Page 12 of The Lies We Play

“Mom—”

“The doctors said you’ll have memory problems, but making up stories—” She begins to sob.

She says something that sounds close to “childhood friend.” Then, “the boy you loved too much before life became hard.”

Not husband.

Not one-half of my heart.

Not the man whose ring I wore against my skin when we couldn’t risk anyone seeing it.

For a bit, she makes me believe that I imagined it all. That everything I lived with Creed and Halston was just a dream. I look at my left wrist where the trinity knot tattoo is. That’s when it starts. A tremble. No, more like a rolling, disobedient movement that begins in my wrist and runs through every finger. My mother reaches over and covers it, smoothing the blanket down, covering the movement with her palm without missing a breath.

It’s as if she has done this before.

Yes, I suddenly remembered that. It’s happened so many other times. As I recall that, the memory of what happens when I panic hits me. They’ll sedate me. I have to remain calm. I can’t afford to lose more time. I have to recover and find a way to get to Hal and . . . where is Creed?

“Your father has spoken with the Saint Claires’ attorney,” Mom interrupts my plans. “Everything is being handled. They’re paying for most of your medical expenses since the accident report indicated Halston was driving while impaired.”

She presses her lips together for a moment and says, “We promised not to press charges.”

Charges? What in the world is she talking about? None of this makes sense. Why would we press charges? Then it hits me all at once, the Saint Claires are doing what they do best. They’re using their wealth to twist everything in the way that is most convenient.

“No,” I snap, then remember I have to stay calm.

“No,” I say again, this time more neutrally. “He wasn’t drunk.”

“Honey—”

“He wasn’t.”

I remember Halston’s hand on the wheel.

His jaw tight, discussing how we needed to leave the country for a few days.

Creed’s voice on the speaker, low and furious, saying, “Don’t go there without me. I have a game. We should hire security.”

I remember the rain.

Headlights.

Halston saying my name.

He wasn’t drunk. We were heading to a private tamarac. Not drunk, but angry and scared.

Protective.

But not drunk.

Now that I’ve regained enough consciousness, the story seems to have changed. There are lawyers involved and Creed. Will he be able to fix this before it’s too late?

My mother’s face folds into pity, and I hate that too. Pity is worse than disbelief. Disbelief argues. Pity tucks you into a smaller version of your own life and calls it care.

She inhales. “You have a serious head injury. The doctors said memory can return in fragments, and sometimes those fragments feel⁠—”

“Don’t.” My voice cuts out, then comes back thinner. “Do not explain my own mind to me with medical brochure language.”

Her mouth trembles.