Okay. I can do that.” He clears his throat, and leans in. Just an inch. Even though there’s still an appropriate distance between us, it feels like he’s mere inches from me, almost touching. “You love outdoors and gardening. Your favorite flower is hydrangeas and you hate orchids. Spring is your favorite season. You’re addicted to chai. You love gossip magazines and when you read a good book you can never pull yourself away….”
On and on the lists goes. Sinclair rattles off information like he’s a walking encyclopedia of Victoria Donovan.
What he says sounds beautiful but I can’t remember any of it. The helplessness that rushes through me threatens tears to pool in my eyes.
There are no words I can say. Nothing.
Sinclair pauses. “Do you want me to keep going?”
I think, if I ask him to, he can still keep rattling off information. But my head feels heavy, weighed down by all his facts.
“It’s enough.”
He’s still staring intently at me. Somehow I don’t think his question is meant to be answered. Even if it is, I have no response to give him. “It’s enough.” The air has left my lungs and my stomach is twisted so tightly it feels like it will never uncoil.
“Mr. Montgomery?”
Our heads turn toward Susan at the same time. She glances between the two of us and gives me a small, apologetic smile. “Visiting hours are over.”
He gives her a brisk nod, looking calm and controlled, but I see the way his lips go into a straight line. It’s crazy, but I feel a slight thrill that he’s not ready for this conversation to end.
“I guess I should be going.”
There’s a moment when it looks like he’s going to say or do something else. His eyes never leave mine. They speak to me, saying, Just try. Try to remember me. I brace myself, but he just says goodbye and walks toward the door.
“Wait!” I place a hand on his arm. The warmth that transfers from his body through mine feels like a lightning bolt. And it’s all from one touch. I swallow. “Are you going to visit soon?”
Sinclair smiles the kind of smile that women dream about. One that makes your pulse speed up and your cheeks flame. “Of course I will. I’m not going to leave you here.”
“Even though I can’t remember who you are?”
“Especially since you don’t remember. But you will remember,” he says confidently.
“How do you know?”
Sinclair shrugs. “I just do.” A ghost of a smile plays at his lips. It holds a memory behind it that I want to steal as my own.
His reply gives me more pleasure than I care to admit.
He says goodbye again and leaves. As I sit there, something deep down inside me, something dark and dormant, tells me I need Sinclair Montgomery to reconstruct my past.
—
Later on that night, I pull the photographs out of my pocket and stare down at the happy couple. Wes hasn’t come to visit in two days. It’s almost as if he knows I have thousands of questions for him, and he enjoys keeping me in suspense.
My door opens slowly and ominously and I know without looking that it’s Wes.
Finally.
His shadow stretches across the floor and over half my face. My entire body stiffens and I turn my head his way.
“How is my queen?” he asks. There’s an edge to his words.
My body is in the present. Yet my mind lingers in the past, holding on to the glorious memory for as long as it can.
He crosses his arms, his hands hidden behind his biceps. “Aren’t you going to answer me, Victoria?”
I can’t look at him. Those memories were so bright and vibrant. The two of us together took my breath away and now this? It’s a letdown of epic proportion.
“No,” I mutter.
“Why not? Did you have a bad day?”
Everything he says is filled with condemnation and sarcasm.
He crouches next to me and stares at the picture. The cologne that drifted behind me in my flashback is the same scent that circles around me now. It makes me suck in a sharp breath. “You remember that moment?”
I nod.
Wes sighs. “We were happy.”
The blinds are open and silver light cuts through the room and slashes across his face. I see sincerity in his hazel eyes mixed with pain.
“How happy?”
Wes doesn’t answer and my desperation makes me abruptly turn to him, until our faces are inches apart. “I’m sorry,” I blurt out.
What am I sorry for? I don’t really know. But I know something