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As I replayed the way it felt to be practically inhaled by Ben, I poked around, looking at my sad stash of snacks, impressive collection of slasher DVDs, and binder filled with sheet music. Frankly, how was I supposed to remember anything when I was consumed by the way his tongue felt lashing across mine, the rumbling sounds he made as he devoured me, and the way his arms radiated power when he literally carried me across the quad to put me up against a building and make out with me all over again?
My body seemed to have no trouble at all remembering the effect he had on me, which, frankly, was nothing short of devastation.
My body bounced when I belly-flopped onto my bed and pushed my face into my blankets to inhale. I hoped the scent would trigger a memory or more, but all it did was make me think of the way Ben’s scent wrapped around me in his bed last night.
The way he had to.
“Get it together,” I told myself, reaching for the drawer in my nightstand and pulling it open. My hand closed around a small notebook, and I pulled it in front of me. It was bound in red leather (that probably wasn’t real) and had the word journal stamped across it in small gold block letters.
It also had one of those stretchy type of bands around the side that opened to keep it closed. Sliding the band away, I flipped it open, wondering what was inside.
Ooh, a diary. “Secrets from my own mind,” I mused, flicking through the pages that were filled with handwritten entries. This would for sure jog my memory.
“This calls for popcorn,” I announced to literally no one and left the journal there while I reached for the crutches so I could make a snack.
Have I mentioned how annoying those crutches were? One star. Do not recommend.
The end of one tangled in something lying on the floor, and I nearly went down. Frustrated, I glanced down and groaned. Clothes were scattered everywhere, and the cord of a blue nylon bag was twisted around the rubber tip of the crutch.
Using the bed, I sank onto the floor, sitting with my legs stretched out in front of me. After untangling the cord, I picked up all the clothes, stuffing them back into the bag.
The door to the room opened, and Lainey strolled in, stopping short when she saw me on the floor. “Did you fall?” She worried, tossing her bag onto her bed and coming closer.
“No,” I explained. “My crutches got tangled in this stuff.”
Lainey laughed. “You do say your laundry is your arch nemesis.”
I gave the clothes a dubious stare. “This is my laundry?”
My roommate straightened, hopped over the wrinkled clothes scattered about, and went over to the small shared closet to reach inside. “Yep. You always let it pile up because it’s your least favorite chore.”
Considering the fact the bag was so full it was bulging, I would have to say that Lainey was not lying. “When’s the last time I washed clothes? Winter break?”
She laughed. “I’m glad to see your sense of humor is still intact.”
“I was being serious,” I deadpanned.
She glanced back at the heap and then up at me. Both of us burst out laughing. “I’m surprised you have underwear left.”
“Maybe I don’t wear any,” I mused. Then I wondered. “Do I?”
“Well, I’ve never asked, but considering those lacey things right there,” she said, toeing the end of her sneaker toward a pair of black briefs partly falling out of the bag, “I’d say that you do.”
“Most girls with amnesia wake up and find out they’re married to a billionaire. What do I learn? I’m a slob.”
Lainey laughed again. “Not a slob. Just someone with an aversion to washing clothes.”
“Where’s the laundry?” I asked. “Do we have one here on the floor?”
She scoffed. “In this old building? Fat chance. The shared laundry room is in the basement.”
“How cliché,” I mused. “Let me guess. It’s dark and creepy too.”
“It’s not so bad actually. They remodeled it a few years ago.”
“Guess I’m doing laundry.”
“Are you sure you feel up to that?” she asked, pulling on the jacket she’d gotten from the closet.
