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“What’s your address?”
“Umm…sixteen Cedar Street?”
Correct again.
“And who is this next to you?” The doctor nodded at me.
Tate’s bloodshot eyes met mine, and he frowned. “I don’t know.”
I snorted at first, thinking it was a dumb prank, but he simply stared at me in confusion.
“Tate, honey, you know who that is,” his mom whispered.
My best friend shook his head. “I don’t.”
It was the first time I felt my heart break.
The doctor tried to reassure me that short-term memory loss was common after a seizure. It didn’t help. I could hardly make out the hospital walls through my tears when my parents came to pick me up. They didn’t care, and because I was late home from school, I’d missed dinner and went home hungry that night.
Food was the last thing on my mind, because Tate had forgotten me. I spent the entire night staring at my bedroom ceiling, thinking I’d never hear his booming laughter or watch his cheeks stain pink when I caught him looking at me.
Two days later, his mom rang to tell me they were home from the hospital, and he was asking for me.
He hadn’t forgotten. I ran all the way to his house, banging on his front door. The second Annie opened it, I bolted up the stairs and into his bedroom. He was already smiling, and tried not to let what happened faze him, instead going on about how he’d eaten ice cream and banana pudding for dinner thanks to his swollen tongue.
I had my best friend back.
Not long after, he was diagnosed with epilepsy. Medication helped control his seizures, and most of the time, it worked.
The same helpless sensation I experienced thirteen years ago assaults me as I stand at the foot of Tate’s hospital bed in Santa Clara.
Dirty-blond hair. Golden smooth skin. The perfect amount of stubble over his sharp jaw. The only thing missing is his deep blue irises hidden behind his eyelids.
He’s exactly the same, the time apart irrelevant.
I’d been here before, knew what to expect, but the fear that he’d wake up and not recognize me swarmed and festered like a plague of locusts. Or what if he didn’t wake up? I was aware of the endless risks associated with his condition.
He’s too large for the cramped hospital bed. His bare foot is sticking out, and I quickly tug the blanket down to cover it. Tate hates his feet sticking out at night. Even at twenty-seven, he’s convinced something will reach out and grab him. I used to tease him tirelessly about it and creep around the bedframe and scare him.
He isn’t twenty-seven anymore.
No. He’s one year older. We both are. The first birthdays we’d spent apart in over a decade.
With little thought, I run my fingers through his hair, the golden strands silken. My stomach cramps. “Oh, baby,” I whisper. “How did we end up here again?”
He doesn’t move, face peaceful as he sleeps off the side effects of his seizure. He’ll be exhausted when he wakes up and upset. Four years seizure-free down the drain. Epilepsy is unpredictable; there’s no cure, and even on the right medication, seizures are still a possibility. He made a lot of lifestyle changes after his last episode: cutting out alcohol, eating healthier, exercising, and ensuring he had enough sleep.
A nurse walks in, and I tuck my hands in my pockets, feeling guilty for touching him, which is stupid. He’s my husband.
She pauses when she spots me. “Oh. Who are you?”
A bald head appears in the doorway, one of Tate’s bodyguards. Hugh, I think his name is. “She’s allowed to be in here. Family.”
The nurse eyes me cautiously, as if I’m some crazed fan who snuck in here to get close to the famous Tate Brooks. “Right, and what exactly is your relationship with Mr. Brooks?”
“Is that important?” I challenge.
“Yes. I need to put it on the visitor records.” She huffs. “We can’t let just anyone in here.”
