Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 69129 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 346(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69129 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 346(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
“I just hadn’t been this close to her – when she was awake – in days.”
“That sounds creepy, Hottie of The Opera.” His gaze darts up to meet mine. “Even for you.”
Light chuckles from the other male on the video chat occur at the same time the man claiming to be my husband lets his black sweatshirt covered shoulders sag in relief. “You’re okay.”
“Define okay, McCoy,” sassily slips free.
“I know it’s not the time,” the other voice interjects, “but I just wanna put it out there that I’m glad she didn’t lose her love of the greatest show on earth.”
“That’s the Ringling Brothers tagline,” grouses Wes.
“And yet it should’ve been Star Trek’s,” I effortlessly point out.
“Dat Mom?!” another, much smaller voice croaks, wrinkling my forehead. “Dieseemom?!”
There isn’t even time for the man holding the phone to open his mouth.
“Dad dieseemommmm!”
Dad?!
Mom?!
I’m married and have a kid?!
Hold the fucking warp drive for just a goddamn minute!
This has to be a joke.
Not a funny one.
And not the slightly cleverer type that the bouncers have come to expect from us bartenders.
No.
This is prank television worthy.
Except I hate those shows.
And I hate even more being in them.
Where are the cameras?
“Dad!”
“Wy-”
“Pweaseeeeeee,” begs the tiny human while my eyes sweep the small space. “Pweaseeeeee…”
Wes finds my stare once more and wordlessly implores that I humor the child.
Not sure whose child but definitely a child.
One hand is emotionlessly waved in his direction yet the second the device is turned towards me, revealing a small, light freckled face boy with messy hair and eyes I see every morning in the mirror, I mindlessly melt closer and coo, “Hey, Little Fins.”
“Mommmmm!” he shouts prior to practically smashing his face into the screen. “Inissyou!”
Unexpected tears get caught in my throat making it difficult to echo the sentiment. “Miss you too.”
“Still got ouchie?!” a small scratch to his neck beside his shark print bowtie is delivered. “No bedder?"
I shake my head on a choked, “Not yet.”
“Otay…” sadness slouches his whole frame alongside his heavy sigh. “Soon??”
“Soon.”
“Otay!” The corners of his lips instantly widen to give me a toothy grin, and the sight strengthens the ache in my chest. “Iwuvyou.”
Thankfully, Wes intervenes by turning the phone back inward. “We love you too, Little Hero. Keep being good for your aunt and uncle, okay? I’ll be home for dinner.”
“Otay, Dad!”
About a beat later, the other male – that I’m assuming is Wes’s brother – states, “Keep me updated.”
A single nod is the dismissal action that ends their call and returns his attention to me.
“We have a son?!” barely manages to leave my mouth above a whisper.
“We do.”
“He looks…” my sore back slams against the pillows, “just like us.”
“More freckles.”
“He has so many freckles,” I warmly giggle.
“Yeah,” Wes bashfully beams, giving the back of his neck an uncomfortable rub. “I uh…I had many when I was his age too. Some of those will fade.”
There’s no thought to the statement that escapes, “God, I hope not.”
The man I practically know nothing about flashes me another, softer smiler prior to putting his phone away.
Okay.
I have so many fucking questions.
Because this clearly isn’t a prank gone awry.
That kid…is my kid.
Our kid.
He looks like us.
He feels like us.
And that in itself makes no fucking sense because I don’t remember him.
I don’t remember having him.
Or naming him.
Or being pregnant with him.
Why?
What the fuck happened to me?
Is happening to me?
“You called him Little Fins,” Wes cautiously begins, our eyes reconnected once more. “Why?”
“Idontknow.” An innocent shrug bounces my figure. “It just…kind of came out.” My lips briefly press together. “Maybe because I don’t know his name?”
“That’s the nickname you gave him.”
Huh.
So…maybe…my brain isn’t as broken as I think it is?
As no one is telling me it is?
“What’s his…actual name?”
“Wyland.” The word search booklet I don’t recall knocking away is thoughtfully relocated to my bedside. “Wyland Wayne Wilcox. Three Ws are…sort of the unspoken family rule for sons.”
“Which is why you’re Weston William Wilcox.”
“You remember my middle name?”
“No, you just look like one.”
To no surprise, the comment causes him to slightly smirk.
“So, what’s actually going on with me? I mean, the doctors have all said, I may be experiencing severe memory loss but that sounds like an unnecessary sequel undersell.”
“Cautious phrasing is being used due to the reaction many patients exhibit when they hear the word…amnesia.”
“I have fucking amnesia?!”
“See.”
“What?! No.” A frantic headshake is attached to more denial. “No. That shits not real. That’s TV shit.” More head whips are delivered. “I know who I am! I know my name! I know where I grew up! I know what I went to college for! I know when Steinfeld orders a double vodka and sprite, he means double soda, not liquor!”
“The way it’s portrayed on TV is certainly TV shit, but I assure you, Brynley, it’s a real thing. A very real thing that we are getting a second opinion on whether or not you are currently enduring it.”