“Everything’s okay, Lucy,” Dr. Ramirez attempts to reassure her.
“I can’t see my boss like this. I look like a trainwreck.”
“I can fix your hair, Luce,” her mom offers.
“No, it’s not about my hair. Please just tell him I’m sleeping or something.”
The words plunge me into a freefall, a nosedive from the pinnacle of Quinn & Wolfe HQ.
I’m the man she met a year ago. A complete stranger. The head of her company. The Big Bad Wolf she used to fear. Not the man who cared for her, who loved her, who screwed up royally with her, and who has been paying the price every goddamned day since.
This isn’t just bitter resentment. This is worse. This is a void. A black hole.
Lucy’s frustrated groan filters through the door. “Oh, fucking hell.”
“Language, Luce!”
“I know why he’s here-it must be a mix-up with my insurance not covering this hospital! How much does this place cost per night?”
“I don’t believe that’s why he’s here,” Dr. Ramirez interjects. “Perhaps he was in the vicinity and thought to visit on behalf of the company. Please try to stay calm.”
“Your pal Matty came in to see you earlier, after I arrived,” her mom chimes in. “He said he told your team. Does he work with this guy?”
I press both hands to the wall, dragging in ragged breaths.
It’s all right. It’s temporary. I’ll fix this.
“Are you all right, Mr. Wolfe?” The young nurse lingering around taps my bicep.
I clench my jaw and whirl to face her, shooting her a hostile glance. I wish she would fuck off instead of trying to constantly get my attention. “I’m fine,” I mutter. “Thank you.”
The nurse takes a step back in surprise and quickly scampers away as Dr. Ramirez appears. She gestures for me to follow her down the corridor.
We walk in tense silence, distancing ourselves from Lucy’s room until we’re out of earshot.
Dr. Ramirez glances up at me, her smile brittle.
“She doesn’t remember me,” I grind out, my voice a rasp. I rub at my stubble, wrestling for control. “I was ready for her not wanting to see me, but this… she doesn’t even remember me. Not in any way that matters.”
Dr. Ramirez touches my arm. “She remembers you. But as the man she met a year ago. I’m guessing a few things have changed since then?”
You could say that.
“Correct,” I answer, my voice grinding like gravel.
She nods. “I understand this must be difficult.”
“So, you’re telling me,” I begin slowly, “that Lucy has erased our history? That she’s scrubbed me from her memory?”
Dr. Ramirez gives me a long, measured look. “Unwillingly, yes.”
I take a steadying breath before locking eyes with her.
A pit forms in my stomach. “What’s my move here, doc? Do I waltz in there and jolt her memory back into place?”
She recoils slightly, caught off guard. “I can’t tell if you’re joking, Mr. Wolfe.”
“Neither can I,” I growl back.
She motions me toward the chairs nearby.
“Your frustration and confusion are completely normal,” she tells me as we sit. “But we must be careful not to overwhelm her with the past. Pushing information could create false memories and skew her understanding of things. Your case is complicated, indeed, a rare occurrence-it’s not often we encounter a situation where a boyfriend or partner is completely forgotten.”
My jaw clenches. I don’t think Lucy would call me either of those. Not anymore. I lean my head against the wall. “So Lucy feels nothing for me right now?”
She looks like she’s chewing on broken glass when she answers. “If your relationship progressed after the point where her memory ends, then she might not recall any emotions associated with it.”
“So that’s a fucking no.” My voice catches, and I clench my jaw to avoid showing any further emotion.
I stand up and pace, running a hand through my hair. How the hell does this happen? The mind cherry-picks parts of your life to keep and tosses the rest?
This is surreal. It feels like I’ve walked onto the set of some Hollywood drama. This kind of bullshit isn’t supposed to happen in real life.
I stop pacing and face her. “So if Lucy is blocking out painful memories, forcing them back could do more harm than good?”
Her nod confirms my understanding. “Lucy’s current distress seems predicated on the relatively minor matter of a forgotten comic convention. With more significant events, it’s better to let her mind take control, revealing memories when she’s ready. Trying to force her to remember too soon could harm her mental health.”
She pauses, her gaze unsettlingly perceptive. “Are there any major incidents that might be unsettling to her?”
Her question sets off a frenzy in my chest.
I clear my throat, my voice breaking the silence. “Lucy and I… we had a complicated relationship, to say the least.”
“Go on. It’s better for her recovery if we know what we’re dealing with here.”
The scene plays out in my mind like a well-worn film reel, each frame filled with anger, hurt, and regret. It feels wrong, recounting this private pain to a near stranger. But it’s not about me anymore. It’s about Lucy. It’s always been about her.
“I behaved in ways… ways that I regret deeply.”
She watches me, her face neutral. “You had a disagreement.”
“Disagreement,” I echo, a bitter laugh threatening to escape. “Yeah, you could say it was that.”
We didn’t just “disagree.” I was a monumental prick, and I pushed her away. No, that’s too mild. I practically shoved her off a cliff. And then I had the audacity to be surprised when she didn’t stick around.
This is me. This is all on me.
Lucy
I might as well have been born yesterday.
As we leave the subway, Libby and Priya flank me on either side, like a toddler taking her first steps. The familiar concoction of BO and pee-the perfume of the New York underground-is oddly comforting. If it smelled like Yankee Candles, I might’ve had a proper freak out.
We’re bound for Washington Heights, where my apartment precariously straddles the line between bohemian chic and the less desirable elements of the neighborhood.
Health-obsessed hipsters crunching avocado toast on one side, drug dealers on the other.