In the distance, I see a small tent. It ’ s far enough away from the shore so it doesn ’ t get wet, but close enough to catch the spray of the surf. Taking a deep breath, the salty air fills my lungs. I ’ m happy. The feeling spreads all over my body, warming my limbs, bringing a smile to my face.

As I walk to the tent, a woman steps out. It ’ s Grace, her fiery red hair flowing in the light breeze. With a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, she stares out at the ocean. She looks happy. Blissful, actually. I open my mouth to say something, to catch her attention, to call her to me. Yet, before any words come out, a man steps out of the tent behind her.

It ’ s me. Stretching my arms above my head, I reach to the sky before letting my arms drop around her. It ’ s an oddly surreal scene to watch. I ’ m standing here watching a scene from a life I don ’ t remember play out in front of me. I ’ m watching me hold the woman I ’ m supposed to love.

They don ’ t notice me at all as I walk toward them. I don ’ t exist—this new, memory-free version of the man in the dream. They hold each other, letting the cool ocean water wave over their feet as the sun greets them. “ Mornin ,’ babe, ” I say, nuzzling into her crazy hair.

“ Hey, yourself. ” She leans against me, her heat seeping into my bones.

Grace turns around into the circle of his arms, wrapping both of them in the blanket she ’ s holding. Catching a glimpse of her naked body, I feel my own reacting.

She ’ s gorgeous. There ’ s no other word to describe her. Creamy skin, curves for miles. And that smile on her face. It rivals the light from the sun.

He drops the blanket to the sand, lowering Grace to the powder blue fabric in the process. Everything blurs together. There and here. Him and me.

Then it ’ s only me and Grace.

There ’ s no other me—the me who remembers. I become the same person.

Hovering over Grace ’ s body, everything from that weekend falls into place. Capturing her mouth in mine, I taste the sugary sweetness from the S ’ mores. The gritty texture of the sand scratches the palms of my hands. Her scent, vanilla and orange, surrounds me, holding me close to her body.

Sinking into her body is incomparable to any memory I thought I ’ d ever recover. The soundless vacuum in which dreams exists pops to life. “ Gracie, baby, ” I groan into her ear.

Clawing at my back, she wraps her legs around my waist, pulling me impossibly close to her body. “ Oh, God . . . oh, God . . . oh, God . . .”

The height of our joint pleasure opens my eyes. Catching a glimpse of something, I ’ m not sure if it ’ s part of the dream or of reality.

“Grace,” I call out. Fumbling wildly, I try to maneuver my crutches. My arms, heavy with the sleep I so desperately needed, aren’t working fast enough. The tray at my side table crashes to the floor. The glass of water crashes to the floor, splintering into a thousand pieces. “Shit.”

Busting through the door, Grace is a disheveled mess. A beautiful, unruly mess of perfection. Her hair is knotted in a messy pile on top of her head. The T-shirt she’s wearing must be two sizes too big. And either she’s not wearing shorts or I can’t see them because the shirt comes down to the middle of her thighs. “What happened? What’s the matter? Are you hurt?” The words fly out of her mouth, not allowing me any time to warn her about the broken glass on the floor.

“Ouch,” she screams out. Hobbling the two more steps over to my bed, she falls to the bed, cupping her bloody foot in one hand. “Are you okay?” she asks, concerned only about me and not at all about the gash on her foot.

“Let me look at that.” Sliding next to her, I pull her foot into my hands. “It’s not too deep. Shouldn’t need to go to the hospital.” Reaching behind me, I lift my shirt over my head. Twisting it around her foot, I tie it into a makeshift bandage. “Sit here.” Moving to protest, I drop a hand to her shoulder, keeping her on the bed. “I’m fine. Trust me. Let me get some things from the bathroom and take care of this for you.” She nods, silently allowing me to take care of her.

It takes a little effort and coordination to carry the supplies back into my room while using the crutches, but I manage just fine. Without saying anything, I take care of her foot as best as I can. The shirt seems to have stopped the bleeding enough to allow me to bandage it up without too much fuss. Reaching behind me, I grab a pillow and prop her foot up on it. With her leg stretched out across the bed and mine casted up to right below my knee, I can’t help but laugh.

“We’re quite the pair, huh?” Tipping my chin back and forth between our injuries, a bubble of laughter falls from my lips.

Her laughter sounds like her song. It makes me laugh and smile—things that have been so foreign to my new existence I was beginning to think they’d be gone forever.

When the laughter subsides, the lightness shifts away, carving a path for her concern. “What happened?”

“I had a dream about the beach.” Raking a hand through my hair, I let out a sigh. “I remembered the things you told me. The S’mores, the tent, the sunrise.” Pausing, I add, “Making love.”

“That’s good,” she says shyly. “If you’re starting to piece together what people are telling you, that has to be good. Right?”

“And I remember the older couple. The ones who walked along the beach that morning. The ones who saw us . . .”

Her face falls in shock. Covering her open mouth with her hand, she gasps. A single tear leaks from the corner of her eye, telling me that part of my dream was more than a vision. At some point in our life, it was a reality.

“Ben and Carla,” she supplies their names for me.

“We were done, and they walked toward us. Somehow, we managed to cover up and be decent enough to carry on a conversation with them. We laughed for a solid ten minutes after they walked away.” Closing my eyes, I pull up the rest of that morning. “They invited us for breakfast in their camper and we were shocked to see that it was nicer than a house.”

“You remember all of that?” she says through her growing tears.

“I know it’s not much, but–”

“It’s something. And that’s all we need right now.” Her soft smile lights up her face and she swipes away her tears. “And I’m suddenly in the mood for French toast. Can I make you some breakfast?” Attempting to stand from the bed, she falls back down when she realizes she can’t put much weight on her foot.

Handing her one of my crutches, I say, “Here. You take one and I’ll take one. It’ll probably take us forever, but we can make breakfast together.”

“Deal,” she agrees, lifting herself from the bed.

And like a pair of fools, we make French toast and talk about all the things I can’t remember yet, in the hopes that someday I will.

“You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to, you know.” I’ve given him the opportunity to back out at least five times since the plans came up. Each and every time he’s simply shrugged and said he was fine. Just like now.

Letting out a deep breath, I try my best to let go of my own nerves over today.

If he’s fine with it, then I’m fine with it.