The longer she takes, and the harder this is for her, the more concerned I get.
She studies my expression, like she’s memorizing my features.
“Just tell me. Like ripping off a band-aid. Quick is better.”
“Right.” She untangles her hands from mine, steps back and lifts her chin. She looks me square in the eyes and says, “You’re not Billy.”
I stare at her. My mind sort of trips over itself. It was running along, thinking smoothly, and then, when she said “You’re not Billy,” it stumbled.
“What?”
She twists her hands nervously. “Your name is Gavin.”
I lift an eyebrow. That name doesn’t sound familiar. Not at all.
“I think my driver’s license says otherwise.” I pat my pocket. Inside my wallet I have my driver’s license, pictures of the kids, a life in which I’m Billy Sutton.
Jamie shakes her head. “It’s a fake ID.”
I lift my eyebrows. What she’s saying is less than believable. It’s impossible.
“We only met a month ago. You commissioned me to create a glass sculpture. But when I brought it to you, you said it was awful and you refused to pay for it.”
“Uh huh.” I’m not buying it.
“It broke and that was that. But then you hit your head and had amnesia and Gran thought it’d be a good idea to make you pay off the cost of the sculpture by working for Big Tom, being my husband. And I agreed with her. I figured you deserved it. An eye for an eye.”
“Right.” And Diedre, Big Tom, Grandma, the kids, they all just played along. I’m sure.
She’s breathing heavier and her cheeks are flushed. “But like I told the kids, it’s not right to pay back wrong for wrong. I’ve never felt right about this. I can’t keep it up. This isn’t your house. I’m not your wife. They aren’t your kids. This isn’t your life.”
I’m fighting a smile. Jamie’s saying exactly what I was thinking when she was driving me back from the hospital. That this couldn’t possibly be my life. But it is.
“You really don’t want to have sex yet, do you?”
She jerks back, her eyes flashing. “What?”
That’s the only explanation for this crazy story. The second we got intimate, the moment it looked like we were going to make love, she pulled out this crazy tale.
“Jamie, what are you afraid of? Are you that scared of being happy? I’m happy, aren’t you?”
“No! I’m trying to tell you, I lied. I can’t keep lying to you. I care about you too much.”
I step forward and grab her hand, squeeze it. “Hey. It’s okay. I don’t know what happened between us before. Maybe I hurt you. Maybe I wanted out of our marriage, or out of this town, maybe I said some terrible things. But Jamie, that’s not me anymore. I want you. I want the kids. I want our life. You don’t have to make up crazy stories to give me an out. I’m not going anywhere.”
She stares at me, as if I’m her idea of heaven and her idea of hell. “Gavin.”
I shake my head. “Come on, Jamie. We both know what this is about.”
“We do?”
I nod. “You’re scared about what’ll happen when I get my memories back.”
Her pulse flutters in her neck and I have the urge to reach out and soothe her.
She shakes her head. “That’s not it.”
I shrug. “Even if I hated it here. Even if I wanted to leave. Even if you and I weren’t in love, none of that matters anymore.”