THREE MONTHS, TWO weeks, and about—I fiddled with the band of my watch as I glanced at the time—two hours. I hadn’t intended to keep track of how long it’d been since I’d woken up from surgery, but I couldn’t seem to stop from counting the days since my whole life had changed.

Or since I’d become aware that my life had changed, rather.

“Reid? Did you hear what I said?”

I blinked up at my mom, whose eyes were narrowed as she did a quick inspection to ensure I wasn’t falling apart.

At least she wouldn’t be able to tell anything was wrong from the outside.

I tried for a smile to appease her. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

“I said are you sure I can’t take you tomorrow? To the Music Junction?”

Shaking my head, I sipped my coffee. “No, it’s not that far from my apartment. I’ll walk.”

“But it’s a couple of miles. And it’ll be so muggy.”

“It’s fine.”

A sigh escaped her as she tapped her fingers against her mug, and I could tell she was trying to hold her tongue. I hoped she would. My nerves were already shot from the couple of hours I’d spent under her intense scrutiny during Sunday breakfast, and it wouldn’t take much more to send me over the edge. The problem was that I knew my mom too well. She was itching to say something else, to convince me I was being stubborn, and I should do what she thought was best.

Sure enough, a minute later, Mom gave in. “I just don’t see why you won’t let your father or me drop you by on our way to work. It’d be no trouble at all.”

“Because it’s unnecessary, and I have two legs that seem to be in working order.”

Her frown deepened. “Reid… I know you’re not ready to drive again, so I wish you’d let us help you. Honestly, I’d feel better if you’d let me—”

“Mom,” I said, slapping the table with my hand, and my voice came out sharper than I’d intended, causing her to startle. Rubbing my forehead, I reined in my irritation, and when I spoke again, I made sure my tone was softer. “I’ve got it.”

“Of course. Of course you do.” She bit down on her lip, and her hands shook as she lifted the chipped ceramic mug my younger sister, Anna, and I had given her well over a decade ago that said “World’s Best Mom.” And she was. Really, she was. She’d been a saint through the endless weeks of recovery, as well as getting me set back up in my apartment, finding me a temporary summer job…

Sighing, I reached across the table for her, and when she lowered her mug, she placed her hand in mine. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to snap at you. I’m just ready for things to get back to normal.”

“I know you are.” She gave me a squeeze and wiped the corner of her eye. “I just worry about my baby boy, is all, and that won’t ever change. When you’re a parent, you’ll understand.”

“You don’t have to worry about me. I’m fine.”

A smile tipped her lips, seemingly appeased for the moment, until she looked down at the platter of food between us. “Oh dear. Either I made too many pancakes or you didn’t eat enough.”

“I had plenty. I’m sure dad or Anna will finish them off when they get home.”

“You’re right,” she said, standing up and clearing our empty plates off the table. “Will you be joining us for church service this morning?”

I wiped my mouth as I got to my feet to help her. “No.” The answer was always no. “Thank you for breakfast.”

Mom’s hopeful smile fell, and she set down the empty dishes before coming around the table to me.

“I love you,” she said, reaching out to hold on to my arms. “And I’m sorry if I seem overbearing sometimes. You promise you’ll tell me if you start feeling off or have any pain anywhere?”

I gave her a small smile. “Of course,” I lied. I had to. I’d caused her more than enough worry to last a lifetime, and I could see the evidence in the dark circles under her eyes that she tried to cover with makeup, and the deep lines between her brows that seemed permanent when I was around.

She lifted her hand to the side of my face and stroked her thumb over my cheek. “You’re my heart, Reid. I don’t know what I would’ve done if we’d lost you.”

The pain in her voice made me feel more than a twinge of guilt for losing my temper. I’d done that a lot lately. The psychologist I met with every week said it was completely normal to have feelings of distress after such a traumatic accident, but it didn’t excuse biting off the heads of the people who cared about me. It wasn’t like any of this was mom’s fault.

None of it’s your fault either, that quiet voice in the back of my mind tried to convince me, but I locked that thought away as Mom stood on her tiptoes to kiss my cheek.

“I’ll take you back home on the way to service.”

“Thank you,” I said, not putting up a fight, since it would be a much longer walk to my place from theirs, not to mention it was raining out.

As we finished clearing the table, the front door opened and Anna came bursting through, while my father shook off the umbrella on the porch. When Anna saw me, though, she skidded to a stop.

“Oh. Hey, Reid.” Her obvious discomfort at finding me there was a stab to the gut, and though I hated it, I understood why she was tentative around me. Of everyone, Anna seemed to have been hit the hardest by what had happened. They said when I woke up from the accident, I’d had no idea who she was. That somehow my memory of her had reverted to when she was a kid and I hadn’t recognized the teenager she was now. But of course I didn’t remember that, just like I didn’t remember the accident or anything in the months afterward. How was I supposed to apologize for something I wasn’t there for? But Anna and I had been close, despite the decade between us, and I hated that I’d hurt her in any way, hated that she was hesitant around me now, like she was waiting for me to forget her again.

“Hey, Banana,” I said, using her nickname to greet her warmly as if there was no tension in the air. “Where ya been?”

“Um. At Emma’s.”

“Yeah? Toilet paper any houses?”

“Reid, don’t give your sister any ideas,” Mom called out from the kitchen.

I let out an exaggerated sigh. “Fine.” Then I lowered my voice. “Did you sneak over to any boys’ houses and play find the cherry pop?”

“Answer that, and I’m grabbing my shotgun,” Dad warned her as he strolled back into the room and took a big bite of his rolled-up pancake.

That almost got a smile from her. “No. We went to the fair.”

“Oh yeah?” I grinned. “Did you ride the Zipper until you puked like the last time we went?”

Anna’s mouth dropped open and her hands went to her hips, typical teenage attitude position making her forget her introversion around me lately. “There was no puking. I’m seventeen now. I think I know better than to shovel in cotton candy before the ride.” Her lips twisted. “But we did ride it, like, eight times in a row.”

“Ugh, I feel nauseated already,” I said, rubbing my stomach, and finally her smile creeped up.

“Anna.” My father nodded in the direction of her bedroom. “We’re leaving in ten.”

“Yeah, okay. I’m going,” she said, trudging off to get changed for church, but then she stopped and barreled back in my direction, surprising the shit out of me by wrapping her arms tightly around my neck.

I closed my eyes and squeezed her back just as tight. I love you, Banana, I thought.

“Not joining us?” my father asked, as Anna disappeared into her room.

I shook my head. “I’ve got some things I need to get done around the house.”

He raised an eyebrow, but didn’t attempt to call me out on my bullshit. But let’s face it: we both knew I didn’t have anything worth doing at my place. It was merely a respite from the curious glances and questions, as well as from the guilt. I only came to Sunday morning breakfast to appease my mom, who would’ve honked outside my place until I came down if I’d tried to refuse.

Twenty minutes later, I was back in the apartment my parents had fully furnished before I’d even set a foot inside last summer. I didn’t feel much different now, an entire year later, than I had back then.

I hadn’t wanted to come back to Floyd Hills. Hadn’t wanted to put my teaching degree to use. I’d only gotten the damn thing as a backup in the first place, never intending to actually use it. But there I’d been, late last June. Broke as a joke from trying to make ends meet by traveling from city to city playing jazz standards to a restaurant crowd who never knew the difference between Thelonius Monk and Bill Evans.

Growing up, I always thought traveling and playing the piano for a living would make me happy. It’d been my dream for so long, but the reality had been a surprising wake-up call. I’d hated the cheap hotels, the only ones I could afford. The endless inebriated shouts for me to play “Piano Man.” I hated that even with Natasha, my then-girlfriend, by my side, I’d never felt lonelier in my life. The only thing I’d truly loved in all of it was the music. In the handful of hours I played every night, I could escape the sad reality I didn’t want to believe was mine.

God knows I tried to make it work, though, because to come home to Floyd Hills was to admit failure, and I wasn’t a failure. But one look at me during a trip up to Nashville to watch my show, and my parents saw right through my act. The promise of helping me get on my feet with a steady job, my own place, a car…it was too alluring to say no to.

Which led me to where I was now. Even worse off than I was before, because, oh hey, let’s throw in a girlfriend who doesn’t wanna stick around, a car accident, maybe a few broken bones, a brain injury…and then, when he’s supposedly all healed, let’s fuck him up real good and make him undergo surgery again. Oh, and if we can toy with his memory so that he doesn’t know what’s real and what’s not, let’s do that too.

I scrubbed a hand over my face as I kicked off my shoes and tossed my keys onto the counter. The bottle of Crown in the bottom cabinet called out to me, but the last thing I needed was to lean on whisky as a crutch. Instead, I walked over to the living room window and shut the curtains to block out the sun that was trying to peek through the rain clouds.

The exhaustion that overcame me as I sank down into the couch had me closing my eyes, even though it was still midmorning. But, just like every time the darkness settled in, my mind screamed to life. Even when my physical body was dead tired, my subconscious raced, on a desperate search for answers. I knew all the pieces of the puzzle, the ones the doctors and my family had filled in, but none of it felt real. The last thing I remembered before waking up in a hospital room had apparently been months prior—the day of my accident. I’d overslept that morning and hadn’t even had time to shave, because it was that or skip coffee, and working with kids required the caffeine boost. But…that was the last thing I could recall—leaving my apartment that day. Not getting into the red Mazda3 my parents had bought for me, not grabbing my usual at Joe’s—nothing. The only thing that even remotely made sense to me was that maybe the crash was too painful to remember, so my mind had blocked it out. But what I couldn’t understand was why the weeks afterward were also missing.

And sure, the time spent recovering from my injuries wasn’t something I wanted to relive, exactly, but…something didn’t feel right. The vague answers from my parents didn’t add up, and they never kept eye contact with me when I asked about the weeks after the accident. It was like something was missing, something vital that no one was telling me, and my mind couldn’t seem to rest until it knew what it was. The missing piece of the puzzle.

I pulled my phone out of my pocket and put on a piece by Bach to help quiet my thoughts, and then fluffed a pillow and put it behind my head. My last day of freedom and I was spending it passed out on my couch.

Pathetic.

Tomorrow I’d be rejoining the work force, although it was a baby step, since school was out for the summer. Tutoring kids in piano would be easy enough, and it would get me out of the house. Off this damn couch. And maybe, just maybe, give me some sense of normalcy.

Whatever that was.