“Leah,” he repeated slowly.
“Yes.” She smiled through tears. “That’s me.”
He closed his eye as though the effort had exhausted him.
Leah sat beside the bed and held his hand. He did not pull away, but he did not hold on.
After visiting hours, she and I went to the cafeteria. She bought soup. I moved a spoon through mine until the surface cooled.
“Did they warn you?” she asked.
“About what?”
“The memory.”
“No. Not specifically.”
“He didn’t know either of us.”
“He just woke up.”
“I know.”
“He’ll remember.”
“I hope so.”
The softness of her answer angered me.
“He will.”
Leah stared down at her soup. “All right.”
I regretted the tone immediately. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.”
“I haven’t slept.”
“I know.”
“I keep waiting for him to look at me.”
She reached across the table and covered my hand. “He loves you.”
Present tense.
Not loved.
I held on to it.
That afternoon, Noah underwent more scans and neurological testing. The unit encouraged me to go home.
I refused until Tessa threatened to have security escort me to the parking lot.
“Shower,” she said. “Eat something that wasn’t wrapped in plastic. Sleep horizontally.”
“I’m not tired.”
