"I need a large Beastly Beauty," Paige orders me, so I get to work.
I concentrate on mixing the right ingredients without needing to look it up. Learning the eclectic menu is the hardest part of the job. I manage to pull it off with only a few stains to my shirt, which is an improvement. I wised up and started to wear black so the spills are less noticeable. When I spin, hot drink in hand, I find Landon standing at the counter.
"Oh, um... here," I stammer. I haven't seen him in person since we met on campus. Before that, he was off limits and closed off to me. I hand him his cup and wonder what to say next. Do we make small talk or do I read him my diary? We are in an odd relationship between strangers, but not quite friends either. Before I can think of something witty, he pays Paige and sits at his usual table.
I watch the way his shirt clings to his back as he walks away. Strong and defined arms flex as he reaches in his bag. He is an example of strength and silence. Landon is focused and thoughtful as he sits, oblivious to my staring. I watch the way his hair falls when he runs his fingers through it. I wonder how his hair would feel between my fingers.
"He's a regular. Always a Beastly Beauty," she whispers.
"Figures. Suits him, too."
The afternoon rush kicks my ass, like it usually does. My fingers no longer can tell the difference between hot and cold since I burned all the skin off them. I smell like warm milk and my hair is sticking to the back of my neck. I pull it up into a messy bun, sticking a pen through the knot to keep it in place. The line has finally died down, but the tables are full. I spot Landon still hunched over his thick books.
"Take a breather, Willow," Paige tells me as she restocks the cups. "You look like you're ready to pass out."
I stop myself from disagreeing because I could really use the break. In the back, I chug a bottle of water and fan off my face. With the ovens baking muffins, the back room is warmer than up front, so I head back out and over to where Landon is still studying.
"For someone with a perfect memory, you sure do study a lot," I say as I steal the seat across from him.
I see the side of his mouth tip up slightly before he answers. "My memory is exceptional but only with things affecting my life. It's not like a photographic memory where I can memorize any fact I read."
"Oh," I say. "I thought that would have made schooling easier for you."
"It's the opposite actually," he says as he looks up at me. His gaze moves over my face and down my body. "I'm constantly distracted with memories and it's actually hard to concentrate on anything else."
"What do you remember?" I ask, unable to stay polite and avoid prying. I have a billion questions but don't want to scare him off.
"Random stuff. Depends what triggers it. Like right now, the way you just sit down uninvited and start questioning has me replaying the first time you saw me here and did the same thing."
My face heats when I remember how desperate and imposing I had been. I just needed someone to tell me I wasn't alone because that is how I feel every waking second of the day. Landon looks back down at the pages below him and I watch as his eyes rapidly move left to right. His large hand is resting on the table, holding a pen, and I follow the curves of his muscular arms to his broad shoulders. His olive skin looks soft, but hard, and stretches over his muscles perfectly.
When I realize I’m checking him out, I pull my gaze off him. I wipe my sweaty palms on my pants and shift awkwardly in my seat. When he shoots me a questioning look, I shrug and avoid eye contact. His attractiveness makes me uncomfortable because I'm not sure how to deal with it. I was never much of flirt, although I wouldn't remember if I was. I must have snagged Noah somehow, but in my mind, I'm still inexperienced. Any memories of how I felt about Noah when I first saw him are gone.
I start to stand when I feel him grab my wrist. My entire body tenses and my breath catches in my throat. My wild heartbeat is confusing because I don't know if it's from fear or excitement. Electricity buzzes through my body at his touch. When his grip loosens and I feel rough fingers graze the sensitive skin on the inside of my wrist, I turn my head to look at him.
"You okay?" When I nod, he continues, "Can we meet tomorrow? I have some questions."
He's watching me closely, eyes flickering between my face and where he is holding me. I'm sure he can see how fast I'm breathing and the flush of my cheeks. Again, I feel like a lab rat for someone's experiment. Someone only to observe and examine. I have a feeling Landon is always filing away information.
"Oh, sure," I agree and slowly pull my hand away. My break should be over anyway and I need to get my nerves under control before I face any more strangers. As I walk back to the counter, I feel Landon's eyes on me the entire way. All through the day, I feel his gaze. He's always watching and my breathing becomes easier than it has in weeks with that knowledge.
There are very few moments where my memories are not constantly running through my mind. This is one of them. The sounds of contact between the bag and my fist as I punch drown out my own thoughts; I embrace the distraction. Adrenaline races through my veins and my body feels in control. My own panting mixes with that of my brother's several feet away and we fall into a synchronized routine. Right hand hits and then left. Move your body. Repeat until the point of exhaustion.
"So, you meet with the girl today?" Aaron asks as he chugs from a bottle of water and wipes the sweat from his face.
"Yeah," I answer, backing away from my lifeless victim and grabbing my own water.
"So is she hot?" Of course he would ask that, he always does. I remember every other instance where he asked if a female I came in contact with was hot. To Aaron, every woman is a potential challenge for him.
"She is," I admit honestly. "I think she likes me."
"Why you think that? You just saying that so I will leave her alone?" Aaron asks with a cocky grin.
"Her pupils dilate when she looks at me, which is often when she thinks I'm not paying attention to her. She trusts me enough to work with me on her recovery even though I've never given her a single reason to. And her pulse accelerates when we are close."
Aaron stares at me, jaw slack. "You felt her pulse? That's not creepy."
I tossed the towel I just used to wipe off my chest at him. "I can see it in her throat and felt it when I grabbed her wrist."
"So, what are you going to do about it?" he asks with a smirk.
"Not a thing. Keep it professional. Friends at the most."
Aaron shakes his head, but doesn't say more. I don't bother to inform him it's proven that members of the opposite sex cannot stay just friends. The Friend-zone is really a prison for one of them. Letting Willow get close is asking for a disaster, so I’m not giving myself the option for anything more than her being a subject for my thesis. I can't exactly use her and let her go like I do the rest— I actually need to get to know her. Just thinking about her sets my mind on overdrive. I replay all the times I've seen her, heard her, and smelled her.
I tape my hands back up and hit the bag until I absolutely need to leave to meet with her. Aaron watches and acts as water boy for the next two hours since I can't stop. Every thought is cloudy. The memories are multiplying and growing, making my head too crowded. I keep going until all I think about is my own strength and form.
I manage to shower and get to the Recital Hall on campus where we’d agreed to meet. When Willow had asked to meet here, I didn't question it. Deep inside, she knows who she is and what she needs the most. I plan to let her subconsciously lead her own path to recovery. She mentioned she started college for music, so maybe this place will trigger some early memories.
Willow is standing outside the doors when I approach. She is staring up at the building and clutching a journal to her chest. I slow my stride and, against my better judgment, I take her in. I can tell she's nervous but she has a look of awe and hope on her face. One could mistake her for a new student with her wondrous look and the white summer dress that makes her appear so much yo
unger and innocent.
She sees me from the corner of her eye and gives me a polite smile. As a child, you learn the universal sign of happy is a smile. There are eighteen different smiles one person can give. There are polite smiles, cruel, smug, fake, and so on. Only one is genuine and indicates true happiness and amusement. Willow is not excited or thrilled to be meeting me.
"Should we go inside?" I ask once I'm standing in front of her. I don't even know if the building is open. It’s summer session, but with auditions starting, there should be some personnel around.
"Yes," she says with a firm nod. Her fists clench as she looks back at the closed doors. "I might remember playing here."
I nod and move to pull the door for her. It swings open and she slips inside, so I follow. We weave through the building like we know where we are going, but I really don't. As a psychology major, I've never been to the arts and humanities building. Willow is either guessing or knows exactly where she is. When we find the auditorium, I stand close behind her and wait.
The hall is empty, filled with only the theater seating. She's motionless as she looks at the empty stage, save for a lonely grand piano. The theater lights burn down on seats and music stands arranged in neat rows. Dark, maroon velvet curtains line the back. I can actually imagine Willow on this stage more than I can behind a hotel counter.
Willow sighs and hangs her head. "Damn it. Nothing."
"Did you want to remember or just expect to?"
"Both."
I wave my hand to a random row of seats and we both sit down. Willow is still clutching the notebook in her lap. I told her write down her memories as she had them. I got the impression the flashbacks were painful and only more confusing for her. Today, she looks disappointed that she didn't get assaulted with a wave of memories. That would be a reason for me to celebrate.
"May I?" I ask, pointing to her book. She hands it over without a second of thought.
I flip the pages in the leather journal. I inhale deeply and wish I didn't like how she smells like vanilla and coffee beans. Her handwriting is neat and girly, but I can spot the indications that this was written in a rush or under distress. Her memories are described in vivid detail. For once, I push aside my own constant memories and imagine hers.
I see her anger and fear as she lashes out. The reason for smashing her own valuables is not clear yet, but the feeling is. I stiffen and force myself through the recollections she has of her boyfriend. She has nothing more than physical aspects of the relationship. That is harder for me to imagine than impressive acts of love or romance. At least then I would feel like she was loved and cared for, instead of just desired and lusted after.
"I need to figure something out," Willow says with a steely voice. "I can't keep going with the nightmares and constant paranoia. I feel like I am always in danger, but I don't know why. I feel like I'm living someone else's life and if I don't claim it soon, I'm going to lose it."
The urgency of her voice at the end of her rant makes me reach for her hand. As soon as my fingers feel her, I know it was a bad move. Her skin is soft and I itch to linger or explore more of her. I wonder if I tickled up her arm and reached behind her neck if she would let me. I decide she would because it seems she trusts me without reason.
"Relax," I whisper, even though I realize it’s the most absurd thing to tell her. "This isn't something we can do overnight, but we can and will work through it."
She nods and I continue to flip through the pages, ignoring anything to do with the golden boy. I leave my hand on hers. I can say that it provides her a comfort, but that's only half the truth. My eyes quickly scan the pages, soaking up the words and storing them in my unnatural brain. I'm looking for patterns, clues, or something I can use as a trigger while ignoring the way I feel Willow's heartbeat increasing under my palm.
"Tell me about the broken vase?" I ask.
"I threw it at the wall and it shattered," she answers. "I don't know why."
"How did you feel?"
"Angry. Hurt. Furious actually. Like I had never been so pissed off before and that throwing and destroying something was the only way to feel like I wasn't going to explode."
Emotions in a trauma will outlast the memory of the event. This is still true in an amnesia patient. I studied a child last year who was hit by a car backing out of a driveway while riding his bike. Although the patient couldn't tell anyone exactly what happened when the car backed into him and left him with several scrapes and a broken arm, he later would fear getting on his bike. He remembered the fear and pain of the accident without remembering what actually happened.
"Do you usually get angry like that?" I ask.
Willow shakes her head. "No. I'm usually a pretty calm person, but I felt like I was in a rage. My chest hurt like my heart was breaking inside."
Willow may never remember what led to her being found close to death in that empty field, but I hope to help her regain most of the three years before that. The years before the attack were what drew me to her case in the first place. The brain often blocks out what the mind can't psychologically cope with, but why the events of her life previous to it? What's the connection? My hypothesis is that they are related in some way.
I feel Willow's watchful gaze while I work through her private thoughts. The pattern soon becomes clear. It's fear. Anger. Danger. What does she fear and why? Willow is right. She needs to remember. She once knew something that scared her and made her fear for her own life before it was almost taken from her.
"Is your bedroom cold?" I ask. Willow blinks at me in surprise. "The colder the room, the better the chances are that you will have nightmares. Turn the AC up a few degrees and you should have fewer bad dreams."
"Okay. I can do that."
"Sleep at least eight hours a night if you can. REM sleep is the brain's way of working out its problems. Keep writing," I tell her. "Stress only wears you down, so you need to try to relieve it someway."
"How?" she asks with wide eyes, eager to take any suggestion.
"Well, I box. You could run, dance, read, take a bath. Anything that relaxes you, really. Remember, stress only makes an illness or disorder stronger. Do you have anything you could do?"
Willow's eyes dance across the empty stage in front of her. I follow her gaze and wonder if she ever got to perform up there. If not, she should because I can tell that she belongs up there. Willow belongs anywhere that she wants to be. Did she give up music deciding it wasn't for her or was the choice made for other reasons? Who she was in the past is not necessarily the question anymore. The question is, who was she pretending to be while in Atlanta?
What are my favorite flavors? I can infuse just about anything with coffee and give it a fancy name. I will write it on the chalkboard and part of me will live on forever in this cafe. My own handwriting will carve it and the drink will be my legacy. Of all the things to leave behind in the world, a caffeinated beverage is the least of the most impressive, but it’s better than nothing.
The work day passes by in a blur. On my break, I check my voicemail and find one from Noah. He sounds tight and aggravated through the speaker. Some delivery was late and the trip was extended. He apologized profusely for being away from me longer than promised. Instead of comforting me, it made me feel pathetic and small. I didn't need a babysitter or Noah to keep me from falling apart. I was the only one who could help myself anymore.
After my parent's death, I was alone in the world. I moved in with my best friend and her family so I could finish high school. From that moment on, I became my own guardian. I was the only one who made sure I made it into college. I fought against the pity in our small town and sought out my own independent future. The strong woman I was then is the girl I wanted to be most now. I desperately needed to be that girl again.
"What about a cherry with mint and chocolate, double espresso, with whipped cream?" I suggested to Paige from where I was seated on the floor, scrubbing the cooler doors.
"Sounds good ac
tually," she says with a smile. "Name?"
"Popped Cherry," I blurt without too much thought. When I look up, Paige is holding out a red stick of chalk.
I take the chalk and take my time carving my legacy. My letters are bright and bold, like the girl that I think I am. The sweetness of the cherry and the freshness of the mint compliment the temptation and seduction of the chocolate. The double espresso gives the flavors body and energy. The ingredients feel right to me, like it is the perfect interpretation of my life now. Every concoction needs a pile of whipped cream. It's the only thing that makes sense to me.
My shift carries on without any excitement. I make coffee, clean tables, and burn my fingers just like every other day. My feet are less sore when I leave the cafe and start my walk home. The day is overcast but still warm and humid. I pull my hair into a messy ponytail to keep it off my neck on the walk home. Taking a cab would take less time and be more comfortable, but the walking lets me think and saves money.
Halfway home, I decide I should call Noah back so he doesn't worry. I hate that I feel like a child again, but he needs to concentrate on his work and not what I am doing back home. I weave through the light foot-traffic and put the phone to my ear. As I'm waiting at a crosswalk, ringing continues to sound in my ear. Memories assault me as the unanswered ringing continues.
A phone pressed to my ear. Waiting to hear his voice. Ringing and ringing. Anger and tears. No answer. The same voicemail message. Messages left answered. Hitting redial. Praying for an answer.
I abruptly end the call. Someone pushes me forward since I stopped in the middle of the crosswalk. I follow the herd in a daze, trying to pick out details. My throat is tight as I remember trying to reach my boyfriend numerous times and coming up empty-handed. My head is swimming and my hands are shaking as I keep walking. I blindly wander to my building where I reach my apartment in a complete haze.
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