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She knew he didn’t understand, but she needed him to. The hesitations her doctors once had about overwhelming her felt irrelevant now. They’d been aiming to avoid shock, physical reactions to information she couldn’t comprehend. She doubted anything could surprise her at this point; she felt settled into this life. She’d had time to acclimatize.

“You agreed to let me have more time,” Aster said, turning to her from where he stood at the closet door.

“And that was quite a while ago.” Months. He’d been petrified—standing in the Clay family gardens during Thomas’s birthday party—and begging for more time to figure out the spare room. “A lot has changed since then.”

“A lot has changed for you,” he said, voice nearly flat with despondency. “You’ve given up.”

He turned and continued dressing, disappearing into the closet as Molly was left to wonder how hard she intended to push, unsure how much they could take.

“Aster, it’s—well, it’s a little ridiculous, don’t you think?” she asked, lifting her voice, insistent that it carried through the doorway and into the closet. “That’s a whole room in our apartment we could be using. And I do want to know what other stories you have to tell, whatever mementoes are still left in there. Just because I’m not expecting to get my memories back anymore doesn’t mean I don’t care to know about our life. But we don’t have to be so careful about it.”

Aster emerged dressed for work and pointedly avoiding eye contact. Pawntès wound his way between Aster’s legs, rumbling a low purr before scampering across the room to Molly, as if trying to bridge this gap for them.

“And what if it’s too much?” Aster asked. “Makes all this worse?”

“Aster. Please, it’s been—” Her throat tightened, cutting her off. She didn’t want to fight. She needed him to understand, to be on her side. This was such a silly, simple thing. Just a room.

“Nowhere near long enough for the risk to be worth it,” he said. The layer of finality blanketing his words only frustrated her further. He frowned and continued, “I have to go to work.”

It was a coward’s exit, and a shockingly sudden retreat. She frowned as she watched him go.

Too frustrated to do much else, Molly rose from the bed and, for the first time since waking up in a hospital almost six months ago, she made her own morning coffee.

“So, are you two still fighting?” Roy asked from the door to Molly’s office. “That’s some pretty aggressive typing you’re doing. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re editing one of my essays.”

Molly looked up to find a teasing glint in Roy’s grin. She gave a weak smile. “We’re not fighting.”

“You’re not not fighting,” Roy concluded with an unfortunate sense of knowing that came from a lifetime of friendship. He sat in the small chair crammed in the corner of the room. “At least, that’s what I think I gathered from all the half sentences you were texting earlier. Don’t think you finished a single thought.”

“I was using voice to text while multitasking. There was some annoyed groaning that didn’t translate.”

Roy waited, almost serene in his patience, for Molly to give him more.

“We’re just . . . agreeing to disagree right now. Alright?”

Rather than looking relieved that she’d finally engaged him, Roy turned nervous, raking a hand through his hair.

“Alannah has told me I have to ask about the . . .” His voice trailed off, and however he’d meant to end that sentence got swallowed up by the ambient white noise of overhead fluorescents.

“About the what?” Molly prompted, preparing herself.

“About the sex and whether it’s—if it’s still happening.” Roy groaned. “I am earning myself so much goodwill with my wife right now. Please feel free to never answer that question.”

“You think Alannah will rest without her answers?” Molly asked, torn between painful mortification and absurd amusement. Roy looked more uncomfortable than she felt, which helped.

“I’d prefer she call you herself. She gets way too much amusement out of using me as a messenger.”

Molly couldn’t help but smile. “She already sent me a cryptic text to say I should spare no details on your account. You can tell Alannah no, it was just the one time. But he’s been sleeping in the bed.”

For as uncomfortable as Roy looked—brows pulled together, fidgeting with his knuckles, and bouncing one leg at a distractingly rapid pace—Molly had to give him credit for trying.

“So that’s . . . good?” he ventured.

“It’s . . . not bad.” Molly sat back, finally abandoning her extensive spreadsheets and mess of calendar commitments. “I told him it was time to stop tracking my symptoms and researching my memory loss. I don’t even know what he’s expecting to find at this point.” She hadn’t told Alannah or Roy the worst of it yet, couldn’t bring herself to in the days following what had been both one of the best and worst birthdays of her life. “Roy, I haven’t made any progress since it happened. No changes in my brain, nothing new that I remember. My doctor says it’s not getting worse, but it’s not getting better.” She sucked in a breath, determined to keep her voice even. “I don’t think my memories are coming back.”

She held up a hand to halt the response Roy was already halfway to speaking.

“It’s okay. I’ve accepted it. I’m trying to move on. But Aster—he’s having some trouble with my decision.”