My knees quaked as I crossed the short distance and went to him. “Arthur …”
He didn’t respond. I stopped beside the bed, fingers trembling as I touched his cool cheek, doing my best not to look at the turban of white covering his shaggy dark hair.
The doctor had warned me.
His hair will be gone beneath that.
But no matter how much information I learned—no matter the statistics or in-depth detail of his operation and recovery—nothing could soften the blow of seeing the man I loved so bruised, crumbled, and pained.
Taking his hand, I squeezed his fingers. “Arthur … can you hear me?”
Nothing.
His face was white as the sheets, eyes ringed with shadow.
Urgency possessed me. He had to see me, had to open his eyes to know I was there …
I would always be there.
“Arthur. Please …”
I tightened my hold on his cold hand, wishing upon wishes for him to respond.
The fear of his concussion crushed me. The memory of him being a devil to rouse a few days ago caused a sob to build in my lungs. “Art …”
I rolled my shoulders, pressing my forehead on his chest. Wires and monitors covered him—some slinking beneath the bandage around his head—others snaking down the front of his hospital gown.
I wanted to rip them all away. To free him from suffering. To protect him.
“Arthur … please. I need to see that you’re okay …”
He left me stranded for another long moment, but then something changed. A gathering of awareness—a coming to from deep slumber.
The first sign of life was a twitch, a breath, an extra beep as his heart woke up. The next was parted lips and color flooding to ghostly cheeks. It was like watching a butterfly escape from a chrysalis.
And then finally, his eyes opened.
They were just as green and brilliant as I remembered.
The color bowled into me, wrapping me in emerald hope and chasing away my clinging fears. “Oh, thank God.”
I pressed a kiss on his cheek, inhaling him. His scent was faint, hidden beneath antiseptic but traces of leather and sea salt existed.
He still existed.
“You’re okay … you’re going to be okay.” I peppered his face with love.
He groaned, shifting away a little.
Pulling back, I blushed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to attack you. It’s just … God, it’s been a horrible night.”
He frowned, his eyes locking onto mine.
My heart stopped.
No …
Instead of love and affection, they were blank. Cold as rock and empty as a tomb.
Pain.
Pain I never knew existed splintered through me.
“Art?” A watery smile pulled my lips. “It’s me … Cleo.”
His forehead furrowed. He shook his head.
No. No, please.
Nightmares swarmed me with thoughts of him forgetting me. Of our roles reversing. Of amnesia tormenting me all over again by making me the forgotten not the forgetful.
I wouldn’t be able to survive. I couldn’t live in a world where Arthur didn’t love me. Even while we were apart I’d felt it—some cosmic bond keeping me alive. He’d kept me strong. He was the reason I’d kept going.
If he’s left me …
“Arthur … don’t do this.” The sobs I’d tried to swallow erupted. Tears flooded my cheeks. “You know me … remember?” I fumbled for his hand again. “I’m yours. Buttercup …”
He sucked in a breath. The blankness shifted like fog on a lake. “B-Buttercup …”
I shivered so hard my teeth rattled. “It’s me. Please, don’t forget me. I can’t manage if you forget me!”
Suddenly, his lips twisted in horror. “Fuuuuck, Cleo …” The drugs cleared, his pain receded, and he truly saw me. His soul shone, glittering with agony. “Never. Oh, Christ, h-how could I e-ever forget you.” His large body shifted beneath the sheets. His broken arm tried to wrap around my shoulders. He grunted in pain, breathing hard. “I kn-know who you are. I do.” His voice cracked. “I’m sorry—I’m a little out of it w-with whatever they gave me. How could you ever t-think—”
“You didn’t recognize me.” I tried to hide my face. The lack of sleep and overwhelming worry gave me no room to hide. I became unhinged on a nightmare that wasn’t true.
What if this was all in my head? What if the words I heard weren’t real? Could he wake from brain surgery and start talking as if everything was fine? Is that what the doctor meant?
“Hey …” He managed to cup my cheek with his uncased hand. His rough thumb traced my damp tears. “You’re t-tearing me apart, Cleo. Don’t c-cry. I’m here. I’m still me.”
Part of me didn’t believe him. Part of me still feared the worst—that the doctors had chopped out the parts of his brain coded to me, the synapses that made him mine. I couldn’t shake the debilitating terror that there was nothing I could do to stop him from leaving me—to keep him alive and in my arms.
Nothing!
Only fate. And fate had proven to be a merciless bitch.
I cried harder.