Page 19 of Resurgent
“Why are you looking at me like that? I said I was sorry. You didn’t have to wait for me. It just felt so good I didn’t want to get out.”
“You don’t need to apologize. Sorry to stare. I’m just not used to seeing you look so—Never mind.” He stands up abruptly. “You want a drink?”
“Yes!” I say a little too vehemently. I’m starting to think alcohol may be the only thing that gets me through this week.
Without asking what I want, he makes me my favorite—vodka with cranberry juice—and I wonder if it was just a lucky guess. It had to be. How could he possibly remember that small detail when he doesn’t remember anything from the last six months.
“Eat.”
He’s ordered enough food for an army—fat shrimp in some delicious-smelling sauce served over a mound of rice with rings of pineapple, some vegetable fajitas, and a warm lobster salad.
“I didn’t know what you liked,” he says.
“You did good.” I pile my plate high with a little of everything and dig in, suddenly ravenous. “This place is amazing,” I say between bites.
“You ever been to this part of Mexico?”
I shake my head. “I’ve never been to Mexico at all, other than when we all went to Playa del Carmen last Thanksgiving.”
“Damn. I wish I remembered that.”
“It wasn’t that memorable,” I assure him quickly. “Just your basic vacation with friends. Drinking, lying on the beach. A trip to a Mayan ruin and snorkeling at one of the cenotes.” Holding my legs apart and tormenting me with your tongue until I screamed your name and you had to cover my mouth with your hand so we didn’t alert the authorities. I swallow hard. “You know. The usual.”
“Still…” He shakes his head. “The doctor in India said my memory might come back in pieces, or not at all.”
That reminds me…
“I’ll go get the bucket list.” I start to stand, but his hand on my arm stops me.
“Sit.” My butt automatically plops back down. How does he do that? “Eat. We’ll look at it together later. Do you ever relax?”
“I relax all the time.”
“Yeah? How? What do you like to do for fun?”
I honestly can’t remember the last time I did anything for fun, but I’m not about to admit that to him. “Work takes a lot of my time, since most people get married on the weekends. But since I love what I do, it doesn’t feel like work. But I know how to relax,” I say defensively. “I go to the gym every morning before work, and then I treat myself to a Starbucks peppermint mocha afterward on Fridays. And I’ve been taking a Krav Maga class with Gemma. And, um, I like to organize things,” I finish lamely.
His lips are twitching. “You’re right. You better stop slacking off, or you’re gonna turn into a deadbeat.”
“Laugh all you want, but there’s nothing wrong with having aspirations and working hard to attain them.”
“Agreed. But there’s nothing wrong with enjoying life along the way. When was the last time you went on vacation before Playa del Carmen?”
“I, um… Vacations weren’t really part of my childhood. And I was on scholarship to Wake Forest so there wasn’t a lot of money left over for trips in college either. I’ve been too busy building our business to do much since, but after everything that’s happened in the last few days, I’ve decided I’m going to make up for it,” I say resolutely. “Soon. In fact, I’m going to buy one of those maps that you scratch off all the places you’ve been. Starting with a beach on every continent.” In the distance, the sound of the surf calls to me like a siren. The sound is soothing, and it feels like home. “Playa del Carmen, and now here, is making me realize that Icould get used to being at the beach.”
“You still mad at me for pretending to be dead?”
“No.”
“Anything else we need to clear up so I don’t have to worry about the family jewels while I sleep? You didn’t look so happy about the ring.”
“I wasn’t mad, although you spent way too much money on a ring that doesn’t mean anything, even if it wasn’t your money. But I understand we need to make this whole ruse believable. It’s more that I don’t really believe in marriage.”
He leans back in the chair, arms crossed, grinning like an idiot. “You mentioned that before. How can you be a wedding planner who doesn’t believe in marriage?”
“I didn’t have a shining example. My parents’ marriage was horribly dysfunctional. My father was abusive and my mother was an alcoholic.”
He takes my hand in his, rubbing the rough pad of his thumb gently over the inside of my wrist. “I’m sorry.”
