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“Okay,” is all she says, and it makes me smile.
Gaten and Dave mentioned she kept the talking to a bare minimum, and her new favorite word was “okay.” Now I know what they meant.
I lean over her before she can blink, cupping her face and kissing her as gently as I can. She kisses me back a second later, her breathing stalling.
“How much do you remember?” I cut to the chase as soon as I pull away, needing to put my demons to rest. Dia opens her mouth to speak and closes it, needing time to find the right words, and I realize how hard this is for her.
“How’s this? Blink once if you remember. Blink twice if you don’t.”
“Okay.”
I smile.
“Do you remember what happened at the lighthouse?” I opt for something easy.
Blink.
My shoulders unwind.
She remembers.
“What about us getting back together?”
Blink.
“Do you remember how we met?”
Blink.
“Do you remember how you got here?” I choke out, dreading her answer. This had to be traumatic for her, being held at gunpoint and assaulted.
Blink, blink.
She doesn’t remember.
She remembers almost everything, but not this. This is how far her memories go. And maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe this is a blessing in disguise.
“They told me what happened, but I don’t remember,” she says slowly.
I nod, tucking a piece of her curly hair behind her ear and trying to swallow the pit in my throat. It aches like a bitch, but in a good way, if that’s even possible.
She’s really awake.
I can’t believe it.
“How are you feeling?” I guide her hand to my mouth and kiss her knuckles.
“My head hurts,” she says, and I wish I could transfer the headache out of her head and into mine.
“I’m so sorry, Gem. I’m so fucking sorry I put you in danger.”
“It’s okay.” She gives me a small smile, and for the first time in three weeks, it feels like I can breathe again. “You’ll make it up to me.”
Unfortunately, my relief is short-lived, a pit of emotion slamming against my rib cage like it’s trying to carve its way out. My eyes begin to water as I replay the words she said and contemplate how close I came to not having that chance. We almost ran out of time, and I refuse to waste any more.
My fingers slide into the pocket of my jacket, and I feel the wrinkled envelope I found in my car weeks ago. I read my mom’s letter the day I happened upon it, but Dia hasn’t. And I need her to know what’s in it because it technically concerns her, too.
“I still have one letter from my mom.” I pluck the folded envelope out of my pocket. “The rest burned in the fire.”
