Arthur will kill him. And we’ll both be safe.
My attention zeroed in on his injury. He had to get better and quickly. I had no intention of us ever being apart again. No wound or disease could deny us a happy future.
I won’t let it.
It was his responsibility to protect me and look after himself, just like it was mine to tend to him and love him unconditionally.
“We should go back to the hospital. I think you need to be seen by another doctor, Art.” I tucked my arms beneath my makeshift clothing. “You’re hiding something from me. You’re not as well as you say you are. And I won’t let you hurt when you can get help.”
His nostrils flared. “Always so damn nosy and bossy.” He narrowed his eyes. “Hospitals are public places. Anyone can get to us there. I agree, I need another doctor—we both do. But I’m not going to the hospital.”
“What are we going to do, then?”
“I’ll get the hospital to come to us.”
“Ah, yes. Money can do that.”
He scowled. “You come from wealth, so I don’t know why you’re suddenly uncomfortable with it.”
That’s true.
Why bicker about something so useless? Was it because of what he planned to do with his money? Or deeper distrust that wealth couldn’t buy happiness?
Arthur asked, “Was your family in England poor?”
I paused, my mind skipping back to the movie nights with fish and chip takeaways and the occasional treat at Corrine’s favorite Indian restaurant. “No, my foster parents weren’t poor. They drove midrange cars and worked in clerical jobs. I was comfortable in their home and what they lacked in monetary wealth they made up for in love.” I smiled, thinking how lucky I was to be cared for by a family who didn’t mind I couldn’t remember and who put up with my years of quiet sadness. They’d been exactly what I needed and Corrine … she was the sister I’d never had.
A pang of misery hit me hard. I missed them just as much as I missed my biological parents. And I missed Corrine a ton. I missed our chats. I missed the studio apartment we shared.
“You loved them,” Arthur whispered. “I can tell.”
I met his eyes in the mirror. “They were all I had. They put up with me sullen and uncommunicative. They healed me even when my mind remained broken.”
They were good people.
I wanted to see them again—to tell them how much I appreciated what they’d done for me—to show them how happy I was now that I remembered.
I gasped. Oh, my God. “We could go to England after this. Go and see them. I’d love to introduce you and tell them I remember.”
Corrine would finally understand why I had a thing for green-eyed heroes in movies. I could show them my past and bring them fully into my future.
Arthur snorted. “You think they’ll still look at you the same way when you say you’re the daughter of a biker president and dating the man who murdered your parents? You think they’ll welcome me into their house?” Looking at the ceiling, he laughed. “Like that’s going to fucking happen.”
“Stop being so pessimistic.”
And I’m not dating you. Dating was temporary. What we had was permanent. As permanent as ink on skin or fossils in stone.
Arthur growled, “I’m being a realist.”
A slither of panic worked down my spine. Arthur was hot tempered … but never this argumentative. I couldn’t seem to say a thing without him jumping down my throat.
Is it his concussion? Did people suffer mood swings from a head injury?
Silence settled like dusting snowflakes as we sped down the motorway, following the long journey back home.
Arthur threw the car into fifth gear, then activated cruise control. His large hands held the steering wheel as he glanced at me in the mirror again. “I’m sorry.”
I tensed. “It’s not just a concussion you’re suffering … is it?”
He pinched the bridge of his nose, then rubbed his eyes. “I’ll tell you. Just … let’s get home first, okay?” A shadow cast over his face.
“You do know the only way this will work is if we have complete honesty between us?” I didn’t shout. He needed to hear how serious I was without volume.
He froze. In a single breath, he switched from angry and invincible to deflated and terrified. “I know.” His eyes met mine. “If you can find some way to stay with me after what I did, I promise I’ll make it up to you. Give me a chance … to make this right. To give you more. To give you so much fucking more than I have.”
Once again that panic of him keeping secrets swarmed me.
“You don’t owe me any more than you’ve already given. And I’m not going anywhere. How many times do I need to tell you that?”
He sighed wearily. “For so long I’ve been driven by an obsession. To create more wealth. To create more power. Only those with more than others can ever hope to win. But now that you’re back in my life—the obsession is even worse. Instead of being satisfied, I feel as if I don’t fucking deserve you unless I continue to gather more of everything.”
His knuckles tightened around the steering wheel. The motorway was a blur of lights and concrete. “I never wanted to go to war. But sometimes we have to become something we hate in order to get what we want.”
My brain hurt. What does he mean now? There should be a warning about falling in love with geniuses. Riddles to him were conversation. Equations and patterns were punctuation.