He’d been busted. The enormity of the situation descended on Nash and tears flowed down his cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” Nash sobbed.
He cried for Sam. He cried for himself. And he cried for poor Myles Burlingham, whose wide eyes broadcasted his own hurt and distress.
What could possibly have happened with Sam? Had he died? How long ago? Had they inexplicably split up? Things were perfect between them. They’d been two weeks from getting married!
He stared into Myles’ concerned eyes. He didn’t want to add to the man’s pain. However they’d gotten to this point, it was clear that Myles loved him. They were engaged to be married, so he obviously loved Myles back.
Sam was his past. He was going to have to convince himself of that, even if the pain of losing him was fresh. Myles was his present, and his future.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I don’t want to hurt you. Please don’t hold this against me. I’m sure I’ll remember us soon.”
Myles’ brows knit together with concern. He shook his head. “Of course I won’t hold this against you. Don’t worry about me. Concentrate on healing physically. The rest will sort itself out.”
“Just to be clear,” Dr. Beltran said. “You’re saying you’ve lost at least four months, then? Can you be more specific?”
Nash stared blankly at Dr. Beltran. Four months? That’s all it had taken to move on to the point of getting engaged again after Sam had died? There was no way he was that cold-blooded, not with the anguish he was feeling, but neither could he believe that either one of them would cheat on the other. They wouldn’t have split up for anything less than that.
“Nash?”
“I think,” Myles said, “that the timeframe you just gave is confusing him.” Myles turned to Nash. “Do you remember why you’re not with Sam anymore?”
Nash shook his head and steeled himself to hear the words.
“First, let me assure you that he’s alive and well—”
“Sam’s alive?” Relief flowed through Nash. Surely whatever had happened could be fixed. “Is he here?”
Myles frowned. He opened, then closed his mouth. No, of course not. Why would Sam be here? How could Nash be so unfeeling?
“Sorry,” Nash said. “Please understand that in my mind right now I’m two weeks out from my wedding, and there was nothing wrong with our relationship. I don’t understand what could’ve happened.”
Myles sighed. “You’re two weeks out from being married once again—or were, anyway—but with a change of groom.”
Or were, anyway.
Dr. Beltran glanced at the monitor over Nash and elbowed Myles, then inclined his head to call the data to Myles’ attention. Nash couldn’t see the readings from where he lay.
He might as well be hooked up to a damned lie-detector machine. His distress when Myles made that last statement had probably not only been clear on his face, but also corroborated by a change in his vitals.
Why was that so distressing, anyway? He didn’t even remember dating Dr. Burlingham…Myles. He trusted himself, though.
Emotionally he was having trouble dealing with the unexpected news that he’d lost Sam. Intellectually he knew he’d moved on with his life and was happy with another man. Either he’d remember, or he’d fall in love with his fiancé all over again.
Myles brought his gaze back down to stare intently into Nash’s eyes. “There’s no pressure, Nash. If you don’t want to get married now, we won’t.”
After another quick glance at the monitors, he added, “Which is not to say that’s what I’d prefer. I still very much want to marry you, but I don’t want to cause you any emotional distress. I’m willing to do whatever you want.”
“Okay.” Nash forced a smile. “I think I’d like to move forward for now.”
It was scary to continue with an engagement to a man he had no memory of dating, but even more frightening to cancel plans he knew he’d made when he was of sound mind and body, when he was decidedly not either at the moment.
“There’s a good chance,” Dr. Beltran said with a smile, “that the next time you wake up you’ll remember everything except this conversation.”
“I sure hope so,” Nash replied weakly. He reached for the button to activate his PCA pump and pushed it. No satisfying whirr. He pushed it again. Nothing. It was too soon. “Fuck,” he whispered, and closed his eyes.
Damn. He’d forgotten to inquire if Myles knew why he and Sam had split up, but he was too tired to care enough to reopen his eyes and ask the question.
* * * *
The click of a door opening and closing to Nash’s left was loud in the otherwise silent room. Shuffling sounds followed, and he sensed people standing over him. His head and arm felt like he was in a torture chamber rather than a hospital. Memories of waking up earlier in post-op flooded his consciousness, and the soft thuds of feet migrated away toward the right.
“The rat-bastard called me a half-hour ago,” Harley whispered.
“He heard? It’s on the news?” Angela whispered. “I suppose it was only a matter of time, with Nash being kind of infamous now, before they picked up on his name and made the story bigger than it should be.”
None of that made any sense at all. Nash had no idea whom Harley was talking about, although Angela seemed to know who the rat-bastard was. Infamous? Apparently some crazy stuff had happened in the four months he’d forgotten.
“To make matters worse,” Harley said, “some tourist with a smart phone was filming stuff from the passenger seat of another car and caught that gruesome shit, then uploaded it to YouTube. The news picked it up, and the rat-bastard saw it and is freaking out, wanting to know if Nash is okay.”
Angela snorted. “You didn’t tell him Nash woke up thinking they were still engaged, did you?”
Sam? Sam was concerned about him? What on earth had happened between them that would make Harley refer to Sam that way?
“Of course not.”
“I’m sure that would’ve gone over well with his husband,” she continued in a sarcastic tone. What in the world? Nash really needed to join this conversation. “Speaking of husbands—or future husbands—I sure as shit hope Nash has his memory back so I can ream him a good one for keeping that secret from me. He deserves an Academy Award for his recent performances.”
“Secret!” Harley hissed. “Ouch…dammit Oliver, you and that pointy elbow today, I swear.”
Nash didn’t blame Angela for being peeved if he’d kept his engagement a secret from her. But why had he done that?
“He’s twitching,” a voice whispered. Oliver, he was pretty sure. Life had gotten crazy about the time Harley had started dating Oliver. Between that and living out in Sammamish, he’d met the man only three times, and then only briefly.
“I think he’s waking up,” Oliver continued.
Nash blinked a few times and opened his eyes. The first person that came into focus was Angela.
“Sweet cornrows, Ang,” Nash rasped. There were only six of them. Fat, and all starting from a single off-center point above her left eye.
“Shit,” she replied.
“Shit yourself…see if I compliment you again.”
“No, sweetie. Thank you for the compliment. ‘Shit’ because that means you don’t remember seeing these before.”
“Oh. Yeah. I remember post-op, though. Mostly.” He gasped when a slight movement sent pain radiating from his left arm. He looked around and found his PCA button and pushed it. “Can you guys help me get situated to raise the head of the bed? And I’m thirsty. Fuck, I’m thirsty.”
“Sure thing, sweetie.”
Angela shooed Harley and Oliver out of her way, telling them to fill the pitcher with some fresh ice water. She got busy arranging him, adjusting the bed’s angles so he was reclining comfortably—or at least as close as it was possible to be while in acute pain—and placing pillows where he needed support. He tried, but failed to not whimper during the process.
When Harley and Oliver returned with his water, Harley poured him a cup, inserted a straw, then hovered, holding it as if Nash didn’t have use of either hand. Fuck it, he was so drained he didn’t even care, he just caught the straw in his mouth and sucked on it until he felt a little closer to human again.
“I’ve gotta pee,” he said. “Is there a urinal handy?”
“No, sweetie, that’s the Foley balloon you’re feeling,” Angela said.
Nash closed his eyes. “Fuuuuck. I’ve got a catheter?” He reopened them. “Of course I’ve got a damned catheter…I had surgery.”
He looked over his body and took stock. He had the Foley and IV, an art line to continuously check his blood pressure, sat monitor measuring his oxygen levels, and leads coming off his chest hooked to a heart monitor. At least he was down to a nasal cannula for oxygen. He remembered wearing a mask in post-op. Another plus was he had a short cast, so he’d be able to move his elbow, and it was fiberglass, so it wouldn’t be overly heavy.
“I feel like shit.”
“You look like shit,” Harley said.
Oliver added, “Kinda like a big-assed bird ricocheted off your face after trying to rip off your arm at fifty-five miles per hour.”
Harley laughed. “You’re lucky there. Looking at the video, it was more like it ‘glanced off.’ Enough to cut you and leave some awesome bruises, though.”
“And a concussion,” Angela said. “And don’t you have to factor in the velocity of the bird, too? Wouldn’t it have hit at fifty-five plus whatever speed it dive-bombed in at? Damn, Nash. Between that and the blood loss, it’s no wonder your memory’s scrambled.”
Nash groaned. “Don’t make me do math word problems right now.”
A coworker named Carlton entered with a dinner tray and a couple cold packs to lay on his arm, which meant Nash was on the same surgical floor he usually worked. “It’s good to see you sitting up and looking alert. I figured you might be hungry and want some food to go with that water.”
“Thanks, man. Can’t say I’ve got much appetite, but I’ll try.”
Carlton nodded and gave a look that assured Nash he’d be checking to make sure the plate was reasonably clean. “You know the drill.”
Nash sighed. He did. How often had he repeated the mantra to his patients? “Your body needs the nutrients and calories to boost recovery from the surgery. Plenty of fiber to avoid post-surgical constipation. Protein to regenerate tissue and heal the wounds, not to mention to boost energy and strength. Healthy carbs to combat fatigue. Good fats to also help with energy as well as boost his immune response. And of course, make those selections with an eye toward a good balance of vitamins and minerals. Blah, blah, blah.”
Carlton arranged the over-bed table so Nash could access the food and removed the covers for him, since it would be a bit difficult, one-handed.
He had a grilled chicken breast, beans, a loaded-up salad—kale, spinach, tomatoes, carrots, peppers with an olive oil and vinegar dressing—and a whole wheat roll. No dairy, other than a little butter for the roll…that was to be avoided for now.
After Carlton left, Oliver stepped over and silently cut up his meat and buttered his roll.
“Thanks,” Nash said.
“No problem, man.”
Nash forced himself to eat. He doubted he’d be able to finish, but he’d do his best, and make a point of getting some of everything.
“What do you remember from post-op,” Angela asked. “Do you have questions?”
“Well, the details might be fuzzy, but Dr. Beltran told me about what happened, and the prognosis. How surgery went, that kind of stuff. I guess I’ve lost about four months. I’m sure it’ll come back, though.”
“Do you know who you’re engaged to?” Harley asked.
“Yeah. Myles Burlingham. But I forgot to ask him if he knew what happened with Sam. I know he’s alive, and I heard you calling him ‘rat-bastard.’ It’s just so hard to believe he’d ever do anything that would justify me cancelling the wedding.”
“You didn’t. He did.”
“What? He wouldn’t.” Nash groaned. “Fuuuuck, please tell me I didn’t do something stupid. I know I’d never cheat.”
Oliver narrowed his eyes at Harley. “Quit trying to make him hate Sam.” He turned to Nash. “You always defended him, but Harley gets all self-righteous on your behalf.”
Nash was more confused than ever.
Harley rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Basically, Sam’s husband Henry came back to life. Or rather, never died in the first place. He was one of four that survived that plane crash and were marooned on some little island. They got rescued two weeks before your wedding.”
And Sam had chosen to go back with his husband. Nash understood that decision better than Harley would have. Nash knew Sam, and had heard the stories of what Sam had gone through to get over his husband’s “death.” He’d seen Sam staring at Henry’s photos.
Sam is the past. Myles is the present and the future. Nash gazed out the window and repeated that to himself.
There was no chance of he and Sam getting back together. Nash knew that beyond a doubt now. Of course, he’d known that four months ago, too. That’s why he’d been able to move on with his life so easily and find love again. At least things were beginning to make more sense.
Tears Nash hadn’t realized were pooling in his eyes broke free and trailed down his cheeks. He swiped them with his right hand and turned away from his friends. At least they knew enough to stay quiet and let him work through this on his own. Sam is the past. Myles is the present and the future. He needed to keep that phrase echoing through his mind until his emotions caught up with reason.
Nash took another bite of salad and chewed slowly. He should give his parents a call and let them know he’d been hurt but was okay. No…Harley had mentioned a video on the news that Sam had seen. Was it local only? His parents hadn’t seen that, had they?
“Fuck! Has anyone called my parents? That YouTube video…we can’t let them watch that shit. Someone needs to alert them I’m okay and not to watch anything.”
“Calm down,” Harley said. “Emmitt called them.”
“Who the hell is Emmitt?”
“Oh, sorry. I forgot you said we should start calling him Myles, instead. Only you and his grandfather are allowed to use the nickname, or some such thing.” Harley glanced up. “Speak of the devil.”
Myles, whom Nash evidently should start thinking of as “Emmitt,” stood in the doorway and smiled at him. “How are you feeling?”
“About how I look? Hey, where do I live, anyway? Obviously not with Sam anymore, right?”
Emmitt’s mouth opened to reply, but Harley jumped in quicker. “With us.”
“Stop that.” Oliver spoke sharply, then turned to Nash. “You’ve been living with us, but we were moving the last couple boxes of your stuff over to Myles’ place when the accident happened.”
“Right,” Emmitt added firmly. He approached the bed. “What do you remember now?”
“Post-op, but still missing four months.”
Emmitt nodded and stepped around the bed to Nash’s right side. It was so weird thinking of this man as his fiancé. “Your pain level should improve some overnight. Make good use of your PCA in the meantime.” He gestured toward the morphine pump.
Nash snorted. “Trust me, I am.”
“How’s the food? Can I get you anything else that you might prefer? It doesn’t have to be hospital food. I’d be happy to pick up whatever you’ll eat.”
Maybe it wasn’t so weird to imagine after all. Nash eased his aching head to the side and peered into Emmitt’s eyes. He saw sincerity and concern and…genuine caring.
Emmitt continued. “I know I don’t have to tell you how important eating well is to your recovery.”
Nash smiled at him. “I can see why I fell in love with you.”
Emmitt blinked, then smiled back. He leaned down and lightly kissed the side of Nash’s face and whispered, “Likewise.”
“Ouch!” Harley snapped.
* * * *