George

Staring out the windshield as the tears kept coming, I finally had a sense of certainty about something. I needed to tell Silas, and I needed to do it soon.

But… how?

Maybe what I needed was some advice. Ideally from someone who already knew how badly I’d screwed up, and who would skip telling me what a stupid jackass I was and get to the part about what to do. Fortunately, I had just the person—someone who had already told me millions of times what a fucking idiot I was for cheating on Silas—and as it happened, I had the perfect excuse to hit her up for a one-on-one.

George: Hey, I’m heading back to the clinic. Any chance you can take another look at my arm?

I must’ve caught her between appointments, because the response came almost immediately.

Lia: You actually want me to look at it? It must be bad. Get your butt back here immediately.

I managed a halfhearted laugh through my tears as I wrote back that I’d be there in fifteen minutes. She knew me too well. I was as stubborn as they came about having my war wounds looked at. Any normal person with an ounce of self-preservation who’d been clawed to hell and back by a cranky raróg would be getting their arm checked over multiple times by a medical professional—veterinary or otherwise—before the day was over, and probably tomorrow and the next day, too. Such was the nature of working with critters.

I resisted most of the time because I was me, and because I hated needles. Today, I honestly didn’t give a damn if my arm got infected. I didn’t care about anything right now except this situation with Silas. But letting Lia poke and prod and maybe even suture my arm would give me a chance to pick her brain about how to handle things with Silas.

With the text sent, I took a few more deep breaths, then pulled away from the curb and back into the flow of traffic. My concentration was a little better now, if only because I had a mission. Get to the clinic. Talk to Lia. Deal with Silas. That was enough to keep my car between the lines and stop me from running another red light (which is what I was pretty sure I’d done earlier).

I was almost to the clinic when my phone buzzed again, and I rolled my eyes. “Jesus, Lia. I’m on my way.” It did take time to get from place to place, after all. One of the other doctors in the clinic was able to teleport, but I was a lowly mortal without magical abilities, so Lia was just going to have to wait.

At a stoplight, I glared at the screen, ready to fire back a reminder that I was at the mercy of physics and traffic laws.

But the message hadn’t come from her.

Silas: Hey, is there any chance we can talk more? Not gonna lie—I’m not handling this well. Really don’t want to be alone.

I groaned aloud and pressed back against the seat. I was in Hell, wasn’t I? The raróg had actually killed me this morning, and I was now in Hell. I was damned to spend all eternity being flogged by my own conscience via hallucinations of my amnesiac boyfriend still thinking I was a decent human being.

I didn’t have time to respond before the light changed. Once I was in the clinic’s parking lot, I let him know I’d stopped here, and that I would head his way once I was done. We also exchanged a couple of banter-y texts, which hopefully eased his panic a little. I couldn’t say it did much to assuage my guilt.

I walked in through the employee entrance, and I found Lia waiting for me with a tote in her hand. It was one of the kits the techs used when they needed to clean and potentially suture a wound, and my stomach lurched at the sight of the antiseptic. I fucking hated that stuff.

“Come on, you.” She nodded sharply toward one of the exam rooms.

“We can do this in my office,” I said. “I’d rather not take up a room while there’s patients waiting.” And from the various sounds coming from up the hall, there were definitely patients waiting.

Lia frowned but shrugged and followed me.

As she toed the door shut behind us, I turned around, carefully crossing my arms so I didn’t aggravate my wound. “Okay, confession—I don’t need you to look at my arm.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “You don’t?”

“No.” I shifted a little, avoiding her eyes. “I need some advice.”

“About Silas?”

I flicked my gaze back to her. “How’d you guess?”

She shot me one of those “you know, for a doctor, you can be a real dumbass” looks she’d given me millions of times in the past. “Really?”

It took a second, but the piece clicked into place, and my face burned. “Right. Right. You were here when…” I gestured vaguely toward the chair Silas had been occupying this morning.

“Mmhmm. I was.” She put the kit on my desk and pointed at my arm. “I’m still going to look at that.”

I scowled. “I don’t need—”

“My advice isn’t free, bub.” She set her jaw. “Also, I know a tech who lost a finger because a raróg scratch got infected. I’m not taking chances with our best surgeon’s hands or arms. You want my advice?” She pointed emphatically at my arm. “Show me the cut.”

There wasn’t a lot of point in arguing with her. And, well, she was right. Those cantankerous little dragon-birds could do a lot of damage, and while it would probably sting something fierce, it wouldn’t actually hurt me to be a responsible adult and let Lia take a look.

“Fine.” I exhaled and started to unwrap my arm. “But I don’t need stitches.”

“Whatever you say, Doc. Now what’s going on with Silas?”

“Well, from what we’ve pieced together,” I said as I carefully peeled away the bandage, “he made a deal with a fae.”

“Ooh, that sounds ominous.” She glanced up at me before peering at my arm. “What kind of deal? And what do you mean, from what the two of you have pieced together? Doesn’t he know?”

“Yeah, that’s the problem. He—ow!”

“Oh, don’t be a baby.” She prodded the edge of the wound because she was mean and not at all checking for signs of infection or an embedded piece of raróg claw. “Keep talking.”

I grimaced, but I did keep talking, if through my teeth. “He doesn’t remember. And the receipt from the fae shop is for something that translates to ‘forget.’”

She looked up at me again. “Did he… Did he pay a fae to erase his memory?”

“That’s kind of what it’s sounding like.” I grimaced again, though not because of the stinging and throbbing in my arm this time. “And given that his memory goes completely blank starting the night before I told him I cheated, I think I can guess why.”

Lia’s expression turned grim. “Oh. Shit. So, he… Wow.”

“Yeah.” I sighed. “So, he came to me in a panic because he doesn’t remember anything from that day on. Including the fact that we broke up. Or why.”

“Yikes.” She let go of my arm and reached for the antiseptic bottle. As she poured some on a cotton ball, either oblivious to or ignoring my expression of protest, she said, “That explains why he wasn’t trying to bludgeon you with a chair.”

“Right? But the thing is, that means in his mind, we’re still… us. He doesn’t hate me.” My shoulders sagged. “He still fucking loves me. And I need—ow, Jesus!”

Seriously, I hated that antiseptic. Hated. It. This particular variety was usually only used on rarógi themselves, because it didn’t seem to bother them, but we also put it on bites or scratches inflicted by the little fuckers. And it burned.

“Don’t be a baby,” she said. “It’s not that bad.”

“The fuck it’s not,” I hissed.

“Mmhmm. So go on. Your ex doesn’t hate you…?”

I swallowed against the sudden nausea, which might’ve been from the pain, the antiseptic’s caustic fumes, or the guilt. Probably all three.

“He doesn’t hate me,” I acknowledged. “He doesn’t remember me cheating. He even asked me earlier if…” I winced at the memory. “He asked if our breakup was bad enough that we couldn’t go back. Like I swear, he wanted to suggest trying again.”

“Whoa.” She glanced up at me with wide eyes. “He really doesn’t remember.”

“No,” I whispered. “So, I don’t know what to do.” While she continued cleaning up and redressing my wound, I gave her the rundown of what I’d been chewing on in the car, and the conclusion I’d eventually come to. “I need to tell him. I’m just… I’m not sure how.”

Lia pursed her lips as she finished taping the edge of the bandage. Then she peeled off her gloves and took a bottle of hand sanitizer from the tote, and as she rubbed it on, she said, “Well, he’s going to be angry and hurt no matter what. I don’t think there’s any getting around that.”

I nodded. “Can’t imagine there would be.”

“Right. So, I think the best thing—honestly, the only thing—you can do is to just sit him down and gently tell him the truth. Own up to what you did. Tell him you’ll understand if he wants to go no-contact again. But maybe also assure him that you’ll still help him through this, and that you won’t read anything into it if he takes you up on that.”

I tilted my head. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, tell him you’ll help him because you care about him, but that you’re not under any illusion that this will put you back on his Christmas card list or make him want you back as a partner or even a friend.”

“So, make sure he knows I don’t have ulterior motives.”

“Exactly. And the longer you go without telling him the truth—or if he finds out on his own—the harder it’s going to be to sell that to him. So, I wouldn’t wait.”

“Yeah. Yeah, good point.” I was suddenly restless with the need to get back to Silas’s condo. “He wants me to come back today anyway. He’s…” I waved my uninjured hand. “Stressed about everything. I don’t want to pile on that, but…”

“But you’re better off telling him now than having him find out later.”

Nodding, I said, “Good point. I should get going, then.” I held up my freshly bandaged arm. “And thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. Keep an eye on it, too—it isn’t getting infected by the looks of it, but you know how quick it can change.”

“I do. And I will. Thanks again.”

With that, I hurried out of my office and out to my car.

I was sick with nerves and guilt but filled with determination. Come what may, I had to tell Silas the truth. If he wanted nothing to do with me after this, fine. But he deserved to know, and he deserved to know now.

So, I texted Silas that I was on my way, pulled out of the parking lot, and drove like hell toward the condo.