When she had the nurse bring me to my room, I wanted to tell her not to go with him, to stay with me and keep building something I can cling to. Memories, moments—fuck, even just words. I’d take anything. Do I remember the laptop incident she mentioned? Not a fucking chance. The pizza we shared? I do remember pizza, is that enough? Decker records? Yep, that was my second home while growing up and became part of me when I decided to start a career as a musician.
Can I pinpoint the exact moment I first saw her? Hell yes. Yesterday, in the hospital. And doesn’t that just sum up how fucking pathetic this is? She feels like she’s supposed to mean everything to me, but all I have is a blank fucking slate where my life used to be.
The way she talks about us, though—it’s starting to get under my skin. In a good way. Like maybe I can almost see it, the life we had together. The way her eyes light up when she says something she thinks I might recognize, like she’s handing me back pieces of myself. It’s impossible not to feel drawn to her.
But did I like it when she wished me good night just so she could go with him? Fuck no. That felt like a knife twisting in my gut. She’s mine. Even if I don’t remember her, even if I can’t claim her memories, she’s still fucking mine. He’s said it—made it clear that she’s his world—but I don’t give a shit. I don’t share. I never have, and I’m not about to start now.
If anything, I’ll get better for her. I’ll do whatever it takes to walk, to talk, to fucking live again. Not because I want to—let’s be clear on that. I don’t give a shit about being some inspiring comeback story. I just want her back in my old life, not this weird purgatory where I’m stuck watching someone else take what’s supposed to be mine.
If only I could remember what my old life even was.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Haydn
The terrace isquiet except for the soft hum of the pool filters and the faint rustle of the wind through the trees. The lights strung overhead cast a warm glow over the table, where dinner is laid out—a mix of her favorites and mine. Grilled salmon, a salad loaded with everything except croutons (because, for some reason, she doesn’t trust “prepackagedbread” and the chef didn’t have time to prepare any), and a bottle of chilled white wine. It’s simple, nothing elaborate tonight, but it feels good. Familiar.
Ophelia sits across from me, her hair twisted up into some messy knot on the top of her head. A few strands escape, brushing against her face every time she leans forward to take a bite. She’s wearing an oversized sweater, the kind she steals from my side of the closet, and it’s swallowing her whole, making her look smaller than she is. Cute. So fucking cute.
She’s talking about something—the details of her day, I think—but I’m distracted by the way she’s cutting her salmon. Tiny bites, careful, deliberate. Like the plate might bite back if she’s not cautious. I always tease her about it, but tonight I keep my mouth shut. It’s been a long day for both of us, and I don’t want to ruin the peace of this moment with my nonsense.
Instead, I watch her. The way her eyes light up as she talks, the way her hand moves, gesturing in time with her words. I don’t know what it is about this woman, but she could be reciting the most boring weather report, and I’d still hang on every word.
“You didn’t listen to a single thing I just said, did you?” she asks suddenly, her lips quirking into a smirk as she catches me staring.
“Not true,” I counter, sitting up straighter. “You said something about . . . an article? A publication would like you to be the one taking pictures for it. The stuff the journalist took isn’t on par with the magazine.”
Her eyes narrow, like she’s debating whether to call me out or let me off the hook. Thankfully, she lets it slide, taking a sip of her wine before continuing. “It’s not just an article. It’s a cover feature for Wanderlust. They’re doing a piece on the Andes—Machu Picchu, Rainbow Mountain, the Sacred Valley. They want me to photograph it all.”
“That’s huge, Pia.” I lean forward, grinning at her. “When do you have to leave?
“Not for a few months,” she says, poking at her salad. “But it’s going to be a long trip. At least four weeks and I’m not sure what’s going to happen with Keane.”
“Four weeks without you? That’s cruel.” I reach across the table, nudging her hand with mine. “Can I come? You know I’d carry your gear if you let me.”
She laughs, shaking her head. “The season will be in full swing, I doubt you’ll be able to even take five minutes to call me while I’m there.”
“Okay, I won’t be able to go, but I always make time for you while I’m on the road—and you’re too busy jet-setting around the world,” Itease.
Her laugh turns into a full-on snort, and it’s the best sound I’ve heard all day. It’s these little moments, the ones where she’s completely herself, that I love the most. When she’s not overthinking or carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. When she’s just her.
“Seriously, though,” I say after a beat, leaning back in my chair. “I’m proud of you. This is a big deal, Pia. You’re killing it.”
She smiles at me then—soft and genuine—and I know I’d do anything to keep that smile on her face. “Thanks,” she says quietly. “It’s kind of a dream, you know? Shooting for Wanderlust. Traveling to places I’ve only ever read about. I just . . . I don’t want to mess it up.”
“You won’t,” I say, my voice firm. “You never do.”
She sighs. “But what about Keane?”
I hoped that by not acknowledging it the first time she would move on, but I was totally wrong.
“He has people. We’ll do our best to be around him so he doesn’t feel alone,” I say honestly, because I genuinely believe that being surrounded by people who care might help speed uphis recovery. Now, if I could just get ahold of his fucking brother and ship Keane to him . . . well, maybe my life would finally feel less like a circus. Wouldn’t that be nice?
For a second, Ophelia just looks at me, her gaze soft but searching, like she’s trying to read between the lines of what I’m saying. Then, without a word, she reaches for her glass, her fingers brushing against mine as if by accident—but it doesn’t feel like one. The touch lingers, warm and deliberate, sending a spark of something through me.
“You’re too good to me,” she murmurs, her cheeks tinged with a faint blush.
“Maybe, but only because you’re cute and probably the best photographer in the world.” I wink, popping a cherry tomato into my mouth with a casual shrug. “But don’t let it go to your head.”
