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“You have a really nice smile.”
This is the moment that will always stay with me—like, for the rest of my life. Because it’s the moment I find out that Aden’s smile cannot touch Aden’s laugh. He laughs out loud and it’s like a one-two punch. I get the laugh and the smile—and they’re beautiful.
In moments like right now, it would be good if I reminded myself of what a dick the old Aden was. I need to try and remember that.
“Babe, what were you going to tell me?”
“Have you thought anymore about calling me pumpkin?”
“Uh…no. Don’t think that one’s going to happen.”
“I’m really not sure I like the babe,” I mutter, and I’m lying. I do like it. In fact, I remember him calling me that the night we slept together. The first time we had sex, we went to sleep. But he woke me up later that night. I was on my stomach and I remember him kissing my shoulder. I remember him brushing my hair to the side and I definitely remember his sleepy voice whispering in my ear.
“Babe, I got to have you again.”
I’ll never be able to forget that moment. It will live with me forever. I wake up thinking about it, I go to sleep thinking about it, and somewhere in the night, I get lost in dreams of it.
“Hope, you’re starting to fuck with my head here.”
I blink. If he only knew.
“What?” I whisper, panic filling me.
Did I give myself away? Does he know something? Oh God! Did he remember?
“You’re freaking me out. What do you need to tell me?”
“Oh…” Now is the moment. I need to tell him. It’s right there on the tip of my tongue. It’s time to come clean. Daria is right, I need to just rip off the band-aid and tell him the truth.
“Aden…”
“What?” he asks and this time it’s that exasperated tone that I remember from before, and one that I’ve forgotten this week, but not that often.
“Sometimes people do things out of fear, you know? Like, they can have the best of intentions, but they’re afraid to tell the truth. Afraid of the consequences, really, and you know sometimes things happen that are beyond our control. Right? Like, you mean to do something, but time gets away from you and you just forget. It’s not done intentionally at all and then something happens and reminds you that you didn’t do it and things go all bad and…”
“Hope. Stop.”
“…you don’t know what to do about it, so you keep quiet and… What?”
“You’re freaking me out, Babe. Just come out with it,” he says and that’s the moment I know for sure, beyond a shadow of a doubt that I’m unequivocally, going to Hell.
Going. To. Hell.
“I forgot your birthday.”
“Say what?”
“Your birthday. I forgot it. It was the day you fell and then you fell…so there could be no birthday festivities…”
“Festivities?” he laughs.
“Anyway,” I breathe out, pretending to be annoyed because, yet again, he’s being cute. “Then you were in the hospital and then you didn’t know who I was and then…”
“Babe, take a breath. Okay, so you forgot my birthday. Is that a big deal?”
“It is! This is a big birthday. A milestone really. We need to celebrate.”
“The motel’s grand opening is in two days,” he reminds me, and it is. He talked me into waiting and asking the local radio station and paper to promote the motel, so we set an official date. We had kind of kept our doors open during that time, but sadly no one magically showed up at the door.
“But we’re ready for the opening and Aden! It’s a—”
“Milestone,” he sighs. “Fine. We’ll do something tomorrow. You can bake a cake or something.”
“I’ll plan something special! Don’t worry. I’m really sorry I forgot.”
“Considering everything I’ve forgotten I don’t think it matters that much, Hope. I’m going to head on over to my room,” he says.
“Okay. Have a good night,” I tell him. He looks at me strangely.
“We’re going to have to have a real talk sometime soon, Hope,” he warns me and I get a funny feeling in my stomach. Real talks with someone you’re lying too like a lying, liar, mc-lying pants is bad. I’ve never had the occasion arise before, but I’m pretty sure I’m one hundred percent correct on that one.
“I’m always here to answer questions,” I tell him quietly, afraid he might take me up on it.
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” he mumbles behind his hand while he rubs his jaw.
“What?” I ask confused.
“How old am I?” he asks.
I blink. Why didn’t I demand his ID when he showed up at the motel? Better yet—where is that damn ID? Surely he didn’t travel and drive without a driver’s license.
“Hope?” he prompts again.
“Fifty.”
“What?” he growls and this is a real growl. It’s the bear-hurt-in-a-trap growl. It’s the run for your life, you’re approaching the danger zone kind of growl.
