After Losing My Memory, My Ex and I Had a Happy Ending
It was the third year of my intermittent amnesia
when I overheard my husband, Leo Maxwell,
chatting with one of his bros.
“Dude, seriously, your wife blacks out every few
months. You’re having us take turns pretending
to be you, what if one of us actually falls for
her?”
Leo swirled the whiskey in his glass, that cocky
smirk plastered on his face. “Relax. Clara’s
frigid. As long as you don’t hit on her, she’s not
gonna be looking for that kind of action.”
“Just a heads–up, though,” Leo continued.
“Play your parts, but keep your hands to
yourselves. She’s still my wife after all, and
when I’m done screwing around, I’m gonna
come back home.”
For the past three years, every man who’d held
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my hand, kissed me, even shared my bed after
my memory lapses wasn’t actually Leo.
Three years. Nine memory wipes. Nine stand–in
husbands.
What they didn’t know was that I’d faked my
amnesia for two years.
I heard the front door open and my ninth
“husband” walked in, catching me while I was
zoning out on the couch.
His voice was warm and smooth. “Clara, I’m
home.”
I looked up at the guy in the doorway, faking a
confused frown. “Who are you? Are you my
husband? I thought my husband’s name was
Leo Maxwell.”
He froze for a split second, then stuttered, “No!
I’m… I’m a friend of your husband’s! Don’t
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worry, Clara. I’ll call Leo right now and have him
come home!”
He scrambled toward the balcony, phone
clutched in his hand.
“Leo, it happened again! Clara’s got amnesia!
Who’s up next? Get your ass over here and
relieve me!”
I eavesdropped from behind the curtains,
listening to the guys in the speaker pushing
back.
“Dude, Clara is way too clingy. You gotta watch
her 24/7. No thanks.”
“Yeah, she’s great, but damn, she’s intense. A
guy needs some freedom, you know?”
“Why don’t you just go home yourself, Leo?”
“No way,” Leo drawled. “I’m not done having
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fun. Who’s gonna take my shift? Come on, bros
before hoes, right?”
Then a voice cut through the complaining. “I’||
do it.”
It was Sawyer Grant, Leo’s best friend.
Sawyer was famous for being a total ice king.
The guy had been single since birth, or so the
rumors said.
When Leo first proposed the whole fake-
husband scheme, Sawyer was the first to
object.
Why was he suddenly playing along?
Thirty minutes later, the door clicked open.
Sawyer stepped inside, silhouetted against the
hall light.
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“Clara, I’m home.” His voice, usually so controlled, had a hint of something raw in it.
I stood up, staring at this tall, drop–dead
gorgeous man.
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“You’re my husband, Leo Maxwell?”
“Yeah,” Sawyer mumbled, clearing his throat,
“sorry, I was working late tonight.”
Right then, his phone rang.
Sawyer gave me a quick apologetic glance and went out to the balcony.
I heard Leo’s voice, all casual: “Oh, hey Sawyer,
I forgot to tell you, just hold her hand, give her
a hug, but don’t you dare bang her, all right? She’s still my wife, after all.”
“Got it,” Sawyer said, his voice deep.
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For three years, no matter how the guys played Leo, they never crossed the line beyond holding hands and hugging.
For three years, there were never any pictures around the house. No identifying information.
I was an orphan. Because of the amnesia, I had no friends.
They all figured I was too clueless to catch on.
I pretended to be.
But this time, I wanted to change the rules of the game.
I walked over and wrapped my arms around Sawyer’s waist.
“Honey, even though I can’t remember
anything, seeing you just feels right. You have
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to be my husband.”
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I squeezed him tight, letting my hand linger
against his abs.
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Sawyer tensed, then awkwardly pushed me
away.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, all innocent. “Honey, do you not like me now that I have amnesia?”
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“No,” Sawyer said, his eyes darting around. “…I
do.”
I reached out and unbuttoned his shirt, letting
my hand brush against his chest.
“Honey, it’s so cold. Want to go to bed and
warm up?”
Sawyer’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “…Okay.”
That night, Sawyer and I shared a bed.
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We both knew what was going on, but neither
of us said a word.
