Chapter Forty Six

Aspen

**Aspen: I think I remember something...**

"At least, I think I do..." I mutter to myself after hitting the send icon on my screen.
"Ah!" I scream, startled as my phone begins buzzing in my hand with an incoming call, "Oh shit!" *It's him.*
"Hello?" I say awkwardly as I answer the call.
"Aspen?" Boston says. Hearing his deep voice for the first time in a week, causes my heart to begin beating faster.
"Yeah?" I say, sounding lame but unsure of what to say exactly.
"God, it's good to hear your voice." He mutters, and I'm pretty sure he was talking to himself more than he was to me, "You think you remembered something?" He says, cutting right to the point.
"Maybe?" I say, sounding wholly unsure, "It may be nothing. I've been getting glimpses of moments here and there, but I don't really know if they're things that have really happened or not. Sometimes these flash-type things will hit me randomly during the day, but then other times I'll have dreams. Although, I usually can only remember a small part of it—even though I'm sure there was more to it than what I end up remembering." I ramble out of nervousness.
I glance out my bedroom window from my position in my bed, trying to distract myself from the nauseated feeling in my stomach.
"Can you tell me?" He asks, then I hear him mutter, "No, I'm not going to put her on speaker, this is between me and her."
"Who's there with you?" I ask out of curiosity, instead of answering his question.
"Linc is here with me." He tells me, "We just finished our game."
Then a voice from further away says, "We won the freaking championship game!" And I can only assume that it's Lincoln, as Boston had just said.
"And you guys aren't out celebrating?" I mutter, more to myself than them, suddenly feeling jealous as I think about one of the dreams that I had about being at a party dancing with Boston—how light and free I felt dancing with him, unable to forget how he made me feel things that I hadn't felt for any guy before, that I can remember. *But it was just a dream, wasn't it?*
*Fuck! This is my problem. I don't know the difference between what could be a memory of what really happened between Boston and me, versus what may have been just a dream.*
"I haven't much felt like celebrating." Boston murmurs, sounding like he's in pain and I can't help but feel as though I'm at fault.
"I'm going to go and try to find Raleigh and see if we can meet up," Lincoln says, making sure to get his two cents in.
"Awe, Raleigh is so sweet. I really like her." I tell him, thinking of the blond-haired person who has made a point of calling or texting and checking in on me several times a day every day this week.
"Anyway," Boston says, clearing his throat.
"Right, what I remember," I say, taking a deep breath as I prepare to explain the jumbled mess that is my head right now. "So, as I said, I don't know what is real, versus my imagination, I guess, but it's made me think that maybe I was quick to jump to conclusions and that maybe you were telling me the truth," I say, prefacing what I'm about to say.
Heaving a sigh, I ignore my nerves and just jump in with both feet, "The first thing I think I remember is of us at a party dancing together, I don't remember anything more than that. But, it seemed like we were having a lot of fun, and you, I don't know—you made me feel safe and desired, beautiful and sexy, turned on and—"
"It's because you *are* all of that," Boston says, cutting me off, "that and so much more."
"So, that really happened? It wasn't just a dream?" I ask, my heartbeat speeding up once again as I get excited at the prospect of actually remembering something that truly happened.
"Yes," Boston says, sounding almost wistful as if remembering that night himself, "that was our first night together." He tells me.
I hear him sigh and then mutter, "It's a night that I will never forget."
I know the comment wasn't meant to make me feel but, but it makes me feel bad nonetheless, that it's one that I *did* forget, even if it was beyond my control.
"I'm sorry that I don't really remember," I tell him honestly. Then, before he gets the chance to say something else, I continue. "The next memory thing that I had was of us all watching movies together in the game room, I think—was there one of those?" I ask, trying to remember.
"Yes, we have a game room," he says, the sound of hope filling his words.
I nod, glad to have gotten it right, but then realize that he can't see that I'm nodding, "Okay, good." I say, smiling to myself.
"Well, I don't remember what we were watching, just that we were cuddled up together on a white couch and had been covered with a navy blanket and you were doing your best to, um," clearing my throat, I make sure to emphasize my next words, "*try to distract me from the movie.*" I use emphasis on the words because I'm not really all that comfortable with elaborating on exactly *how* he was trying to distract me with his brothers mere feet away from us. Especially, since I'm pretty sure that Lincoln can hear everything that I'm saying.
"You were so mad at me after I made you cum like that, that you swore that you were going to get me back," he says, laughing at the memory. "That night at dinner, you stuck your hand down my pants and started rubbing my cock while our parents were right across the table from us," Boston's voice becomes husky as he recalls the memory, and I gotta admit that the image that comes to mind causes me to rub my thighs together with the need to ease the ache that's suddenly between them.
"Do you like chocolate on your popcorn?" I ask, changing the subject and moving it away from anything sexual in nature.
*The majority of the other memories, or whatever they're called, are very sexual in nature and I don't know if I can handle hearing his raspy voice like that. If he's affecting me this way through the phone, I tend to believe that we truly were together, and I really do owe him an apology for being so quick to jump to conclusions.*
I hear him chuckle, breaking into my thoughts, "I do." He says, and I can hear the smile in his voice, "I turned you on to it, too."
*It seems you turned me on to a lot of things*. I think to myself but refrain from speaking the thought aloud.
"I'll have to take your word for it because the thought alone is making me want to vomit," I tell him, this baby does not at all liking the thought of chocolaty popcorn.
"How is your morning sickness?" He asks suddenly, his voice softening.
"Honestly, it's awful. I get sick if I eat. I get sick if I don't eat. All I want to do is sleep all the time, which I can't because of school. I'm constantly horny, and I feel like all I do is cry." I tell him, realizing that I probably shouldn't have told him about being horny all the time when I hear him groan and then say *fuck* through the line.
"Where are you?" He says, not commenting on my slip up and I'm beyond grateful for it.
"Mom brought us back to the place that we lived in here in Monument before we moved in with you guys," I tell him honestly, wondering what my life was like back in Hawthorne.
"I miss you so damn much," he rasps, his voice coming out quiet as if he's afraid that he will scare me away.
"Boston," I say, knowing that I'm fixing to eat some crow, but that it's very much deserved, "I owe you an apology. I shouldn't have jumped to conclusions and accused you of raping me. I was just *so* damn confused—I still am if I'm being honest—but it wasn't fair of me to accuse you of something like that when I had no proof, just a hazy recollection of us fucking against a tree out in the woods. And honestly, I don't even know if that actually happened or not and I fucking *hate* that I don't know and question every single damn thing." I sigh, realizing that I'm rambling again. "I wouldn't blame you if you hated me after what I said to you—someone who had loved you—as if I was throwing our love in your face as though it meant nothing."
"I don't hate you," he growls, and the words cause tears to well in my eyes and I punch my mattress, groaning in frustration because of my *freaking hormones!*
"I would deserve it if you did," I tell him, knowing full well that I do, even if I don't remember.
"I could never hate you," he tells me, the sincerity in his voice clear even through the phone, "I love you too much to hate you."
His words cause the dam to break, and I gasp out a sob, hating that I'm so emotional.
"Damn it!" Boston curses through the line, "Please don't cry. Fuck! I wish I could just hold you right now."
"I'm sorry," I tell him, then hang up as guilt washes over me. I've managed to fuck everything up, and although I don't remember our love, I'm sure it was good and real, and I don't know if I can fix it—or if we can ever go back to the people that we were before the accident.
*He says he loves me, but that girl is gone.*
*Boston is in love with a ghost, and I'm afraid that all I'm doing is hurting him more because I don't know if I'll ever be that girl again.*