Chapter 16
As the week dawns once more, I hunker down into work but try to keep more reasonable hours. Hunter seems to be just fine on his own, but I don’t want him to feel like I’ve forgotten him. He’s surprisingly easy to live with, and just as he promised, has done all manner of chores and errands from go. So I’m thankful when, early in the week, I have an idea that takes practically no effort to implement, that I’m hoping will make him feel like it’s really his home.
There are four bedrooms in the condo — my own, my office, the guest bedroom now occupied by Hunter, and the nearly empty fourth bedroom. I clear the few boxes and forgotten pieces of exercise equipment out of the last room, leaving it bare. And the next day at lunch I go to an art supply store and pick up a range of canvases, brushes, and paints.
It takes some stealth to get it all into the room without Hunter noticing. I have to wait until he disappears on Wednesday evening to grab a few things from the convenience store down the block to set it all up. Once he’s back, I giddily lead him upstairs.
“Dude, you’re like totally freaking out,” Hunter laughs as I pull him toward the room.
“You will be too,” I singsong at him as I open the door. He walks in, his mouth dropping open instantly at the spread of supplies.
“This is for me?” he asks, clearly astounded.
“You deserve a place to work,” I say, shrugging. “This is your studio now. Do whatever you want with it.” He looks at me skeptically over his shoulder.
“Can I paint the walls?” he asks slyly.
I laugh. “Go for it,” I reply. “This place could use some color.”
Hunter smiles deviously. “Be careful what you wish for, Sera,” he singsongs back at me. It might be the first time he’s joked with me, and I can’t help but burst out laughing. And it feels damn good to really laugh again.
But as it always seems, I’m abruptly brought back down to Earth on Thursday when Bryce calls. Reflexively, I answer, kicking myself almost immediately.
“Hello?” I say tentatively, hoping maybe it was an accidental butt-dial.
“Hi Sera, it’s Bryce Hoyt,” he responds. As if I could ever forget his deep, calm and sexy voice.
“I know. Hi, Bryce, how are you?” I ask warily.
“Good,” he replies. “I’m cleared to resume normal life, mostly. So I’ve moved back to my own place.” My heart sinks. His apartment is barely ten minutes from mine. Knowing he’ll be that close again has my pulse racing, and not necessarily in a good way.
“Oh?” I ask as calmly as I’m able. “Does that mean you’re going back to work?”
“Yes, though only part time at first,” he responds. “On a trial basis.”
“That’s good?” I hazard. Something inside me snaps at the superficiality of the conversation. “I’m sorry, why are you calling, Bryce?”
He doesn’t respond immediately, and my throat starts to constrict in a way that’s becoming all too familiar.
“I was hoping we could talk this weekend. Face to face,” he explains.
I note that he doesn’t say why, and it makes me wonder just enough.
“Okay,” I agree. “When and where?”
“My place okay? Saturday morning? Does nine a.m. work for you?” he offers.
“Yes. I’ll see you then,” I agree. “Bye, Bryce.”
“Bye, Sera.”
Needless to say, the rest of Thursday and Friday are torture. I barely sleep on Friday night. Dressing on Saturday morning, I feel like a shell of myself. I pull on a dark, woolen sweater dress over black tights. Dark clothes for a dark mood. I don’t bother dolling up, but as I come across the diamond earrings Bryce gave me, I can’t help putting them on. It’s a small bit of what we were that I can cling to through whatever happens.
By the time I get to Bryce’s door, my feet are practically leaden, every step requiring immense effort, as if my whole body is protesting against the emotional torture of seeing him again.
I knock dully, and he answers, wearing jeans and a white T-shirt, looking wholly like himself again. Even the muscle definition in his arms has returned, his short hair lengthened ever so slightly.
“Thanks for coming,” he greets me, stepping aside to let me in. I stop awkwardly just inside the door, afraid it’s presumptuous to do anything else.
He walks around me, but stops and turns back, as if he were about to extend an invitation to sit down. But something halts him, and he pauses, too close, looking down at me.
His right hand reaches up and, before I can even register, fingers the diamond stud in my left ear. He stares at it intensely for a moment. Frozen in place, all I can do is watch him, his beautiful face so close, his blue eyes dark and penetrating. I wonder suddenly if he recognizes them, if he’s remembered, and my breath catches in my throat.
But too soon, he shakes himself, stepping back. “Those are beautiful earrings,” he remarks nervously. “They suit you.” And I can only think of the last time he noticed them, when he told me he wanted to see me wearing nothing but these earrings.
But when he looks at me again there is no hint of recognition, none of the fire that was there that last time. And I’m still too frozen to respond. He gestures to the living room. “Please, sit down.” He seats himself in the leather armchair, so I take the couch next to him. But far enough away for comfort.
“You look well,” I offer. “How is your rehab going?”
He runs a hand over his hair, and I have to look away. Some gestures are just so him it hurts. Not just because of the reminder of what he was, but that damn undying hope that, if he still acts like himself, that his memories are still in there somewhere.
“Cognitive skills are all back,” he responds. “But zero on the memory front.” And there it is. A month later. Confirmation that my Bryce hasn’t come back and may never.
“What’s the prognosis?” I can’t help asking.
Bryce shrugs. “It’s a coin toss. But they’re concerned that nothing has come back yet,” he admits. “Usually something does. And then piece by piece, more will.”
“What does that mean? Is it all just … gone?” I press.
Bryce leans forward. “They won’t say that,” he replies carefully. “But Mom, Char, Em, you … I see the disappointment on all your faces. And for that reason alone I won’t give up.”
“What about Madison? Does she seem disappointed?” I ask pointedly. Bryce’s eyebrows shoot up.
“Ah. So you know about Madison.”
I roll my eyes. “Of course I do,” I reply tersely. “And if you don’t remember anything before sixteen months ago, then your brain still thinks you’ve been dating her for the last three years.”
Bryce runs a hand over his mouth. “Yes, it does. And not just my brain. There are still feelings there,” he admits.
I huff a joyless laugh. “Good ones?” I ask sarcastically.
“Mixed ones,” Bryce allows. “And if I’m being honest, Sera, while I can’t remember you, when I look at you …” He trails off, but he has my full attention now. I press my lips together, not trusting myself to speak. “There are feelings there too. But without the memories, it makes no sense. It’s like trying to grab smoke.”
And I know what he’s saying. “But you do have memories of Madison,” I respond with a snort. “Except the ones that caused you to break up with her in the first place.”
Bryce spreads his hands out in front of him. “I can’t help that,” he replies. “And I don’t know what will happen with my memories. All I can do is react based on what I know.”
I nod, understanding. He’s going back to Madison. And I don’t even need to ask if she’ll take him back. She will. The conniving, superficial, gold-digging bitch.
“You’re a good man,” I respond, looking down into my hands, avoiding my eyes. “Better than she deserves.” Tears well in my eyes and I feel so sick it’s all I can do to sit here, still and quiet.
“I’m sorry,” Bryce says softly. “I don’t want to hurt you. But I’d rather regret doing something than doing nothing.” My eyes snap to his, unable to believe that I just heard those words come out of his mouth. The very words I spoke to him when I went after Alessandro.
Insane laughter bubbles out of me. I shake my head, a few tears spilling out. “I’m sorry,” I gasp, reining myself in. When I’ve managed to collect myself, I look back up at him. “The universe has a very sick sense of humor. Why did you ask me to come here, Bryce? Because I know it wasn’t to tell me that you’re getting back together with Madison. I mean, obviously you are, but I’m sure that’s not why you wanted to talk to me.”
“No,” he agrees. “And after telling you that, I feel like a complete asshole for even asking, but I was hoping we could be friends.”
I twist my fingers together, choosing my words carefully.
“You’re not an asshole,” I respond. “But I’m not capable of being your friend right now, Bryce. Please understand that, while the thought of losing you is unbearable, to me it feels like I already have. And to be reminded of that over and over, well, I’m just not that strong. I’ve been through too much.”
Bryce nods understandingly. “I went through your file,” he admits. “And I know that what I’m asking isn’t fair.” But he looks at me pleadingly nonetheless, and I nearly crack.
“I think it would be better for both of us,” I reply. “If I weren’t around, pining for what was. Because I can’t look at you without thinking about it. Not after everything that we’ve gone through. Everything that we were to each other.”
“I’m sorry, Sera,” he says again, and I know he means it. “I wish I remembered.”
I laugh, wiping at the tears that have slipped over my cheeks. “Me too,” I agree. “But you don’t. And that’s not your fault. But I’m at my limit, and I need to safeguard my heart again. I’m sorry I’m not stronger.”
He looks like he wants to reach for me, but he stills himself. “I may not remember anything,” he murmurs, “but I do know you’re incredibly strong. What you’ve been through most people wouldn’t survive. So I understand that you’re doing what you need to do to.”
“Thank you,” I respond, rising from the couch. “Take care of yourself, Bryce, and be happy.” He follows me to the door. I pause at the threshold, looking back up at him. And I just can’t help myself.
I slip against him, and before my arms are even around him, he’s already wrapped his around me. While we hold each other tightly, I take one last, deep breath of his evergreen summer scent, listening to the steady and familiar beat of his heart under my cheek. And for one small moment, I’m home in his arms. But it’s not long before I remember that he’s not my home anymore. And the reminder that this man doesn’t remember me, is just humoring me, causes me to extract myself, finally.
I drink in one last look at his face. “Goodbye, Bryce,” I whisper.
“Bye, Sera,” he murmurs. And before I can do anything stupid, I go.
Unfortunately, Hunter is in the living room when I get home, and there’s no hiding my agony.
“Hey, Sera,” he greets me.
“Hi,” I reply tersely. He studies my face for longer than I’m comfortable with.
“Come on,” he says, gesturing for me to follow him. I contemplate protesting but decide I just don’t have the energy. So I follow him up the stairs and into his studio.
Nothing could have prepared me for what I find. He must have bought more paint. Every canvas, every inch of wall is covered. And it’s unbelievably gorgeous. It’s a dark mass of blacks, blues, and purples with the occasional spots of bright color here and there. There are some recognizable motifs — a woman and a child, holding each other crying; an old man playing chess — all connected by abstract whorls, matrices, and lines.
It’s a story of human emotion in three-hundred-sixty degrees, I realize as he shuts the door. I turn on Hunter, who is gazing at a portion of the painted wall as if it’s nothing at all.
“This is unbelievable,” I whisper. “You did all this in two days?”
Hunter shrugs and smiles. “I haven’t really painted in a long time. I forgot how much fun it is,” he replies nonchalantly.
I approach one of the canvases. Its colors are brighter than most of the surrounding areas. It speaks of warmth, love. And it breaks my heart.
“We’re going to need more paint,” I mutter.
Hunter nods. “We can paint it all over tomorrow and I can start again,” he suggests.
I turn to him and shake my head. “No,” I reply. “We’re going to paint the rest of the house.”
Hunter raises an eyebrow. “We?”
“If you’ll teach me how to paint,” I reply. “Yes. We.”
He looks at me thoughtfully. “Painting, art, is literally pouring your soul out onto something,” he says slowly. “Are you ready for that?” I infer from the question that he understands how I’m feeling much more than I gave him credit for.
I close my eyes, roiling in the swell of emotion flowing through me. “I think it’s exactly what I need.”
On Sunday afternoon, while Hunter and I paint the living room walls, my phone rings. Since I’m completely covered in paint spatter, it takes me a moment to find something to wipe my hands clean with before answering.
I don’t actually make it in time but notice it was Allie, so I call her back.
“Hey, Allie, sorry I haven’t called in a while,” I greet her once she answers. I realize it’s been a couple of weeks since we’ve spoken, which isn’t usual for us.
“Oh, Sera, it’s all good,” she squeals.
“Whoa, you sound happy,” I reply with a laugh. “What’s up?”
“I’m pregnant, Sera,” she shouts happily.
“Omigod!” I screech. “Congratulations, Allie!”
“Eeeee!” she squeals back. We both dissolve into giggles.
“This calls for a celebration. I’m taking everyone out to dinner tonight!” I exclaim.
“Yes!” Allie agrees.
“Great, I just need to get all this paint off of me,” I reply, coming down off of the high of the news.
“Paint?” Allie asks, confused.
“I’ll explain later. Um, Hunter will be coming with me too, which I’ll also explain later,” I reply.
“Okay, well, let me know when you’re ready,” she replies.
“Will do,” I agree. “Bye.”
“Bye, babe!”
I hang up, staring at my phone. The initial shock worn off, I realize it’s going to be an evening of watching a happy, married couple celebrating their joyous news. And while I’m thrilled for them, it’s like the final death of whatever hope had remained. Like embers bloomed back into fire, my heart burns with love lost. But I have to lock it up, cut off the oxygen. And safeguard my heart from the flames.