Lying back in the tub, listening to the bubbles crackle and pop, Nash’s mind wandered to his mom and what she was making for dinner. Thoughts of dinner led to Nash’s last memory of Sam. Last memory of anything, really.
Nash had worked that day, but Sam had had the summer off from teaching so he’d had dinner in the oven—roast chicken and vegetables. Nash had taken a quick shower, then hung out in the living room, stressing out about the details of their upcoming wedding.
Why would that arbitrary moment be his last memory? Was it arbitrary? Harley had said that Sam’s husband was discovered two weeks before the wedding. Maybe his memory cut off at that point. At least that would make some kind of sense.
Maybe he could force through the barrier. He’d been sitting on the couch, smelling the chicken, looking forward to the meal, but obsessing about all the last-minute details. Sam had kissed him and joked about having his mom do the worrying for them. Then he’d gone back into the kitchen. Then…what?
Nothing. Then he’d woken up in post-op. Fuck. Nothing at all.
Nash perked up. Nothing was good. At least the fact he’d felt no kind of reaction to remembering Sam kissing him was a good thing. He remembered at the time getting a zing from the kiss and mentally looking forward to snuggling up in bed that night. But he felt nothing at all from the memory of that.
He puffed out a sigh of relief. That confirmed his lack of reaction to Emmitt had nothing to do with Emmitt and everything to do with his meds and pain.
Footsteps approached and he sensed Emmitt sitting on the ledge behind him. Earlier, Emmitt had finished stashing the toiletries, then had lain on the bed in the next room doing who-knew-what. He’d probably had his eyes peeled, making sure Nash didn’t sink and drown in the tub, as conscientious as Nash knew him to be as Dr. Burlingham.
“Ready to finish up?” Emmitt asked.
Nash opened his eyes and gripped the side of the tub with his right hand to pull himself to a sitting position. “Sure.”
Emmitt stood and handed Nash a washcloth, then came around to the side of the tub with the fixtures. He turned on the water and adjusted the temperature. Nash rotated so his back would be to the water.
“Can you tilt your head back without it causing pain?”
Nash answered by simply doing it. He closed his eyes while Emmitt used the hand-held sprayer to wet his hair.
The sprayer clicked off, and he heard the soft snick of a shampoo bottle being popped opened, then a moment later, Emmitt massaged bubbles into his hair. This was the sort of thing that he would typically think of as a fun prelude to some fun in the bedroom, but…nothing. Not that “fun” would have happened in the circumstances, but it would be nice to know he had it in him. If nothing else, this was a good motivator to not get addicted to the pain meds.
Still, the sensations were pleasant and soothing. The restrained strength in Emmitt’s hands as he worked around Nash’s scalp…yeah, that would be appreciated quite differently in better circumstances.
“I was thinking,” Emmitt said. “About our sleeping arrangements.”
“What about them?”
“Maybe I should sleep on one of the sofas in the living room. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
Whether he meant physically or emotionally, Nash wasn’t sure, but he had the same answer either way.
“No.” The bed was big enough that unless Emmitt was a total night-thrasher—which was hard to imagine—physical comfort wouldn’t be an issue. As for his state of mind…fuck it. They were two adults, they were engaged, nothing remotely sexual was going to be happening anyway, and if Nash was going to fall back in love with his fiancé, then truly living together like this was the best way to facilitate it. He had no way of knowing if his memories would ever come back. He was beginning to seriously question his earlier certainty. Just knowing Emmitt was willing to do that for him went a long way toward eliminating any concerns Nash might have had on the subject.
“No?”
“No.”
Another click, and the sprayer turned on to rinse away the suds. Afterward, Nash wiped his face with the washcloth, carefully avoiding the bandage covering his forehead stitches, and opened his eyes.
“How about I help you out by washing your arms and back, then you can probably handle the rest on your own?” Apparently nothing more was going to be said about the sleeping arrangements.
“Thank you.” Nash didn’t know what else to say. He hated feeling so helpless, but Emmitt was correct. Washing his own right arm would be next to impossible, and even washing his left pit would be painful in the short term if he didn’t use his right hand to support the broken arm when it was lifted away from his body.
Emmitt took the washcloth from him and loaded it with some of Nash’s body wash. Nash lifted his right arm and Emmitt was all business lathering up its length, then moved on to a quick scrub of his back, and a cautious rub under his left arm.
“I’ll give you a minute, then come back in to rinse you off.” Emmitt handed him the sudsy washcloth and strode out of the room.
Interesting. The mix of professionalism and caring that seemed to be at war with each other in Emmitt’s demeanor was…curious, but at the same time appreciated. Nash’s own feelings were torn between wanting reassurance of his fiancé’s feelings toward him, and awkwardness at knowing he was engaged to a virtual stranger. Sure, he’d known Emmitt for years—but as Dr. Burlingham, with no personal interaction whatsoever. Emmitt had a good sense of which persona Nash needed at different times.
Nash remained seated because he didn’t want to risk falling, and handled the rest of his wash-up. When Emmitt returned, Nash dutifully stood for the rinse-down, then stepped onto a bathmat to be dried off. He felt pretty damned pampered by the end of it all.
* * * *
Mom’s meatloaf was simple, but smelled and tasted like home. When he’d decided to make an effort to learn how to cook after moving in with Sam, Mom had sent him her old Betty Crocker’s Cookbook. She’d said it covered all the basics, and was where many of her own staple recipes came from, now mostly memorized. Her meatloaf, he’d learned, was one of them. Hopefully his cookbook was in one of those boxes stacked in Emmitt’s living room. Who knew what his frame of mind had been back when he’d been packing up his stuff to leave Sam’s four months ago.
The side dishes were pretty basic fare, too. Smashed red potatoes, frozen peas and carrots, and a spinach salad with grape tomatoes, croutons, and a simple dressing.
Emmitt didn’t seem to have any objections to the unpretentious meal. He gobbled up his first serving and went for seconds. Nash considered himself doing well merely finishing his original portion. He forced himself to eat it all for two reasons. One, as a nurse he knew how important it was to his healing, and damn, he wanted a speedy recovery. Two, Mom had her sharp eye on his plate; he didn’t want to be treated like a two-year-old in front of Emmitt, and he knew she would have no compunction in doing so if he didn’t clean his plate.
Nash sat back and patted his stomach. “Thanks, Mom. That hit the spot. Between the bath and your meal, I feel like a new person.”
Mom nodded. “A good night’s sleep without all that hospital noise disturbing your rest will help, too.”
“What’s your current pain level?” Emmitt asked.
“Holding in the four to five range for the arm, three for the head.”
“What’s that?” Dad asked. “Scale of one to ten?”
“Yes,” Emmitt replied. “We use what’s called the ‘comparative pain scale.’ The simple description for level four is ‘distressing’ and five is ‘very distressing.’ Five is a pain that preoccupies you. Four is a little down from that but is still a pain that’s noticed continually. Three is considered ‘tolerable.’ I’ll feel better when Nash can report a three for his arm.”
“How’s Aaron, doing?” Nash asked, because Dad’s eyes didn’t appear to be particularly appeased by that description of Nash’s pain, and a quick change of subject was in order. Besides, he was genuinely interested in his brother’s well-being.
“Fine,” Mom replied. She was made of tougher stuff than Dad, and joined Nash in the redirect to shield her husband from dwelling on his son’s discomfort. “He’s busy with a new project at work, and between dance lessons, volleyball practice, karate, and so on, the kids are running him and Rachel ragged.”
“Eh,” Dad added. “We pitch in to taxi them to some of that. Keeps us busy, too.”
Nash was silent. That was the kind of life he’d been looking forward to with Sam. For all their pretend bitching, Mom and Dad—as well as Aaron and Rachel—loved every minute of it and doted on Nash’s three nieces. How did Emmitt feel about adopting kids? Had they talked about it? It was more of a want than a deal-breaker for Nash, but still…something he kind of hoped for.
“You two planning to have kids?” It was as if Dad could read his mind, but he had to know Nash would have no idea at the moment. Knowing Dad, it had been deliberate, realizing Nash wanted an answer to that question himself, but wouldn’t ask.
Three pairs of eyes turned to Emmitt, whose own eyes widened like a deer caught in the headlights.
Sam is the past. Emmitt is today, tomorrow, and the next day. Please, please, please…
“I…uh…” He cleared his throat and looked searchingly into Nash’s eyes. Seeking a clue as to Nash’s hopes? So they hadn’t discussed it before. Emmitt had proven to be first-rate at interpreting the subtlest of body-language clues, so he’d probably get what he was looking for. Question was, what would he do with it? “We haven’t actually talked about it yet, but I think we might be in agreement.”
No one spoke, waiting for him to elaborate. Emmitt took a deep breath. “I’d rather like to have one…maybe two.”
Nash smiled. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Dad nodded, and Mom smiled. Nash wasn’t sure if bloodshot eyes could shine, but if so, his probably were.
* * * *