His Forbidden Bride: 50 Loving States, West Virginia Read Online Free PDF

like maybe I heard him and didn’t like him, but now I do. Does that make sense?”
    “It does,” I answer, before taking a thoughtful bite of my tofu and quinoa—a dish John had declared “really new” after his first fork full.
    But he must like it, because he ends up finishing every bite. Or maybe he just likes you , a small, secretly thrilled voice inside my head suggests.
    Seriously, I have got to start dating as soon as I hit Seattle this summer. In California there’d been plenty of guys, but out here in West Virginia—not so much. Partly because of my patent inability to trust any man’s attraction to me, and partly because it’s West Virginia and real hospital life is not a Shonda Rhimes show. Whatever the case, I’ve obviously been in a drought state for way too long if I’m getting all sorts of secret thrills from the prospect of being liked by someone with a TBI.
    “Okay, let’s work through a few of these cognitive exercises I brought with me before I have to go back downstairs,” I say, bringing my iPad out of my bag.
    His lazy gaze flickers from warm and engaged to disappointed. “So you ain’t really here just to visit this time either?”
    “No, I…” I stop and take the time to put together my thoughts before answering. “Look, I know this has got to be unbelievably hard for you. The accident, the head trauma, and then the amnesia on top of it. I’m not trying to be your doctor. I hope you understand as a third-year peds resident, I’m technically not even qualified to oversee your care. But if you had someone with you—like a family member—your team would suggest they do all sorts of things to keep your mind sharp and help you get to a better place.”
    I hold up the iPad. “Starting with these cognitive exercises to help you with your memory. So I guess you could say that’s what I’m trying to do here. Until you leave the hospital, I’ll be your family. At least until your real family gets here.”
    He shifts on the bed, messes with his now boot-free leg. “My family…” he repeats.
    And I get that I’m toeing a dangerous line. That I’m about a few seconds away from stepping all the way over it, but I find myself saying, “Yeah, your family. That’s what I’m trying to be for you. At least until you remember yours.”
    His eyes raise to meet mine, and for once they don’t look lazy with amusement. “Alright,” he says. “If that’s the case, then I’ll do whatever you want me to, Doc.”
    Good Lord, why did he have to put it like that? My body heats as images of him doing things—very bad things that a patient should definitely not be doing with a doctor—flash through my mind. And suddenly the mood in the room doesn’t feel very familial at all.
    Cheeks flushed, I clear my throat and force myself back to the cognitive treatment plan. “Okay then, let’s start with a few math problems…”
    Our first informal cognitive rehab session goes pretty well. And by the end of it, I know the IQ test they gave him wasn’t a one-off. He has a solid grasp of math, and a much bigger vocabulary than I would have (perhaps unfairly) assumed due to his deep southern accent combined with his generous usage of the word “ain’t.” He also has great recall, and even managed to draw a map of the eighth floor in his journal for me.
    By the time we’re through, I can see why he set off a few red flags with psych. Other than his persistent amnesia, he scored way above average on all the informal cognitive tests I gave him. Which means it’s most likely not his traumatic brain injury keeping him from remembering things, but something else entirely.
    I leave the iPad with him and tell him to keep doing the brain exercises on it. “Especially the word associations,” I say as I gather up my “V”irkin. “See what comes up.”
    “Hey, Doc,” he says as I’m about to leave. Then he once more waits until I turn all the way back around to finish his thought. “Thank