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!”

“Ah, Doc…” He presses a kiss into the top of my head. “You lost one patient, but you’re saving lives, too. Your degree ain’t useless. Now who is Chanel?” he asks softly.

“My little sister,” I whisper, finally discussing the thing I never talk about. Never fucking again, I’d sworn to Sandy when she tried to make me. “She died of ALL—acute lymphocytic leukemia—the year before I left for college. She’s actually the reason I applied to five-year med schools—why I dropped out of ValArts. But Ronnie reminded me of her. Not a lot. Just enough that I guess I’m feeling it a little more than I should right now.”

“A child died,” he says, knuckling my cheek. “I don’t care what you signed up for, Doc. You got the right to be sad about it. I’m sorry that little girl died. She deserved better than that. So did your little sis.”

My face crumples with the truth of his words. “Yes, yes…they both did.”

He holds me while I cry for all the lives cut too short by this disease. For all the brave little girls who will never grow up to become the strong women I know they would have been, could have been.

He lets me cry my heart out, rubbing my back with his cast. And only when I’m done does he speak again. “Alright…I understand why tonight went the way it did. But next time something like this happens, remember, that’s not us. You got something weighing on your heart, you tell me as soon as you walk in the door. Even when you’re in Seattle, I want you to call me first thing when anything gets to bothering you. Okay?”

“Okay,” I answer, voice small.

“You promise? I want us to be one of those couples who know how to talk to each other.”

“I promise,” I agree with a watery laugh. Then I ask, “Couples who talk to each other. Is that old or new?”

“New,” he answers, voice a little hollow. “Definitely new. But I want us to be new.”

Is it weird that I understand exactly what he’s trying to say? That I’ve felt like a completely new person ever since he came into my life? That I want us to stay new, too, even though I know he’ll eventually find out about my past?

He reaches over and turns off the light, but still keeps me cradled against his chest in the dark. And it’s when he’s holding me like this with no sexual intent whatsoever that I truly understand how deep I’m in with this man. How truly and sincerely I meant every word I said in the heat of our passion.

God, what am I going to do a few days from now when it’s time to get on the plane to California? I can’t take him with me. But how am I going to leave him behind?