, I capped the Sharpie as he read his cast.
“And what exactly are you thinking?” he asked.
“I’m thinking about Angie. And I’m thinking about tomorrow,” I whispered, tracing my finger along the letters on his cast. “If neither existed, I’d kiss you. Because …” I released a long breath. “I really want to kiss you. Which means I should go home.” On a nervous laugh, I stood and set the Sharpie back onto the table.
Fisher’s good hand encircled my wrist. “Don’t go. We still have wine to drink. And you haven’t given stars or smiley faces to my completed crossword puzzles. And there’s pool. Do you like to play pool? Or we could—”
In the middle of his desperate ramblings, his valiant effort to keep me from leaving, it hit me. No one had ever tried so hard to just … be with me. And it felt amazing.
Pulling my arm from his grip, I turned and pressed my hands to his face, kissing him slowly while crawling on the sofa and straddling his lap, standing on my knees so it put me a little higher than him, so I felt in control.
Control of the kiss.
Control of the moment.
Maybe even the crazy illusion that I had control over what he did to my heart.
If he remembered Angie, that meant he’d remember me. He’d remember us. And I wanted that to be enough, but I didn’t know what made him say yes when Angie proposed to him. If it was love, then I needed to keep my heart on a tight leash while we did … whatever we were about to do.
When I ended our kiss, I smiled over his lips and he smiled back. “You can have all the stars, Fisher. And the smiley faces too. But I’m going to kick your ass at pool, and I won’t feel sorry for you when you weep like a baby.
”
“We'll see.”
We’ll see …
Oh the memories those two words brought back to me.
“But for now. Kiss me again.” He lifted his head to capture my lips, but I pulled away. “No. That’s it. That’s all you get today. If you still want me to kiss you tomorrow, then I’ll kiss you tomorrow. One day at a time, Lost Fisherman.” I climbed off his lap and headed to the door.
“Lost Fisherman?” He stood.
“Yes. You are my lost fisherman. Waiting to be found.”
“Who’s going to find me?” He followed me into the house. “You?”
I grabbed two pool sticks. “No. I already found you.” I handed him a stick.
“Then who?”
I racked up the balls.
“Angie?” he asked, eyeing me carefully.
“You, Fisher.”
“What if I don’t get my memories back? Does that mean I’ll forever be lost?”
I grinned, shaking my head before taking the first shot. “I hope not. That would be tragic. You’ll know when you’re not lost.”
He chuckled. “That makes no sense.”
“When you’re not lost, it will make perfect sense. That’s how you’ll know you’re no longer the lost fisherman.”
He continued to eye me with confusion, maybe even a little distrust, as we took turns making the balls disappear into the pockets.
After we each won a game, I nodded toward the stairs. “I do have to go now.”
“I’ll walk you home.”
“No. Don’t be silly. It’s not that far. I’ll be fine.”
“Probably, but I’m still walking you home.” He turned off the porch lights and followed me up the stairs.
When we stepped out the front door, he moved to my right side. I gave him a funny look. Then he took my hand. He had to move so his good hand could hold mine. We walked without any rush, taking twice as much time as necessary.
“I want you to date Angie. And do whatever you need to do to figure things out and to feel sure about the decisions you make. I don’t want you to be impulsive or scared. Don’t make a decision about your life unless you’re certain it’s the right one. Because these aren’t small decisions, Fisher. And I know you can’t even imagine what that feels like right now … to make a decision and feel confident and certain about it because you’re living with the fear of the unknown.”