Page 31 of One of Those Amnesia Stories

“It was my fault,” he admitted.

I froze. “What?”

He shut his eyes briefly, drawing in a slow breath before meeting my gaze again. His eyes looked tired now, the weight of whatever he was carrying etched into the tension around them. “We had a fight. A bad one. You were upset when you left, and then…” His voice faltered for half a second. “Then the accident happened.”

Relief slipped out of me in a shaky breath. “Oh.” I blinked at him. “You meant that kind of fault.”

His forehead creased.

“Next time, maybe lead with that?” I waved a hand toward my injuries. “For a second there, I thought you were confessing to actually doing this to me.”

“I did.”

“No, I mean you physically did this to me.” I raised an eyebrow. “You know. With your hands. Your fists. The whole husband-beating-his-wife thing.”

“What? No!” He straightened abruptly, horror flashing across his face. “Of course I didn’t.”

“Okay, good,” I murmured.

He gave me a long, incredulous look. “Why would you even think that?”

“Well, I woke up covered in injuries, asked how it happened, and you looked me dead in the eye and said, ‘It was my fault.’ Forgive me for connecting two very obvious dots.”

“They weren’t obvious dots.”

“They were pretty obvious.”

“They were completely different things.”

“How?” I demanded, giving him a look. “You said it was your fault. What exactly was I supposed to think? ‘Ah, yes, obviously he means an unrelated accident that occurred after an argument.’”

His mouth twitched. “That’s exactly what you should’ve thought.”

I stared at him. “Right. Because apparently I’m supposed to be a mind reader now.”

“You could’ve asked what I meant.”

“I did ask.”

“After accusing me of beating you.”

“Because you said it like a man confessing to a murder!” I threw my hands up, then immediately regretted the movement when pain shot through my side. “You could’ve saved us both the confusion by saying, ‘You got hurt because of an accident I feel responsible for.’”

He considered that for a moment. “That’s a lot of words.”

I gave him a flat look. “And yet somehow fewer than the ones we’re using to explain why your three-word confession made you sound like a serial killer.”

He glanced away, a faint flush touching his ears.

Silence lingered between us for a few seconds, giving me just enough time to study him before another thought surfaced.

“So…” I began, rolling a grape between my fingers before popping it into my mouth. “I take it we got married because of love?” I gestured between us, chewing thoughtfully as I watched his face. “You love me and everything?”

His entire body seemed to lock in place. His eyes widened for the briefest moment before narrowing, a flicker of surprise, confusion, and unease crossing his features before he buried it.

“I care about you—” he began.

“So, that’s a no. Got it.” I popped a piece of apple into my mouth. “So ours was a contract marriage, then. A business arrangement.”