Page 66 of What About Us

I take a breath and let it out slowly.

“So now we’re lying to each other, X? Okay. Good to know.” I’m not angry, I’m hurt. And I can’t stand here and have this intimate conversation with him in the dark if he’s going to lie through his perfect teeth.

I wonder how many of those perfect teeth are fake?

So, I turn to leave the kitchen and walk up to my room because I can’t sit here and listen to lies.

But before I get to the stairs, a strong arm wraps around my waist and picks me right up off my feet.

“Don’t go.”

“I’m not interested in having a conversation filled with half truths. I’d rather go overthink in bed by myself.”

He sighs and turns me to pin me against the wall, his arm resting above my head, and frowns down at me.

“No one knows about the concussions.”

“Plural?”

“Three,” he says, and then swallows hard. “My family doesn’t know, most of the team doesn’t know. Only the surgeon and the head coach. How the fuck did you figure it out?”

“I’m a professional, trained to work with athletes. Memory issues, can’t sleep. Do you have headaches?”

He looks like he doesn’t want to answer, but finally he nods curtly.

“Not often anymore, but sometimes.”

“Are you more irritable than usual?”

“In the beginning, but not now. It’s mostly the memory and sleep. Sometimes bright light still bothers me.”

“When was the last one?”

“When I tore the knee.”

I don’t like that. It’s been more than three months, and he’s still having sleep issues. He might always have the memory problems.

And I hate that I’m the thing he can’t remember. I hate it so much.

“I wish I’d known,” I tell him, resolved not to let my lower lip tremble or shed any tears.

It’s not his fault that he forgot about me.

About defending me in high school. Or being the one nice person besides Chris in my teenage years.

Or kissing the fuck out of me on New Year’s Eve three years ago in Denver.

It’s not his fault.

A shiver rolls through me, and whether it’s from being chilled or having this man stand so close to me, I’m not sure.

Probably both.

“Come on, you’re cold.”

He takes my hand and leads me over to the couch, where I sit in the corner, and he covers me up with a fluffy blanket.

“Oh, this is nice. I didn’t see this here earlier.”