Accidental Shield (Marriage Mistake #6)(30)

“Whom? Goddamn, that’s sexy, Little Miss Grammar,” he growls.

I burst out laughing but catch myself. “Seriously, tell me. I’m curious.”

“I sold it to a big-time government contractor, so I can’t divulge much. It’s a sensitive weapons system. Classified shit.” He takes a long swig off his glass.

“You were in the military for a long time, weren’t you?”

“Almost ten years.”

I’d thought so. Not just because of his size and his obviously ripped body, but because of his tattoos. They’re well-done, and the fluttering American flag on one arm made me think military earlier today. “How about Dr. Ivers? Was he in as long as you?”

“Yes, that’s how we met. We served together.”

“So he’s a civilian doctor now?”

“Right.” He sets his empty glass down. “I’ll go get that computer.”

I nod and then close my eyes. It’s pretty weird realizing the more I know, the less I really do.

None of what he told me is surprising, though, so maybe I never totally forgot it. But this need to know more about him, maybe it’s all because I do know and just want to be reminded.

That doesn’t make a lick of sense, I know, but it’s how I feel.

I don’t want my memories gone forever.

Even losing the little things I can’t pin down scares me.

It isn’t fair. I want every morsel about Flint Calum.

All the things a wife knows: her husband’s pet peeves, his strengths, his fears, his kinks.

Yeah. I don’t dare dwell on the last, or I’ll never think about anything else for the rest of the day.

I just feel safe when he’s near. When I realized it was his hand holding my arm in the truck, the nightmare vanished almost instantly.

Hearing him behind me, I climb off the stool. “Can we sit in the living room? On the couch together? It’ll be more comfortable.”

“Yeah...sure.”

For a millisecond, I question how he paused, but then shrug it off and pick up both glasses for a quick refill. This time I go for that glass pitcher of mango tea sitting in the huge stainless steel fridge.

Part of me hopes there’ll be a repeat of earlier. All the stuff I knew about turtles just appeared while sitting next to him on the beach, so maybe he’ll help jog more memories.

It was nothing like remembering the name Gerard, though.

I tense up at the reaction just thinking that name causes.

Why? Is that why he’s so careful about what he says? Are my family bad people—just like Ray in the dream?

“You all right, Val?” he asks.

“Yep, coming,” I say, and carry the glasses into the living room.

I think I’m finally understanding the meaning of the phrase, 'a goose walked over my grave.'

Sure explains the constant goosebump outbreaks on my skin. Freaky.

I set our glasses on the coffee table and plop down on the sofa, leaning back, enjoying the plush softness.

Flint sits down beside me and opens his laptop. It’s one of the bigger MacBook Pros. It only takes a few seconds for the screen to appear.

He unlocks it with his fingerprint and pulls up a web browser. Then he keeps typing, until he has tabs upon tabs about amnesia open.

“All yours. I’m here if you need any help deciphering anything. Plus Cash is just a call away. He should be by soon.”

We skim through several pages together. They mostly talk about long-term and short-term memory loss, plus several forms of dementia. Other sites talk about treatments for the other underlying causes, stress or chemical abuse, not unexpected blows to the head like mine.

All in all, we don’t find anything really helpful. Disappointing.

“Sorry,” Flint says and grasps the edge of the screen to shut his computer.

I grab his arm. “Wait. I must have some social media sites. A Facebook or Instagram or something? Maybe seeing some old pictures will help.”

“Pictures of yourself?”

“Exactly. That’s what social media’s all about. Posting selfies.” I wave at the keyboard. “Type in my name.”

Slowly, he does, and a couple sites pop up.

I lean forward, holding my breath. “There! Click on that one.”

A home page with my name, listed as Gerard, not Calum, opens but...

There’s only one picture of me.

Wow. Am I a privacy geek or something?

“It’s the settings, I bet. Says you have to be friends with me to see my posts.” I rest my chin on my hand, drumming my fingers on my cheek.

“You must have your page set to private,” he agrees.

I sigh. Just lovely. Nothing’s ever easy.

“And I have no idea what my password is. Or the email assigned to this account to reset it. Argh. Try going back and click on that other site?”

He does, but it’s the same thing. And the same picture.

It’s me. On a beach. Kinda zoomed out. I can’t even make out the print on my t-shirt.

“Do you have any idea what my password or email would be?”

“Email, you changed them up a lot. Too much junk mail,” he answers. “And password? Not a clue. I wasn’t in cryptography, Val. For all I know you might’ve based your shit on old college star charts.”