Page 32 of Love Wells Kept

The first sip hits my lips at the same moment I plunk into the empty chair, and Blair lovingly pats the top of my thigh.

“How was it?” she asks.

All the chatter ends immediately, and attention redirects to me. To that question. I’m sure they’re all dying to know whether Jackson’s memory is back.

“Intense.” I settle into the well-worn wooden seat, looking at the worried faces staring back at me. They might not all be related to Jackson by blood, but he’s a brother to each and every one of them. “He…he still doesn’t remember much, and maybe it’ll come back or maybe it won’t. The doctors keep saying his brain needs more time to heal, so…”

I glance over at Denny, who’s cradling his sleeping daughter in his arms, and my heart pinches.

“But he’s doing okay, otherwise. He’s being stubborn about taking anything for pain…but I’m even more stubborn, so he’s following doctor’s orders now. I wish he was in the Sheridan hospital, so I could go every day, but with the kids…”

Denny’s beer bottle clunks against the wooden tabletop. “We’re gonna go see him tomorrow. I’ll bully him for ya, Kate.”

“Oh, please. You just want an opportunity to win a fight against your brother.”

Denny shoots a finger gun in my direction. “Payback for years of him picking on me as kids.”

“Any word on when he’ll come home?” Red asks from the far end of the table.

I shrug. I tried to coerce somebody at the hospital into giving me a definite date this morning but was met with a lot of the usual we’ll see bullshit. One person said it could be as early as next week, and that’s what I’m choosing to cling to. “They removed the drain, and everything’s stable, so the plan is to move him to a regular room as soon as there’s an available bed. Hopefully home within the next week.”

“Good.” Blair smiles at that, and her hand squeezes my leg. “That’s an amazing recovery.”

“Yeah…” I nod, hesitating before adding, “Now we just need him to remember his family.”

Everyone retreats behind their drinks like they’ve rehearsed it, all of us collectively avoiding eye contact with the rawest part of the truth. Nobody wants the responsibility of formulating a response. Being the person who has to keep my expectations in check while simultaneously filling me with hope—fucking hope. That’s all we have, and sometimes it doesn’t feel like enough.

So I push past the knot in my throat and clear my voice. “It’s fine. If he doesn’t remember falling in love with me, I’ll start over. Show up at the hospital in tight jeans and a push-up bra. Ask him where a girl can find a hot cowboy around there.”

Austin chokes on his drink.

Denny grins, not missing a beat. “Look out, everyone. Kate’s entering her buckle bunny era.”

I point a finger at him. “You know…I think there are bedazzled jeans somewhere at the back of my closet.”

Red’s wife, Cassidy, drums her fingers against her chin thoughtfully. “You should cut them into short-shorts and show some leg. If you cut ’em right, you’ll get the perfect sliver of exposed butt cheek, too. He’ll love that.”

“Cass, if you own shorts like this, you’re putting them on as soon as we get home.” Red bumps his shoulder into hers.

“Booty shorts are a great call,” I agree. “Bet he falls in love twice as fast if I show up looking like I just got off a shift at Coyote Ugly.”

Cecily’s hand slaps down on the table, excitement sparkling in her eyes. “I just remembered I have a pair of sparkly cowboy boots. No chance they’re fitting on my swollen feet, so you can borrow them. You need a little sparkle when you’re spiraling in front of your amnesiac husband.”

“Oh, I definitely want to look hot while I spiral.” I laugh, letting it stretch enough to carry me through the underlying sadness of this conversation.

Austin finally recovers from choking and mutters, “You’re all insane.”

Denny raises his cup in mock salute. “To Kate’s buckle bunny era. May it be short-lived and wildly effective.”

Jackson

Following yet another physical therapy appointment—it feels like I’m constantly being dragged from one type of therapy to another lately—my skull sinks into the plush pillow Kate brought me the other day, and I shut my eyes.

She’s been here almost every day over the past week, and on the days she isn’t, at least one other family member always is. I’ve spent enough time with Kate that she’s cemented in my mind, and I’m getting pretty good at recognizing which brother is which when they walk into the room. But otherwise the various visitors I’ve had blend together; they’re nameless, faceless blobs in my memory.

And every single day, it feels like I’m letting my family down. Not because of anything I’ve done, but because of what I can’t do. I can’t remember most of my life before the accident. Trying to recall moments from my early childhood feels like driving through patchy fog—catching glimpses of moments in time as I pass them by. After that, the haze only becomes more dense, more dark, until it’s pitch-black.

It hurts me the most to hurt Kate. Maybe it’s because I’m able to comprehend that she’s my wife, and I feel like a piece of shit for not being able to magically fix this for her. Maybe it’s because she does the worst job of hiding her disappointment when she steps into my hospital room and realizes my head’s still fucked up. The smile drops a little. The tone of her voice raises a little. And I think a part of her heart dies a little.