You Must Remember This

LaVieEnRose

It was important. It was important, and it was big, and I swore I wasn't going to forget it. I repeated it to myself over and over. It was important. I didn't write it down, there was some reason why I didn't—

The lights flickered off and on, and I looked up. Brian was standing in the doorway. He didn't have his coat, so he must not have just gotten here. He must have been here already. We must have already talked.

He looked nice.

You all right over there? he asked me.

Sure. What are you doing?

Just getting the paperwork, remember?

I nodded a little.

He gave me a small smile. Big day.

I looked around at my Post-its. Brian will be here at 7 AM. Don't pull out the IV. Your nurse's name is Sandra. Finally I found one on my IV pole: You're going home today.

In LA my notes were this paranoid joke.

We're not flying, right? I said. I don't want to fly.

He sighed, and I knew we must have been over this already, and I felt this stab of guilt for disappointing him. He said, No, I rented a car. How's the pain right now?

I think it's okay. I looked around at all my notes. Are you sure I'm ready?

You're not going to get better here, he said stubbornly. Even I couldn't forget how many times he'd said that. Brian has even more of a bone to pick with this hospital than I do. You follow the one rule and we'll be fine. Remember the rule?

Yes. Hang on.

Take your time.

It was important. It was important, and I swore I wasn't going to forget it. No wandering off!

There you go. He came over and gave me a kiss. Head of the class.

I wouldn't worry about me wandering anywhere, I said. I still felt like I was underwater all the time and looked kinda drunk when I walked. And you might think this is some kind of foreshadowing that I'm going to wander off at the end of this and find myself lost in Brooklyn or something, but it didn't happen. If anything the concussion made me want to be surgically attached to Brian, so I wasn't striking out on my own. I'd cry when he left me at OT like some sort of kid getting dropped off at preschool.

Sorry. That's all down the line, I just...

It's hard to tell any of this in order. It was hard to tell what order anything was really in.

Because the whole thing felt eleven years old anyway.

Emily told me something, I remembered...later, at some point. Brian was helping me out of bed and into the wheelchair my nurse—what was her name, what was her name—had waiting.

Oh yeah? he said, distracted, fussing with the bandage on my forehead.

Brian.

What?

Were you here? She said it was important. I didn't want to forget it, but...

When?

Last night.

He shook his head. Emily's in New York, you didn't talk to her last night.

She called after you left.

Okay, he said, in that it's not worth arguing with my concussed partner way. I could practically hear how he would have said it, I swear.

She did, I said, as the nurse pushed me down the hall. Give me my backpack, I can carry it.

It's fine, I got it.

Let me do something, I said, and he shrugged and set it on my lap. And she did, I said.

I think maybe it wasn't last night, he said, infuriatingly gently. You're on screen rest.

Yeah, she called me anyway. And she told me not to tell you.

He laughed. So why are you telling me? You're a terrible friend.

Because I forgot she told me not to tell you. Also I sort of forgot you weren't there, and I was hoping you'd tell me what she said, because she told me it was important but that I shouldn't write it down because...she wants me to remember it.

Oh, that's nice. Remind me to pay her overtime for fucking with you after hours. He took the backpack off my lap and watched me get up from the wheelchair after we broke through the hospital front doors. All good?

Yeah. How far's the car?

He pointed to a steel gray Camry.

Wow, you really lucked out.

Yeah, she's a looker. Want me to bring it around?

No, I can do it.

He didn't hover on the way to the car, just walked slowly like it was his idea while he scrolled through his phone. Fucking idiots, he signed to himself. Cynthia says he does that even when there are no Deaf people around, talks to himself a little in sign language when he's thinking. I love him so goddamn much.

“When are you going back to work?” I asked him, because on the other hand I felt like if I tried to sign while I was walking right now I'd probably fall on my face. Again.

Tomorrow, I have to dive back in. Figured you could sleep just as well on the couch there as you can at home.

I'll be in OT during the day anyway. I had a few weeks of strength and balance exercises and working on my memory and emotional control and all the other shit that falls out of me every time I take a hard object to the skull.

Not until next week, he said, unlocking the car.

“What?”

Doctor said rest for a week, then start.

After the bashing I started right away.

After the bashing you needed to learn how to fucking walk again. This is different. Most of the treatment is just resting.

I took a few tries to work the door handle—my depth perception wasn't completely back on board yet—but Brian let me figure it out. Once we were in the car he tossed a pillow at me that he'd made appear from God knows where and tucked a blanket around my waist and I felt safe. He had that stubborn, pissed-off face on that he always gets when I make him worry about me and he's just furious about all his feelings.

“You're blushing,” I said.

Shut up.

**

Driving was definitely better than any other form of transportation would have been, but I still got so goddamn horrendously sick about two hours into the drive. We sat on the shoulder for ages while I leaned out the door and puked and shook and puked some more, and Brian crouched on the ground in front of me and wiped sweat off my forehead and tried to get me to take sips of water. The sun was in my eyes and it was making my head hurt like I can't even explain,

It let up for half a minute and Brian guided my head back against the seat. Catch your breath. You're all right.

I'm sorry, this is fucking disgusting.

You're fine. Christ, you poor thing. You want your inhaler?

No, I'm okay.

Okay, he said, and I closed my eyes for a while and just breathed. His hand was cool on my cheek, and his thumb brushed over my eyebrow. I signed I love you, and felt his hand close around mine.

“Must be hurting your knees,” I said, opening my eyes.

Well, the alternative is sitting in your puke, he said, and I laughed a little and groaned.

I'll be fine, I said. Stop looking so worried, it's fucking heartbreaking.

I'm not worried, he, you know, lied. This didn't happen last time, he added.

Yeah, it did, I said, breathing my way through a new bout of vertigo. The first few weeks I'd do this for hours.

Brian shook his head, concern creasing his eyebrows.

“During the day,” I said, patting his hand. “You weren't there.”

He stared at me for a second without blinking, then said, Fuck. And what more was there really to say other than that? I think he'd really convinced himself that he'd gotten the full story just from lurking there at nights, and...look, I had no interest in guilting him over eleven-year-old mistakes, but he hadn't. He wasn't the expert at this that he thought that he was.

But him beating himself for it wasn't what I wanted, and it wouldn't help anything.

“It's okay,” I said. “I'm gonna be sick again.”

Okay, Sunshine.

**

I don't remember getting home, or my first night back at the apartment. I know I had some vague dream about trying to remember what Emily told me, and when Brian woke me up in the morning I was stressed and headachey and basically felt like I'd fallen asleep about five seconds before Brian woke me up.

Brian handed me a handful of pills. Good morning, Harry Potter.

What?

He gestured to his forehead.

Right. I took a deep breath. I can't go to the office. I am too fucking sick.

Give it a minute, he said, adjusting his tie in the mirror.

I glared at him, but he was right; after a few minutes awake I still felt goddamn awful, but maybe not like I was going to die. I got up and went to the closet and tried to decide on something to wear, but it felt like...impossible. I can't explain it, but I'm not new to it, either. It pops up every once in a while anyway, and while I was in the hospital after the bashing asking me if I wanted green beans or carrots with dinner would freeze me up for the rest of the night.

As a general rule, Brian doesn't jump in and help me with stuff unless I ask—he will stand calmly by while I spend ten minutes working through a two-sentence exchange with a hearing person—but the standards for dealing with my shitty executive function are different because sometimes I'll get so paralyzed that I can't even explain to him what's going on, so he's learned to step in pretty early. He took out a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants and handed them to me.

I can't wear sweatpants to the office. You're in fucking Gucci.

You're going to sleep all day. Wear something comfortable.

People are going to see us and think you're my fucking lawyer for my DUI case.

I was still on screen rest, so I brought the novel I was reading and a book of puzzles I got from the train station on my way to Pittsburgh and a few snacks, and I rested on Brian's shoulder in the cab on the way out to Queens.

You know what's going on? he asked me at one point, small. Where we're going?

Yeah. We're going to the office because you love me too to be without me for a whole day.

You're very aggravating, you know, he said, and I laughed.

Emily was sitting at her desk at the front of Kinnetik, where Cynthia used to be before she became an executive. She jumped up when we came in, and judging by the look on Brian's face made some very high-pitched noise, and ran towards us.

Gently please, gently please, Brian said, and Emily slowed herself down and hugged me. Brian kept a hand on the back of my head.

She got up on her toes and hugged Brian, who rolled his eyes at me behind her head. I missed you! she said.

We missed you too, I said.

She turned to Brian and explained something about a stack of papers she'd left for him and the thousand phone calls he needed to return and I wavered on my feet a little. Brian nodded for Emily to go with us to the office and kept watching her on the way. He shoved me towards the couch and went to his desk with Emily and started talking about...I don't know, work stuff, I couldn't bring myself to care right then. Everything was throbbing.

I waved for Emily's attention. We talked the other night, right? You called me?

Yeah, she said, and I gave Brian a look like ha.

What did you tell me?

I didn't tell you anything, she said. I asked you something.

Okay...?

She shrugged. You'll remember when it's time.

That's not how it works.

Is he going to be magically cured by the power of friendship? Brian asked.

Emily laughed and I tried to remember that mood swings were part of concussion recovery and it probably wasn't justified that I wanted to cut her out of my life forever for that. You shouldn't think about it until you're in a better spot, she said. So when you remember it...that's how you'll know you're ready for it.

The question is the answer, Brian said. Very Ben.

Just be patient, Emily said. There's no rush.

She left, and I flopped down on the couch and crossed my arms. “Just be patient. Oh, okay. What the fuck does she know about it?”

Brian smirked. Now, now, Raincloud.

Who the fuck does she think she is?

Well, she's pretty much your soulmate. Christ, I got a lot of work to do. What do you need before I dive into this? He went over to the closet and got out a blanket and a pillow, and after he tucked the pillow around my shoulders he gave me a little nudge under the chin and kissed me. Hi, he said, mouthing or saying it out loud too, and smiling.

“Hi.”

Decaf? He brushed my hair back. Emily has some tea bags, I think.

I'm okay.

He put his forehead against mine for a second. And you should eat something.

You worry too much.

I'm telling you, once I have you settled here I'm ignoring you for eight hours.

I'm okay.

Suit yourself, he said with a shrug, and he sauntered back to his desk and booted up his computer. I scrunched myself up on the couch and took out my puzzle book and got to work on a crossword.

Brian's pledge to ignore me for eight hours lasted a very impressive eleven minutes. He threw a balled up piece of paper at me and it smacked my crossword right at 23 Down.

I held it up to him. “A hazard, Brian.”

What are you doing?

I threw the paper back at him. Crossword. Seven letters, former full-sized Buick?

LeSabre. You're supposed to be resting.

I'm resting.

Sleeping. Doctor told you to get what, sixteen hours a day? Tick tock, he fingerspelled.

I'm not going to get smart again if all I do is sleep all day.

No, you literally are. Your brain just needs time to recover.

What I need is OT.

And you'll get it. After a week of sleeping sixteen hours a day.

I sighed and slumped back against the couch.

Look, I get that you're frustrated, Brian said. And I hear you, really. But I'm not pulling this out of my ass. Your neurologist told you all this. You remember?

I don't know. Maybe.

Quit scowling. That's how you get wrinkles, you know.

It took every ounce of restraint my rattled brain had left not to say something snarky about well, you would know, and only because I knew if I did say it I'd have to hold his hand about it for weeks. Yeah, Brian, you don't look like you're twenty-five, it's a national tragedy. At least your fucking memory works and you don't have to worry you're going to fall down and spray brain matter across the floor.

Christ, I was insufferable.

He stomped on the floor, and I looked over.

He watched me steadily. Everything all right over there? I was breathing kind of fast, I guess.

I, um... God, just like that, the entire conversation was gone. I remembered it later—I mean, I'm telling you this fucking story—but right then, I couldn't find it for the life of me. I don't remember what we were talking about.

He's always so fucking patient. It's like back when I was losing my hearing, and the hearing aids weren't catching everything, and he had to repeat himself over and over, and he'd just do it endlessly. He never got frustrated or said never mind and like...everyone got frustrated and said never mind. But not Brian. He'd just say it over and over until I got it. Your crossword puzzle, and how your neurologist told you that you're supposed to be sleeping and not doing crossword puzzles. And how beautiful you look.

Well. Now how was I supposed to remember what I was talking about?

Because Christ. He doesn't say shit like that unless I've just scared him to fucking death.

I'm sorry, I said. That I stopped breathing.

Yeah, what the hell was that? he said, making this show of flipping through a file, like he was bored. Don't do that again.

Okay. I love you.

I know, he said, with mock annoyance. You keep telling me.

Sorry, I said. You know, memory and all that.

His eyes were like melted chocolate. Sunshine, he said eventually.

Yeah?

Get some rest.

I would have gotten up and flew at that minute if he'd told me to. Okay.

**

I woke up God knows how long later disoriented as hell. It took me forever to figure out where I was, and Brian's office doesn't have any windows so I had no idea what time it was, if it was even still light outside, so that didn't help at all. Brian was at his desk talking to someone on the phone, and that was confusing at first, because he only does that in front of me at the office usually and I hadn't fucking figured out that he was at the office yet, and he'd dimmed the lights in the office and that confused me because he never did that, and God, my head hurt so fucking much that it was kind of hard to breathe without screaming.

I hate head injuries. I hate them. I can deal with most of this shit but I fucking hate head injuries, and one of the things that was so fucking scary was how much it felt like after the bashing, not just physically but emotionally. I'd been such a panicked, jumpy mess for ages after the bashing, and I'd just chalked that up to PTSD, to the sheer fucking horrible fact that the bashing happened, not what it actually was, and I'm not saying that wasn't a factor or anything, but the doctors at the hospital this time kept assuring me when I'd burst into tears at goddamn nothing or get fucking terrified at a sudden movement that all of that was super normal after a head injury, that a lot of people have issues with moods and fear and stability, and just...I hate finding out that I don't know my body as well as I thought that I did. I thought all of that was psychiatric and it turned out it—or some of it, at least—was physical? Why the fuck didn't anyone tell me that eleven years ago, when I was hating myself for being crazy? A huge percentage of people who survive major head injuries end up on antidepressants and fucked up with nightmares and scared to leave their houses, because our fucking brains are dented or whatever the hell, even the ones who don't have a horrifying story behind it. Nobody thought to tell me that until I split open my forehead in my mother's house?

And of course none of that fucking mattered, but my brain wasn't exactly great at figuring out what mattered, because I had a fucking head injury. And Jesus Christ goddamn did it hurt. I'd been getting these brutal headaches on and off since the incident, and they were less frequent every day, but they were still fucking crippling, for lack of a better word.

That was why Brian had dimmed the lights, I realized, because he knew I'd wake up with a headache, and figuring that out was enough for me to be a little more sure of what was going on. I closed my eyes and balled up with my arms around my head, and a minute later I felt Brian's hand gently trail up my leg.

“Sometimes I wish I'd just died,” I said. “Back then.” I opened my eyes. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean that.”

He gave me a small smile. It's okay. Sometimes you're really fucking annoying and I wish you did too.

I snorted and pressed my hand to my forehead. “Oof.”

I know this is fucking awful.

You've been so good to me.

Well, don't draw attention to it, he said. You know me.

Right. Sorry.

He touched my head. I just want to do things for you, so I figured I'd ride it out and hover until I get mad at you for making me feel things and shun you for a week.

Circle of Brian.

He kissed me. See, look whose memory works.

“My head feels so goddamn bad, Brian.”

Okay, well...I'll sit with you for a while.

That'll help?

He scoffed like he was offended and said, Of course. I made room for him on the couch, and he sat down next to me and pulled my feet up into his lap. I rolled onto my back and watched him.

“Gabe hasn't called,” I said. It had been this nagging worry over the past week, this thing I had to remember and then forget and then remember again.

He didn't look up from the file he was leafing through. You're on screen rest.

“Brian.”

He sighed and turned to me. I talked to him some during the first few days. He was worried about you.

During the first few days. So what about since then?

Brian shrugged like it didn't matter. I told him you'd be resting for a while. Derek and Daphne and Emily all want to visit and I told them no too.

So you told Gabe no?

He didn't say anything, which pretty much said everything.

He's going to bail, I said. This is too much for him.

If he bails, he's a fucking idiot.

This would be too much for almost anyone.

Oh, yeah, doing work sitting on the couch instead of in a chair, Brian signed drolly. This is a fucking hardship, right here.

Yeah, because that's all this is.

He turned a page in the file. You know, you're not really as much of a challenge as you'd like to be. You're pretty fucking straightforward. No one has to struggle to unravel the great mysteries of how to make Justin Taylor feel a little better. I sleep like a baby.

You're just saying that to make me feel better.

And it's not exactly wearing me out, is it? Point proven.

People are going to get sick of holding my fucking hand, I said. I'm a fucking adult, I should be...I shouldn't need all this...

What did you say you were going to do about all this self-loathing timesuck bullshit? he said, bored, but when I didn't answer for a while he gave me an expectant look.

“Um...” God, it was right there, it was right fucking there, but I had no idea. I couldn't even figure it out from context because I was fucking losing the context, it was falling right through me like a sink with an open drain. “I don't...I don't remember.”

He looked kind of stricken and then he gathered me up into his arms, and I stayed there for a long time.

**

It turned out, after all my eagerness to get to occupational therapy, I fucking hated it. I don't know why I was surprised, since I'd hated it after the bashing too, but everything in the goddamn world was a surprise right now since I had the memory of a goldfish, so there you go.

Gabe did come back into my life around then with excuses about how he'd been busy and he'd wanted to give me space to recover and I accepted them, but I think that was kind of the beginning of the end for us. The next chapter in this little saga didn't help, of course, and it probably also didn't do our relationship a lot of favors that I was a fucking asshole for a few weeks. Mostly to Brian, because everyone else had the good sense to avoid me as much as possible, and if Brian was going to be a fucking hero and stick around, he was going to stick around for me destroying our apartment and his self-esteem and my fucking life, because goddamn take that, hero.

I just...I hated OT. I hated being pushed and tested because I fucking failed all the time. I couldn't say the alphabet backwards past X and they wouldn't stop fucking asking me. I couldn't remember the stupid flash cards or recite the fucking little rhymes they taught me. I dropped the tiny objects they had me pick up, and my hand was so fucked up from how hard they were working me that I hadn't drawn so much as a goddamn stick figure in weeks and I could barely fucking sign. And I hated when I was out of OT and my therapist and neurologist and fucking Brian told me I wasn't allowed to do anything more mentally straining than relace my fucking shoes, so I was bored out my fucking mind and still on a screen ban so I couldn't Skype with my friends or call my fucking family, Brian wouldn't fuck me because he was convinced he'd hurt me and honestly he probably would have, I had panic attacks every fucking time I left the apartment, where I got goddamn lost between the kitchen and the bathroom, nothing tasted the way it was supposed to, my head still hurt so much that I wanted to just fucking cut it off and be done already, I'd go from feeling like things were maybe looking up to wanting to goddamn die at the drop of a hat, and I still couldn't fucking remember what Emily had asked me and she wouldn't just fucking tell me, and Brian was being so fucking nice to me that he barely seemed like Brian and I didn't deserve any of it, and none of it, not any of it, felt like it was ever going to get better.

I mean, it barely fucking got better after the bashing, right? So why the fuck would it get better now?

Brian waltzed into the rehab room to pick me up after work one day. Well, you made another interpreter quit, so we have to find a new one. Again.

I was trying to bat a ball between my hands even though my occupational therapist had already bailed out on me today because goddamn it, I could do this, I could do this. “He was awful. He was slow as shit and he made the OT think I was stupid because it was taking me forever to answer his questions. Why don't you just do it?”

Because I have a job, and it pays a lot better than being an interpreter.

My hand shook and I dropped the ball. “Damn it!”

All right, Bruce Banner, that's enough for today.

I kicked the ball across the room.

That was pretty good, actually, he said. Hand-eye coordination and shit. Or foot-eye, I guess.

“Shut up, Brian, Jesus! I didn't ask for some fucking third-rate comedic commentary on my goddamn situation."

Oddly specific.

I sat down on the floor and massaged my hand. “I want to quit.”

You want to quit while you're here, and then you want to work yourself to the bone once you're home.

“Yeah, I guess I'm goddamn complicated after all, huh?”

He came over to me. Did you really have to sit down here? You have plans for getting back up?

“I can do it,” I said, but of course I couldn't. Nothing about my fucking body was behaving well enough to get up without using my hands, and my right hand felt like it would leave by protest if I put any weight on it.

Brian put his hands under his elbows and lifted me up.

“I said I could do it,” I said.

Yeah, I heard you.

“Congrats.”

He smirked at me.

“Christ, how do you stand this? You really came here to take me home? You want to go home with this?”

He kissed my forehead. Well, you're sick, dear, and irritability is an actual symptom. I don't get mad at you for sneezing when your allergies are bad.

“Yeah, just snoring,” I said.

Plus it's kind of funny.

I pulled away from him. “Fuck you, it's not funny.”

I'm sorry, but...yeah.

“How is this funny!”

Well, you're just... he gestured at me. You're very small and you're very angry.

“Brian!”

I'm sorry. You can hit me with your tiny fists if you want.

I kicked the table and cursed.

Okay, point taken. You can do actual damage. Largely to yourself. Can we go home now? I think the people here are going to start giving me condolence casseroles for being married to such an asshole.

“Yeah, more of that,” I said. “I'm fearsome. I'm a very effectual tornado of rage.”

Okay, so you want to hit me and cause actual damage?

“I mean, deep down in my heart of hearts? Probably not.”

However.

“Yeah, however.”

He kissed me. What did you do today?

“I don't remember,” I said, and then I started crying and got mad at Brian for trying to comfort me because, you know, I was a fucking treat.

We went home and he shoved me into the shower with three kisses all in a row and an order not to crack my head open, and when I got out he was setting two plates of spaghetti—basically the most complicated thing he can manage on his own—on the kitchen table. He made dramatic eye contact while he dropped three—three!—pieces of garlic bread on my plate, then he dimmed the lights some and lit a few candles for the table.

What's all this? I said.

Sit.

So I did, and I chewed his undercooked spaghetti for a long time and watched the way his eyes glittered in the candlelight. For dessert he produced a box of cannolis from the bakery I love, and then he tugged me over to the floor cushions and sat behind me, his legs on either side of me, and rubbed my shoulders so deeply it was hard to speak.

He turned me around a little. Do you want a Deaf person at OT with you? Derek's only teaching three days a week, I bet he'd do it. And I can assign it to Emily. Cynthia will deal.

I nodded and felt like I was going to cry, a-fucking-gain.

Okay. He kissed my cheek. Good.

I cleared my throat. “What the fuck is all this?”

He shrugged. They don't know how to deal with a Deaf person. You need a Deaf advocate.

“Not that. All of this.”

Oh, this? He dug his thumbs into my shoulders.

I moaned. “This.”

He trailed a collection of kisses up my neck. I'm killing you with kindness.

**

It did get better, of course, and I stopped being a total dick, so that's a relief for you I'm sure. Derek or Emily came to OT with me, and they didn't always stay the whole time or anything, but it was just such a fucking relief to not be the only Deaf person in the room, and to get a second perspective on whether the interpreters were fucking up or it really was taking me too long to figure out the tasks the therapist was giving me (some of each). I started doing better, and following conversations more, and the headaches weren't every day and neither were the panic attacks. I decided to actually be nice to Brian, which annoyed him and made me happy, so that was fun. I got to use screens, so I could watch TV and call Gus and get back in touch with Gabe, and I started painting again, which made a pretty huge difference in my mood. My stuff was still kind of angry and bad, but just the fact that I was making something was enough to make me feel like less of an entire waste of space.

On the other hand, I was still sexually frustrated as shit and starting to feel decent enough that I was actually aware of the fact that was sexually frustrated as shit. Also Emily, despite spending a million hours a day with me, wouldn't tell me what it was she asked me.

You need a goal, Emily said. You get better, then you remember. That's your goal.

Yeah, sorry, but sex with my husband is my goal.

Two goals are better than one, or whatever the fuck.

So whichever goal it was (the sex. It was the sex) I worked my ass off at OT that day and was rewarded with a fucking hideous headache later. I didn't tell Brian, because I was trying this new thing where I wasn't the whiniest bastard in the world, but I didn't try to hide it or anything either, so he knew. He was getting some work done at home—I still wasn't really at the leave me alone by myself for stretches of time stage, so he didn't stay late at the office or go out unless there was someone else here with me, which had to be chafing—so he was busy, but every time he passed by where I was sacked out on the couch he'd run his hand over my shoulders or something, just little things that let me know that he saw me and he got it, and it was nice.

I was just tired, just to the fucking bone tired. It was fucking confusing, trying to get back to where I was, because sometimes I was supposed to rest and sometimes I was supposed to work my ass off, and I had to switch between those things based on other people's schedules and where I was and not how I was actually feeling at the time. And even times like this, when I was supposed to be taking it easy and my body was cashed out anyway, my mind would be going a million miles a minute trying to fit every thing together, sending me these panicked signals like I was forgetting something important, and I knew this wasn't the kind of rest my concussed fucking head needed and I couldn't do anything but lie there and spin out about it.

I wandered into the bedroom at some point and curled up there instead, and I think I drifted off for a little while but I was awake when Brian appeared in the doorway, watching me like he was trying to figure something out.

What? I said. No speaking allowed in the bedroom.

You know, he said, slowly approaching the bed. For someone who's sick as often as you are, you really don't get enough sexy nurse.

I really, really don't.

Brian crawled up from the foot of the bed and lifted the hem of my shirt, the stubble around his mouth scratching my stomach and oh, so good. Where does it hurt, Mr. Taylor?

I hissed in a breath. Lower.

Lower, huh.

Yeah.

He slid my pants down past my hips. You just relax, okay?

Okay, I said, and I did, maybe for the first time since all of this started.

**

So maybe that was the magic bullet. Not the sex, really, just actually, really turning my shitty brain off long enough to let it reboot. I'm not saying I woke up the next morning back to normal or anything. I'm just saying I woke up in the middle of the night and I remembered.

I sat up and turned on the light. Holy shit.

Brian shielded his eyes. What's wrong? Lie down.

Emily wants to have a baby.

He snorted. No she doesn't.

No, that's what she told me. That night in the hospital. She wants to have a baby.

Brian blinked at me. Didn't she say she asked you something?

She did.

It took him a minute.

Huh, he said.

I laughed a little. Yeah.

We lay there and stared at the ceiling.