I put the tampons in her hand and wrap my hand around hers. It gets her attention.
She stops. I stop. She stands. I follow suit, leaving our hands sandwiching the feminine products. She doesn’t make a move to pull away, so I don’t either. Carina has brown eyes. They’re huge. She doesn’t need makeup to enhance her face. I noted this at first glance.
Her bottom lip quivers. “I’m so sorry. I told him it was a bad idea to come here on opening night. It’s a madhouse. There are just too many people,” she says as she hugs her bag to her body, finally taking her hand away from mine. “I’m so stupid for coming here. I’m sorry again. You’re so kind to help me.” She makes a move to walk away, and I let her. Her fear is palpable.
Smiling wide, I follow her back out into the lobby. It’s quieter out here. “Carina.”
She turns, takes a deep breath, and closes her eyes.
“It helps if you talk to someone.” Anxiety was my friend when I first woke. I worried about everything. Mostly, that I would never get to do my job again. “Do you want me to go get your…husband?”
Shaking her head, she pulls the bag around herself. The large leather satchel is like a child’s security blanket. “He’ll be upset. I’ll send him a text and let him know I’ll wait for him out here. Thank you again…sir. How did you know my name?”
What kind of man would be upset? My hackles are up.
“Name’s Smith. Well, Carina, it was printed on your very full notebook. Are you a writer?”
Her eyes widen, and the fear is replaced by confusion. My distraction is working. She nods again, her mousy brown bangs covering one eye. She tucks it back behind her ear. “I am. Novels mostly, but I’ve branched out recently to write freelance articles, too.”
Self-consciously, I slide my hands into my jeans pockets. I watch her eyes follow them until they aren’t visible anymore. A year ago I wouldn’t have spoken to a stranger. Fear ruled my world. This woman, Carina, she’s scared. I hear myself in her voice. She speaks about her job, and I can’t help but smile at her passion. I ask if I can buy her books at the bookstore. She says I can, but she writes under a pen name.
“Well, are you going to tell me what that is? Carina the writer?”
Swallowing, she looks away bashfully.
“You wouldn’t want to read what I write,” Carina says.
My cell phone chimes. Megan.
Licking my lips, I glance Carina’s way. She’s already looking at me, her eyes tracing my scars. For a tiny moment I wish she were looking at my exterior before the accident. I don’t have time to ask why, though. I need to get napkins.
“You should go. I’ll be fine. Thank you. My real-life Marvel hero.” She’s joking, but the words hit hard. At one time I was a real-life hero.
Taking out her notebook, she slides a business card out of a pocket and flips it into my hand. My heart rate accelerates, and a warm feeling hits me square in the chest. My phone buzzes again. Megan. I let go of the balloon and sink back onto earth. “Thanks,” I say, tapping the card on my opposite hand.
“My pen name is on there. My website, too.” Carina tucks her hair behind her ear one more time and walks away.
I look down at the card. Greenleigh Ivers. Flowers dance around her name. I think how ironic it is that she uses a pen name. Essentially my life these days is lived under a pen name as the accident stole my memory. Well, parts and pieces of it, anyway. It stole my love for Megan and my childhood dog. It took from me slices of a beautiful life. It also took away pain and sorrow. The accident stole things of importance—because memoriesand experiences are what shape a person. I’m not who I was before it. I have the same name, but I’m a stranger in my own skin.
I watch Carina’s retreating back for as long as I’m able to—intrigued, sad, excited, so many emotions vibrating in my mind. The volatility of the unknown draws me in.
“Smith, did you fall into the toilet? I was worried about you!” Megan screeches at my back. As smoothly as I can, I sneak the card into my back pocket. I’m not sure why I hide it from Megan. I’m not sure of anything these days, but I do know, for the time being, I want to keep the strange, beautiful, married woman a secret.
CHAPTER THREE
Carina
I’ll never coverthis black eye. It’s in that stage where it looks worse than it feels—all purple and dark black with hints of yellow. I pat some more makeup onto my left eye and glance at my sleeping fiancé in the reflection of my vanity mirror. The birds chirp outside my window, the dryer buzzes, and the coffee pot percolates. I’ve been up for hours already. It’s when I write. It’s unsuspecting—the beginning of the day. There’s so much promise in the morning. There’s hope for change. Hope for love. There’s significance in a sun rising.
My fiancé, Roarke, brought a flask to the movie theater and was piss drunk when the movie ended. I waited for him on a bench outside, away from everyone else. I wrote in my notebook about a strange, beautiful, kind stranger. I lost track of time, honestly, and hoped to see Smith leaving. Not to talk to him, just to gaze upon his kind eyes and his muscular body. He’s nothing like Roarke. Nothing.
As soon as we got back here, Roarke showed me exactly how upset he was that I didn’tact like an adultand watch the movie with him. That was three days ago. Honestly, I deserved it this time. Something needs to fix me. Why shouldn’t it be his fist? Claustrophobia controls more aspects of my life than I’m willing to admit. Fear cripples me.
“You’re going to be late, honey,” I say loudly.
Roarke moans, pulls the blankets up, and rolls over. If I let him sleep any longer, he’ll be a vapid shade of angry. Instead, I pour him a huge cup of coffee, fix it how he likes, and set it on his nightstand.
“Roarke. Honey, it’s time to get up.”
