Page 192 of One of Those Amnesia Stories

“Let’s go back.” His voice was barely a whisper.

I stared into his eyes. His pupils had swallowed almost all the brown, leaving his eyes dark, wide, and bottomless. I moved closer, searching, needing to find it. Needing to find him beneath all this pain.

He tilted his head, confused by my sudden closeness.

And then the light shifted, just slightly, and I saw it. A flicker of brown. Warm and human and him.

My eyes locked onto it.

“Be selfish.” My voice was so small I barely recognized it.

His eyes didn’t leave mine. “Yes. Be selfish.”

I nodded. “Okay.”

I wrapped my arms around him and pressed myself against his chest. My head found its place, right over his heart, like it had been waiting. He didn’t hesitate. His arms closed around me instantly, tight and secure, pulling me into the warmth of him.

My body felt so weak. The adrenaline, the fear, the tears, the confession—it had all hollowed me out, left me empty and shaking. I just needed to rest. Just for a bit. Just long enough to breathe again.

He held me like he understood. Like he needed it too.

After a few minutes, I heard myself say it. The words just… came.

“The accident wasn’t your fault.”

He tensed against me. Every muscle went rigid, like he’d been struck.

I kept going, my voice muffled against his chest. “It’s nobody’s fault. Sometimes things just happen. No matter how much you try to stop them, no matter how careful you are. The accident was one of those things.”

He didn’t relax. Not for a long time. Just stood there, rigid and holding his breath, like he was waiting for the words to sink in or shatter him.

Then I felt it. The tension leaking out of his shoulders. His arms loosening just a fraction before tightening again.

“Michael was wrong.” His voice was rough against my hair. “Whatever he said about you was bullshit. Every word. Okay?”

I didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. The words were stuck somewhere between my heart and my throat.

He pulled me closer. “Say okay.”

I rubbed slow circles into his back. “Okay.”

He nodded against me. “Okay.”

I started counting his heartbeats. One. Two. Three. Four.

“Why can’t he find a hobby instead?” I murmured. “Doesn’t he get bored with all this scheming?”

I felt his nod, his chin moving against the top of my head. “Yeah. Like Mr. Garcia. He has hobbies. He taught me so many things—about plants, about soil, about patience.” A pause. “I’ll show you one day.”

His heart sped up. Just a little. A flutter.

“Okay.”

Back to normal. Steady. Safe.

“What’s Mrs. Garcia’s hobby?” He asked.

His heartbeat slowly found the same rhythm as mine. “Going to casinos.”