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My eyes flew back to Prism whose cheeks were turning pink. Is he embarrassed? It was kinda cute. “What’s your first name?” I asked.
“Matthew,” he said, then, “Matt.”
Ben nudged him. “Keep talking, P.”
“Matty,” he admitted, blush intensifying. “You call me Matty.”
“Matty,” I repeated, trying the name out. It still wasn’t familiar, but when I looked at him, I felt like the name fit.
“Bro, he’s got more than one name too,” someone whispered.
I glanced at the doorway, surprised to see a group of people crowding it.
“Don’t even think about it,” Matt warned. It gave me a moment of pause because of how easy it was to refer to him as Matty in my head, not Prism.
“Oh, everyone is still here,” the doctor observed as the room filled with a sea of unfamiliar faces. He didn’t seem very thrilled.
“It’s visiting hours,” a guy with a mop of brown curls refuted. Beside him was a dark-haired man in a leather jacket.
“So it is.” He agreed. “Regardless, we will need the room so we can examine the patient.”
A girl with long dark hair tucked under the massive wingspan of a guy with dark-blond hair and blue eyes spoke up. “Jess, how are you? Do you need anything?”
Another offer of help. Another massive wave of guilt had me choking on a sob. Everyone froze, an awkward, alarmed vibe filling the room.
Ben was there, sliding onto the edge of the mattress. “Come here.” His voice was so soothing it was almost a purr.
I went instantly, curling into his chest, rubbing my nose against his shoulder while tucking my arms between us.
“I really wouldn’t recommend too much too soon,” the doctor cautioned. “She needs time to acclimate herself.”
In a burst of energy—okay, mostly anger—I bolted up from the comfort of Ben’s chest, ignoring the wetness clinging to my lashes and the sharp stab of pain in my head. “I don’t need to acclimate. I need to remember!” To the doctor, I said, “Why can’t I remember?”
The doctor cleared his throat. “My professional opinion is that you are experiencing retrograde amnesia.”
The word was like a punch right to my chest. Amnesia. “I have amnesia?” I echoed, trying to process the fact that I seemed to have brain-dumped my entire life.
“Retrograde amnesia is fairly common among those with traumatic brain injuries. Its symptoms include loss of memories of a period of time before the injury. Also, forgetting names, faces, and even dates before the onset of amnesia. What is the last memory you can recall?” he asked.
I stared blankly into my lap, trying to remember. You’d think it’d be easy, right? I mean, I was basically sifting through nothing. But it wasn’t easy, and self-doubt was killer. What if I remembered wrong?
“There are no wrong answers,” the doctor said like a creepy mind reader.
Feeling everyone’s stares, I finally replied, “The only memories I have are from when I was young.” And honestly, the memories aren’t that great. Internally, I grimaced. Is this why I can’t remember? Because my life was a shitshow and my brain was trying to protect me?
The doctor nodded. “Being able to remember long-term memories, such as childhood, is also an indicator of retrograde amnesia.”
“But what about everything else?” I worried, eyes going around the room to all the people crowded inside. “Are you my friends?”
“Every last one of us.” A guy with dark hair and blue eyes spoke up. I tried to remember his name but failed.
“Ryan Walsh,” he said, pointing to himself. He gestured to a little redhead beside him. “Rory Coin. But I call her Carrot.”
I smiled. “Carrot?”
Rory nodded. “We’re dating,” she informed, then, “He thinks my hair is orange.”
“It’s auburn,” I refuted.
