Page 10 of You Again

“You’re in physical therapy?”

He nods. “Yeah. Hurts like Hades. But they keep telling me it’ll help.”

My brows cinch and my eyes draw to the outstretched leg I can see from here. “I’m so sorry. How did you hurt it?”

He shakes his head. “Just an accident.”

He looks so healthy, so strong, like he might have been carved from granite. I guess you can never tell just by looking at someone. No one would know I’m broken just by looking at me.

The thought takes away the ease Zev’s brought to my afternoon.

“So, what’s your favorite part of the book?”

“The book?” I peer down at my worn copy of Return to Saigon, my brows pulling together once more, this time in thought. But in my discomfort, my broken brain can’t remember a favorite scene.

I puff out a shaky breath. “You know what? I should go.”

“But—”

I stand, and Zev’s chair screeches as he pushes himself out from beneath the table to stand too.

“You—you just sat down,” he stammers.

“Yeah. But I was waiting for a table before. My grandma needs my help. I just—it’s time.” I set my book onto the glass tabletop. “Could you give this to Carlos for me?”

“He should be over soon,” Zev says. “You could⁠—”

“Thanks for letting me sit with you. But I need to go.” I push in my chair, ignoring the disappointing look on his face. He’s a sweet, jittery giant. But I can’t stay. The nervous energy pulsing inside of me isn’t going to allow it. “I hope the leg heals.” I nod once, and then I spin around and bolt for the exit.

Five

SIX MONTHS AGO

I’ve been in this hospital bed for three days.

Three.

I’m more than over it.

But my doctor has this worry wrinkle creasing down the very middle of his forehead every time he looks at me. It mimics the same wrinkle that my parents and Fran have.

“I assume since you’ve invited most of my family here today that you’re sending me home.” I cross my arms over my chest and study the man. Dr. Strouse—messy gray hair, foggy gray eyes, and a white coat as if he’s straight out of the geriatric version of Grey’s Anatomy.

“Patience, sweetheart,” Mom tells me, her palm rubbing my shoulder. “You’ll get to leave soon enough.”

“Rosalie,” Dr. Strouse says. “You said the last thing you remember was⁠—”

“Leaving the concert,” I huff. I’ve already said all this. “Fran and I got Pathfinder tickets. Our favorite indie band was in Reno.” I look at Fran, waiting for her to back me up. “Why doesn’t Fran have to wear a hospital gown?” If I was in an accident, so was she! I literally haven’t been in a bra for three days.

Fran’s lips fold in on one another. For once, my best friend doesn’t have anything to say. She bites on the end of her thumbnail, her face looking tired and as if she’s aged overnight.

“Guys,” I say, looking from Mom to Dad to Grammy to Fran. “I’m fine. Seriously, I feel completely⁠—”

“Rosalie,” Dr. Strouse says, standing at the foot of my bed. “Have you heard of retrograde amnesia?”

“Retro—” I scoff and glance from this joker to Mom and Dad. “I’m fine.” I glance over to Fran—she will roll her eyes at his nonsense. She has to. “I don’t have amnesia.” That’s the dumbest thing I’ve heard all week. “Sure, there are a few fuzzy moments around the concert, but I remember.”

But stupid Dr. Strouse goes on. “Retrograde amnesia doesn’t affect your ability to make new memories. It doesn’t affect your short-term memory. There’s semantic memory and episodic memory. They’re different. It’s quite fascinating.”