Page 16 of In Every Chapter

Dr. Reba smiled kindly. “Maybe. But if you don’t remember the last seven years, you don’t remember the trauma of them either. But your body does and it’s holding onto that to keep you safe. What I do know is that you have a host of loving people rallying around you to support you.”

“And if I don’t ever remember?”

“Don’t force it. Memories come back best organically, if they return at all.”

Easier said than done. “So what am I supposed to do, eat grapes and bonbons while sitting on a chaise lounge all summer?”

My sarcasm didn’t faze her. “What did you do before the accident?”

The topic change rattled me. “Uh . . . they said I’m a librarian. That’s what I’m in school for. Or was.”

Dr. Reba handed me a book from the shelf behind her. “Can you catalog this in the library?”

I scanned the cover. “Psychology. Which would be 107 in the Dewey System. Back corner.” Whoa.

A knowing smile touched her lips. “Give your head a week to heal and then go back to the library. The skills-and-performance part of your brain is likely in fine working form. It’s a different region than what stores your memories.”

“Oh joy,” I muttered. “Who needs memories when you can just recite the Dewey Decimal System?”

I could have sworn Dr. Reba chuckled, but there was no sign of it when I glanced at her again.

We made our polite goodbyes, and before I dashed for freedom through the door, she handed me her card.

“If you need anything, I’m here to help. Or I can recommend someone closer to you in Serenity Springs.”

I crammed the business card into my sweatpants pocket and, after thanking her, slipped out to meet Greyson and Juliet. Yeah, no. There were no therapists in that small town . . . At least none that I remembered. If there were, your business had the potential to become everyone’s.

Five minutes later, the hospital doors whooshed open, and the hot afternoon air slapped my face. Sweat instantly beaded my body after the air-conditioned splendor. If I needed any further proof that I wasn’t in Seattle anymore, this was it. The dry ninety-five degrees seared me like an overdone baked potato, and I coughed as a wave of dust wafted through the parking lot. At least, there was no cloying cloud of humidity trying to smother you the minute you stepped outside. Still, what I wouldn’t give for Oregon’s ocean breezes to dispel the dirt now coating my nose and throat.

“Wait here,” Greyson said. “I’ll pull the truck around.” And he jogged away without another word.

Juliet draped an arm around me and carefully leaned down from her loftiness. “I know this is a lot, Pais. But we’re with you. You’re not facing this alone. And after you’ve had a full night’s sleep and a pot of tea, the hordes will descend with well wishes and casseroles.”

I laughed despite the pressure in my head and the stinging in my eyes. “Tell them not to fuss. I’m fine.” Too much fussing made me uncomfortable.

“Mama said if you want anything just to ask.”

“Tiramisu?”

Juliet whipped her phone out of her pocket before the word was fully out of my mouth. “Consider it done.”

A faded sky-blue vintage truck pulled up to the curb, and I almost ignored it until I recognized Greyson in the driver’s seat. He hopped out and opened the door for us. Juliet insisted on taking the cramped middle bench seat, so I gingerly slid into the passenger side, my aching head sagging against the headrest.

“Pais?”

My eyes snapped open, and Greyson stood at my door, seat belt in hand. Embarrassment scalded my cheeks, and I awkwardly took it from him. He had pulled the belt out far enough that it didn’t bump my shoulder as it clicked into place. “Thanks,” I murmured before the door closed.

The coolness of the vehicle caressed my sweaty limbs, and the intoxicating smell of leather and sandalwood were making me heady. Or maybe that was just the concussion?

Juliet didn’t usually mess around with small talk, but she went out of her way to create a small stream of chatter against the quiet thrum of the country music station where a guy was singing about a fast car. We left the bustle of Caldwell—the closest big city and major hospital—behind us and turned south down the highway towards Serenity Springs.

Greyson offered thoughtful and measured replies, but his unease leaked out in the rhythmic tapping of fingers on the steering wheel. He was a smooth driver, I’d give him that. And so carefully in control. Easy, attentive driving shouldn’t be so attractive, but he made it sexy. No, not sexy. Only Jared is. Or was. Or . . . just shut up.

We passed the faded, carved sign, mint green and orange with a sunrise painted on it, that read “Welcome to Serenity Springs.” Greyson veered the truck off the main drag of traffic onto a quiet lane of side streets before stopping in front of a two-story sage-green Victorian-esque cottage with white trim, stonework, and scalloped gable points. It was the marriage of quaint and charming. The stuff of fairy tales, secret gardens, and English tea parties.

And I’d never seen it before.

“Do we live here?” I asked skeptically. It was nicer than the trailer park I grew up in and the dorm rooms in Seattle. Sure, it wasn’t as big as Mama D and Pops Satterfield’s spread, but they had six kids and needed the space. My heart froze. Kids. I was married—to which man it didn’t matter right now—but did I have kids I’d forgotten about? Did that make me a terrible mother?