Cherish (Covet #1.5) by Tracey Garvis Graves Read Free Book Online Page A

me.
    “Good morning,” I say. “That’s a really good color on you.”
    She sets down the box on the counter and whirls around. “That’s what you always used to say.”
    “I did?”
    “Yes. Whenever I wore yellow you would tell me how good it looked on me. Do you remember that?”
    “Not really. But clearly it’s floating around in here somewhere,” I say, pointing to my head.
    “That’s what they told us. The memories that are floating will gel and take hold. And see? It’s already happening.”
    “Yeah. I guess it is.” Thank God, because if I think too long about all the shit I can’t remember, it depresses the hell out of me.
    “How was your night?”
    “Not bad,” I say, although if they really want me to rest, they should send me home to my king-size bed. I can sleep like a champ in that bed. “What do you have there?” She frequently brings items from my house that she thinks I’ll like: DVDs, books, magazines. Whatever she thinks might help pass the time. It gives me something to look forward to.
    “I brought you some books,” she says, arranging them on the small table next to the bed. “There’s a Stephen King I’m not sure if you’ve read and a new release in that mystery series you like.”
    I’ll have to look at the title later because I have no idea what series she’s referring to.
    Next she pulls my iPod out of the box and attaches the cord to a small speaker that she sets on the nightstand. “In case you want music.” Lastly, she takes a paper bag out of the box and hands it to me. “Donuts,” she says. “How about we eat them before you get in the shower?”
    They’re also big on proper nutrition here, but everyone knows the food kind of sucks, which is why the nurses usually look the other way when they catch us with whatever Jessie has brought. I smile, take a chocolate cream-filled donut, and hand the bag back to her. “Thanks.”
    She sits down on the edge of the bed and selects her own donut, a glazed bear claw. “Ahh…‌it’s still warm.”
    “What do I have this morning?” I ask.
    She flips open her planner and says, “Occupational therapy.” She looks up and grimaces. “I’m sorry. I know that’s your least favorite.”
    I shrug. “It’s not like I’m going to get out of it. Might as well get it over with first.”
    Jessie doesn’t accompany me to all my therapy sessions, but there are a few she attends regularly—mostly the cognitive-retraining stuff—because the doctors keep saying she’s a “gold mine” of information and that’s it’s very important to have a family member involved in your therapy. Something tells me the ex-wife is probably not usually the family member who makes the cut. My mom and dad are here every day, but they’re not here all day the way Jessie is. And I really wish they’d resume their motor-home tour of the United States, because they seem to be in a holding pattern now.
    Because of me.
    No matter how many times I remind them that I’ll be here when they get back, they’ve made no move to return to the road. Maybe they’ll change their minds once I’m discharged.
    “I don’t suppose Dylan will stop by today,” I say. Dylan’s presence seems to bother Jess, but his visits help pass the time, and he usually has pretty interesting stories to share.
    Jessie gets a weird look on her face. “No. I don’t suppose he will.”
    He hasn’t been by lately, and I don’t know why. I’d ask, but I’m worried she already told me.
    I hate that my short-term memory is basically useless. I still can’t remember the shooting at all, and the doctors say I probably never will, but I also can’t remember things Jessie or my therapists told me the day before. I can’t recall much of anything that happened in the months preceding the shooting.
    This is what I do remember: Gabriel, the divorce, Jessie’s anger. I don’t remember all of it, but I remember enough to put together a fragmented account that is no less