to be weird or steal your stuff or play some long con on you. Or at least, I don’t think I am. I guess I can’t actually promise anything about what my intentions were before I woke up here. But I swear on your cat’s disgusting hairballs that as of right now, all I want to do is collapse back in that bed, and hopefully wake up tomorrow with my memory back. Going to the police or a doctor is just—I can’t explain why, but it doesn’t feel safe leaving right now. That’s it. That’s my insane story. I get it if you don’t want me here, and I’ll go if I have to, but you asked, and that’s all I’ve got.”
I’d just finished writing, my hand stinging where sweat had dripped into my cuts, when Holden returned with a red plastic first aid kit.
“I’m not sure if anyone’s used this since the 1980s,” he said as he came in, “but I don’t think Band-Aids expire. And I found this for sterilization.” He produced a bottle of vodka from his other hand and gave me an apologetic look.
I nodded and pushed myself up. It was slow going, since my legs were weak and my shoulder still hurt, so I only had one arm to use as leverage. Within seconds, Holden dropped the bottle and kit on the bed and came to my side, supporting my weight as I stood.
I tried not to lean on him too much as he guided me to the bed, but God, I was tired, and it wasn’t like leaning on Holden was the most unpleasant thing in the world. I slumped down onto the mattress with a long exhale.
“Scoot, goober,” Holden said to Frog, moving him gently from the center of the bed.
Frog nipped at him, but walked to the foot of the bed and curled up on my other side. I decided not to risk petting him just then and handed Holden my notebook instead. Then I stared at the wall and tried not to act too awkward as he read what I’d written. When he was done, I turned and met his regretful gaze.
“I really think you should go to the doctor. I get that you’re scared, but what if there’s something wrong with you, and we don’t find out until it’s too late?”
I motioned for the notebook and scrawled, “I officially absolve you of responsibility if I die in my sleep.”
Holden’s eyes went flat. “Don’t joke about that. None of this is a joke. You realize that, right?”
What the hell kind of nerve had I hit now?
“I know it’s not a joke,” I wrote. “I’m the one with amnesia, remember?”
“And that doesn’t suggest to you that you need an appointment with a doctor, and possibly an MRI, sooner rather than later?”
“And I’ll get one, I swear.” I wrote as fast as I could. “I just want to be sure it’s safe before I go anywhere else. And maybe if I stay here, get a little more rest—maybe I can remember something on my own.”
It was the best I could do. I was well aware that all of this sounded crazy. Was crazy. But the thought of leaving Holden’s house right then—of leaving the one person I knew—scared me more than the thought of accidentally bleeding out due to a burst appendix in my sleep.
Holden gave me a hard look. “I have a life, you know. You have a life. And neither of those lives is supposed to involve you washing up on my beach and moving into my house.”
“I said I’d go if you want,” I wrote, angry at his rejection, and angrier at myself for being angry, when Holden was the one being reasonable. “It’s fine. I get it.”
I threw the pen down so hard it bounced on top of the mattress. I started to push to my feet, but staggered. I was halfway to the floor again when Holden caught me, hooking his hands under my arms.
I gasped in pain from the yank on my shoulder, and then again from the way that gasping hurt my throat. When Holden set me back down on the bed, I doubled over, breathing hard. Every inch of my body from my scalp to my toenails ached.
Holden took his hands off me. I might have been in a lot of pain, but I noticed when he removed them, and even allowed myself a little self-pity over the fact that he wasn’t touching me anymore.