At bedtime, Evan drew me a bath, and I dissolved into it with a sigh. The soreness from my injuries had dissipated to a general stiffness. I was on nothing stronger than ibuprofen now, but the warm water still helped.

He had left my robe and a towel hanging on a hook near the edge of the claw footed tub but with strict instructions that I was not to attempt to get out of said tub without his assistance. At first, I had laughed at his mother hen act, treating me like an invalid toddler. But it was a genuinely steep slope at the edge of the deep cast iron tub with slick tile under.

After I was done steeping, I shimmied to the end of the tub and reached for the towel, but it was just out of my grasp. Hmm.

“Evan?” I called.

He must have been hovering near the bathroom because within two seconds, he answered, right at the cracked door.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine. I just need to get out, and I can’t reach the towel.”

“Okay. Just a second.” The door slid open, and he walked in, averting his gaze as he reached for the towel and robe. He held them out to me while looking the opposite direction. I couldn’t help but laugh.

“I know you’ve seen me naked before,” I said. “I have photographic proof, in fact.”

“I just don’t want it to be uncomfortable and weird for you. Or I guess I should say, any more uncomfortable and weird than it already is. You don’t have those memories back yet.”

Well, not all of them, but the first had been a doozy. And I’d been right about coming to the house. Little snippets—not fully formed memories, more like shadows of them—had danced around in the periphery of my brain all afternoon. But for Evan, it still must have seemed like I had become a sudden stranger as well. I’d been stewing since the moment I woke up over how hard it was to have lost those moments of time. I couldn’t imagine what it was like for him, the frustration and fear that I might never recall us.

After I got into my pajamas, consisting of flannel pants and a soft, old tee shirt which I was pretty certain was Evan’s, I stretched my arms to the ceiling like a lazy cat. Ow. Too soon. I gripped my fractured rib and rubbed it gingerly. I was thankful that Evan hadn’t seen, though. He’d been watching me like a hawk, and every grimace brought out a look of pained panic on his face.

I stood at the end of the bed and stared at it, unsure which side was mine. I was about to toss a coin when Evan said, “left,” from behind me. No further explanation needed.

He was a bedtime minimalist, I saw. Cotton pajama pants and no shirt or socks. He laid a glass of ice water on my nightstand and grabbed a pillow from the other side of the bed. He then proceeded to take a sleeping bag out of the linen closet in the hall and spread it out on the ground next to the bed.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Sleepover,” he said.

“But—”

“I’m not going to claim some archaic rights to the marital bed, Annie. You can protest all you want that it’s okay, but it would be awkward for you to share a bed with a man you’ve known three days.”

“But—”

“Not gonna happen.”

“Well, then you could at least sleep in the guest room or on the couch. There’s absolutely no reason for you to sleep on the hardwood floors.”

“You think I’m going to leave you in here by yourself? After you just got released from the hospital where you were in a coma?”

“Then get in the bed.”

“Nope.” He fluffed his pillow and settled in with a creak of the floors.

“This is dumb,” I said, but I recognized a futile argument when I saw one. I pulled out my nightstand drawer. Everything was lined up exactly as I always kept it—books, phone charger, e-reader. My brow furrowed. Something was missing. Where was my diaphragm?

“You looking for something?” Evan asked.

“Umm.” After our conversation just now, it seemed a little silly to even bring it up. Clearly, there would be no need for it any time in the near future. But then again, I did want to know where it was. Just for, y’know, curiosity’s sake.

“My, umm.” I curled my hand into a cup. “My diaphragm.”

“Oh. Yeah.” He gulped. “I think you moved it to the bathroom. I can look for it in the morning or—”

“No rush.” The moment the words came out of my mouth, I kicked myself for phrasing it that way. Because if any more memories like the one from earlier came back to me, I’d need to start buying stock in the things.