Page 43 of My Dark Prince
His brows furrowed as he picked it up. Romeo’s name flashed on the screen.
Oliver dragged a hand over his mouth. “Oh, sweetheart. You don’t remember.” He reached to run a hand over my hair, sending goosebumps along my spine as he gently tucked a tendril of my bangs behind my ear. “It’s called an iPhone. A part of the smartphone family. It isn’t a laptop.”
“Can … it …” I bit on my lower lip, shooting worried glances between his phone and his face.
“What?” He leaned forward, angling the phone away from me like he thought its proximity might trigger another freak out. “Tell me.”
“No, no.” I shook my head. “You’ll think it’s a stupid question.”
“I will never think anything you do or say is stupid,” he assured me.
“Can it …” I dropped my voice into a whisper. “Read your mind?”
“No.” He chuckled softly, gathering my hands in his. “It can’t read your mind, but itcando a lot of other stuff. You can work with it. It connects to the internet. It has a digital assistant called Siri, and she can answer general questions you have. About the weather and important dates.”
I blinked, trying to keep a straight face. “Does it work on batteries?”
Poor dude thought I’d woken up after a trip to the eighties. I knew I was being a little cruel to him, but I hadn’t felt normal since I’d woken up, and this helped me gain some sort of grip on who I was.
“You charge it with electricity.”
I reared my head back, frowning. “What’s electricity?”
I could see all the blood drain from his face, before his eyebrows dove into a deep frown. Before he had time to process the joke, I flipped the visor down and studied my face in the mirror.
I winced, pawing at my forehead. “Oliver.”
“What’s wrong?” He fussed over my face, his hands fanning in every direction like he wanted to touch it but feared he’d make it worse. “Are you in pain? Do we need to turn back? I knew they discharged you too soon. Let’s go back. You know what? Let’s go to another hospital. I’ve always hated that place, and Doctor Cohen is a dickhead. There’s this guy I know at Johns Hopkins. He specializes in all things head related. He can help us, I promise. If not, we can—”
My god. I’d never seen him like this. If I didn’t stop him, he’d keep talking.
“It’s not pain.” I rubbed an imaginary line between my brows. “Is that a wrinkle?”
“A what?”
“A wrinkle.”
“On your forehead?” He pulled my hand away and studied my face. “No, it’s a red mark from you stabbing it every ten seconds.”
“What year is it?”
“Year?” he echoed.
“How old are we?”
“I’m 34. You’re 33.”
“But …” I shook my head. “I was just fifteen.”
He leaned back in his seat, tugging on tufts of hair. “Oh, fuck.”
“I haven’t even had my period.”
“Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,fuck.”
“Just yesterday, Meemaw sat me down and told me boys stick their pee pee in my pee pee to make babies.”
His jaw almost dislodged. One second passed. Then another. And another. Finally, he tipped his head back and started laughing like a maniac, slapping his forehead. “You littleshit.”
