Noah’s smile faded.
I gathered the containers.
“I’ll come back at three.”
He watched me.
“We,” he said.
I paused.
“What?”
“You said before that we’d work things out if my memory didn’t come back.”
I remembered the conversation.
“Yes.”
His fingers worried the edge of the blanket.
“What if I don’t want a we?”
The question was so quiet it nearly disappeared.
I put the container down.
“Then there won’t be one.”
He looked up sharply.
“I won’t ask you to live a life you don’t choose.”
“You’d leave?”
“If that’s what you needed.”
His face became unreadable.
I forced myself to continue.
“I would still help with your recovery if you wanted. I’d make sure you had somewhere safe. But I won’t use the past to trap you.”
Noah stared at me for a long time.
The nurse shifted near the door.
Finally he said, “I didn’t ask you to leave.”
“No.”
“I asked what if.”
“And I answered.”
He looked dissatisfied.
I did not know whether that was good or terrible.
