The sandy blonde hair he'd had in his youth was now a shade or so darker, making it almost brown. He kept it shaved close to his head, these days, rather than the long, shaggy locks he'd sported back in high school. Back then, his hair looked messy. Unkempt. And yet, it still had a charm all its own. Because he was a football player, he'd had no shortage of girls clamoring for his attention, but he was more than just a jock. He'd also won more than a few girls over with his guitar playing and singing.
His cheekbones had always been enviable and, now, with his body more defined and muscular, everything about him looked sharper. Stronger and fiercer – except for the dimples that dotted his cheeks when he smiled. They were still there. Thank God for that.
His piercing blue eyes stared right at me – right through me, really – and neither one of us said anything for a long time. I honestly wasn't even sure if he'd remembered me.
In a way, I hoped he didn't. Hoped that, to him, I was just another faceless victim he'd saved. No doubt, one of many, given his line of work. Though, I had to wonder if he visited all the people he'd saved in the hospital, or if he was here because he remembered me.
“I'm glad to see you're doing better,” he said, finally breaking the long pause between us. “Doctors said you should make a full recovery.”
“All thanks to you.”
He shook his head and gave me a lopsided smile. “All thanks to the Chicago fire department,” he said. “We're a team and we all—”
“I don't recall anyone else carrying me out of the building,” I said.
“They were there. I just happened to find you before they did, Madison,” he said. “But, they would have found you.”
The way he'd said my name answered the lingering question in my head definitively. He knew me.
“Oliver, I'm sorry, I—” my eyes welled up as I remembered what had happened between us but Oliver just shook his head and stopped me cold.
“The past is the past, Madison,” he said and he smiled at me.
It was a smile that could light up a hundred rooms. A hundred city blocks. His teeth were as white and perfect as I remembered them to be. Everything about this man was perfect – why had I fucked things up so badly all those years ago again?
Oh, that's right, I silently chastised myself, It's because I'd been a bitch back then.
Oliver sat down in the chair next to my bed, and I sat up a little straighter, holding his gaze. I wasn't exactly sure what to say to him other than, thank you. It just seemed so inadequate and there was so much more between us that needed to be said. Needed to be discussed. I couldn't find the words inside of me though. Which was rare and a little disconcerting for me, since I made a living always having the words to express myself.
Judging by the way Oliver's eyes bored into mine and the way he kept rubbing his chin, I had a feeling that there was more he wanted to say too. I was hoping he'd find the words and we could get this conversation going because the silence was awkward and painful.
“Umm, so, they said you don't remember much about that night we found you in the warehouse,” Oliver said, staring down at his hands.
“I've lost most of my memories of that night, directly leading up to the attack, that's correct.”
“Do you know why you were there?” he asked. “Being in an old warehouse in the middle of the night doesn't exactly sound safe. Or sane.”
I shrugged. “No, it doesn’t. Not really,” I said. “I keep trying to remember why I was there in the first place. I don’t recall what business I had out there. But, it's a big blank. I honestly can't remember most of that evening.”
“Do you have any texts? Calls?” he pressed. “Anything that might give a hint?”
I shook my head. “My phone can't be located,” I said. “I guess it was taken. The cops are looking into it.”
He looked utterly floored by what I'd just said. The expression on his face made it seem like I'd just given him the worst news of the day. He shook his head, and I could tell he was lost in his thoughts. Thoughts that had nothing to do with me.
“I'm really sorry you went through all of that,” he said softly.
His fists were balled up in his lap and he was glaring at them. His body was tense, his eyes narrowed, and his jaw clenched. Something had really gotten under his skin and I so badly wanted to reach out to him, to take his hand, and ask him what was bothering him. We sat there in a silence saturated with tension bordering on anger – though I knew his anger wasn't directed at me. If anything, it seemed to be directed inward. At himself.
“Oliver, listen,” I said, finally working up the nerve to reach out and take his hand in mine. “You saved my life. I'm alive, talking to you right now, because of you. You have nothing to be sorry about, and I'll heal. I'm going to be released in a few days, and—”
“They're going to release you?” he asked.
I nodded. “Maybe as early as tomorrow.”
“Is that safe?”
“I've already cleared their concussion protocols,” I said. “And I'm no longer dehydrated. My burns have been—”