You Will Remember Me

by Hannah Mary McKinnon

  She nudged me with her shoulder. “What do you say, Maya? Where are your manners?”

  I couldn’t manage a single word. Ash lowered himself into the chair opposite me, while Mom fussed over him and Brad, handing out menus and rattling off the specials as if we’d been here a million times before. I couldn’t tell which one of us was more nervous.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” Ash said to me, his voice deep, his English accent as pronounced as his dad’s, only way, way cooler. As he perused his menu, I stole another glance, noticed his eyes were an orangey-gold color I’d only ever seen on the top of the old man’s walking stick in Jurassic Park, the original one Mom insisted I watch before the newer movies because she considered it a classic.

  I still hadn’t spoken, and tried hard to come up with something that wouldn’t sound utterly lame. Impossible, so I kept quiet, focusing on getting a new bouncy sensation in my heart under control instead. I wondered if Mom might come to my rescue, but she and Brad were already engrossed in conversation, chatting about something they’d seen on the news.

  Ash gestured to my shirt. “I’m guessing you’re twelve and a math fan?”

  I looked up at him, swallowed hard and nodded once.

  “Me, too.” He let out a small laugh, so lush and thick, I could almost taste it, like hot chocolate sauce poured over a banana split. “Well, I’m fifteen, not twelve,” he continued, “but math is my favorite subject.”

  I took my first breath in what had to have been a year. “Not sports?”

  “Sure, I love sports, too. But math is cool. If you ever need any help—”

  “Hey, Ash, how are you?” One of the girls from the other table stood next to us, the prettiest one with the big, deep blue eyes, a blond mane, which almost reached her tiny waist, and glossy pink kiss me lips. She twirled a thick lock around her finger and shifted her head to one side as she waited for his reply.

  “Hi, Sydney.” Ash sat back in his chair but wasn’t smiling. His face had gone into neutral—indifference, almost. He obviously had superpowers because I’d seen boys like him fall under the spell of girls like her in less than a nanosecond.

  “We’re going to the beach,” she said, still twirling and leaning toward him, the tops of her breasts dangerously close to spilling from her shirt. “Come with? I have a new bikini.”

  “No, thanks.”

  Sydney put her hand on his shoulder, her fingers kneading the skin beneath his shirt. She seemingly noticed my presence for the first time, her eyes sweeping from my head to my stupid Mary-Jane-clad feet, which I swiftly tucked under the seat. When her eyes came to rest on the big white letters sprawled across my flat chest, she raised an eyebrow and smirked. “Nice shirt.”

  More heat shot to my face, burning me. “It’s math. The square root of a hundred and—”

  “Shall we go?” Sydney walked her long, slim and perfectly French-manicured fingers across Ash’s chest and up toward his neck.

  He put his hand over hers, and I expected him to stand up, make his excuses and take off, but instead he removed her fingers and let them drop by her side. “I said no, thanks.”

  She flashed him another smile, not quite as bright this time, and tossed her hair over her shoulder. “Come on, it’ll be fun.”

  “I’m having fun here. With Maya.”

  Sydney blinked three times in quick succession. Something told me she was used to getting her own way, be it at home, school or with her friends. “But—”

  “Later, Sydney.” Ash looked at me, grinning as he leaned in. “Okay, Maya, can you explain that math concept again because I’m not sure I understand it completely.”

  Sydney turned and marched to her table, where she spoke with her friends in a clipped tone. From what I could gather, she insisted they were leaving, now, and they stormed out of the diner in a collective bad mood, each of them throwing looks of disgust our way.

  Mom and Brad hadn’t paid attention to the exchange, they were too busy chatting about a movie they wanted to see, and when Brad reached over to wipe a spot of ketchup from Mom’s cheek with his napkin, I promised myself I’d be much nicer to her about him.

  “Thank you,” I said to Ash, the words coming out as a whisper.

  “Anytime.” He gestured to our parents with his thumb. “I don’t know about you, but I suspect we’ll be spending quite a lot of time together. Maybe I should call you Little Sis?”

  I giggled, soda spilling from between my lips. “Or Bee.”

  “Bee?”

  “It’s what Mom calls me. Maya the Bee.”

  “Cute. Okay, Bee it is.”

  I needed to say something else, anything to keep him talking so I didn’t have to. “Do you know why you were named Asher?”

  “I’m not sure,” he said, looking down, his smile fading, his lips falling silent.

  Scrambling to change the subject, I asked about school and the wrestling team, and when his smile returned it made my chest swell as I sat back to listen. After half an hour, Mom leaned over and whispered in my ear, asking if I wanted to leave. I shook my head, and she gently squeezed my knee.

  The afternoon turned into a lazy supper at Brad and Ash’s house, an old Victorian place at the end of a road, perched near some cliffs, which I thought was the coolest thing I’d ever seen. Once the dishes were done, and we’d played cards together (kids vs. adults—we won by ten miles thanks to Ash), Mom and Brad sat out on the porch while Ash showed me his old school photos from England, laughing as I made fun of his uniform and choppy hair.

  “Why did you come to Maine? Your dad’s work?”

  “Not exactly. We needed a change.”

  I swallowed, unsure how to ask the question and decided on, “What about your mom?”

  After a moment’s hesitation Ash said, “She was depressed. She died.”

  My mouth dropped open. How could I have been so forgetful, so crass and careless? I’d only half listened when Mom had told me his mother was no longer alive, and there I was, bringing it up. He seemed so sad, so lost. I’d hurt him, and I couldn’t bear to see the look on his face, or knowing I’d put it there. I decided there and then I’d do anything to make it up to him. It was a promise I’d never forgotten.

  The noise of the boiling kettle pulled me out of the memories. As I was pouring the water into my mug, a noise behind me made me jump and I spun around. Ash walked into the kitchen, dressed in his favorite pajamas and the soft New York Giants T-shirt I’d given him for his twenty-fifth birthday, a shirt he’d left behind.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, holding up his hands. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “It’s all right. Are you okay?”

  He pointed to his temple and pulled a face. “Headache. Do you have any pills?”

  “Of course. They’re in my bag.”

  Once I’d given him some aspirin and he’d headed back to bed, I opened my laptop and was about to focus on researching amnesia when another thought hit me. On the way home from the gas station, Ash had told me a little more about the trailer he’d hidden in. I frowned, typed “Asher Bennett Maryland” into the search bar. Nothing. What had he been doing down there? Traveling through or living there longer term? I drummed my fingers on the table before widening the parameters, covering New Jersey to Florida, Delaware to Kentucky, but the only Asher Bennetts I found were under the age of ten, or over fifty. I’d almost given up when I went back to basics, and the headline of a small article on OceanCityToday caught my eye.

  HOPE FADING FOR MISSING BRITISH SWIMMER

  I leaned in, heart beating fast, palms sweating, my fingers unsteady as I clicked on the link and began to read.

  10

  LILY

  I had every intention of going to work Sunday morning, but by eight thirty I hadn’t even showered, let alone bothered to put on clothes and makeup. Everything seemed an impossibl
e effort and the thought of leaving the temporary cocoon I’d built myself filled me with dread.

  It wasn’t that I didn’t like work. I’d held the position of office manager at a garage called Beach Body Auto for three years, although my job title sounded more glamorous than the reality, not that I cared. My daily routine consisted of answering the phones, booking appointments and issuing invoices, and the latter had dwindled considerably since a big franchise opened its doors a couple of blocks away, luring people in with bargain prices and a shiny coffee machine churning out custom-made drinks faster, and, if rumors were to be believed, way tastier than Starbucks. My boss, Mike, the sixty-five-year-old owner of Beach Body who still maintained it was the best garage name ever, remained convinced his shop would survive because of its decades-long history, customer loyalty and quality of service. The empty hoists, dwindling profits and the fact we’d lost another mechanic to our competitor all told a different story, which Mike had thus far chosen to ignore, except for us now opening on Sundays. I’d tried talking to him about it, offered to bump up our presence on social media, but Mike was old-fashioned and, other than a website, wanted nothing to do with “that stuff” because he “didn’t see the point.”

  “Things will be fine, Lily,” he’d said before telling me he’d been through recessions before and come out the other side. I didn’t have the heart to keep arguing, tabling the conversation for another day instead. Mike had been good to me, given me a job after we’d struck up a conversation one morning when I’d gone to the beach to watch the sunrise, which still had me in awe every single time. We’d sat on the same bench in silence before introducing ourselves and chatting about where we were from and finding out we’d both been born on the same day in Buffalo, thirty-five years apart. He hadn’t asked for a reference, or probed much into my past, but offered me a week’s trial, after which I could tell him if I wanted the job permanently. It never seemed to occur to him he might want to let me go. As far as he was concerned, we were a perfect professional fit.

  As much as I liked working for Mike and respected him as my boss, the prospect of going to the garage now and sitting at reception, smiling and forcing myself to be friendly when all I wanted to do was scream, made my skin crawl. I grabbed my phone, sent Mike a text saying I wasn’t well. Not long after he replied, hoping I’d feel better soon. Instead of his message giving me relief, it made me feel like a selfish jerk because I knew he’d end up doing my work for me. I’d explain everything to him tomorrow, I decided, knowing he’d understand and offer a comforting shoulder once he found out about Jack, but right now I couldn’t face telling him.

  I soon knew I’d made a mistake. Without work, the entire day stretched out ahead of me, time I didn’t know how to fill. I headed to the kitchen for a cup of coffee, but when I opened the fridge and saw a plastic container with the leftovers of the last meal Jack and I had shared—butter chicken, his favorite—I burst into tears. How could he be gone? Disappeared without a trace from one moment to the next, leaving nothing behind but clothes on a beach?

  Although I tried to push the disbelief, anger and fear away, it all slipped through nonetheless, burrowing deep into my heart. Perhaps going back to Jack’s apartment would ease the pain somehow, because not doing so and avoiding the place altogether would make me feel as if I were abandoning him all over again. I pulled on some clothes, tied up my hair and put on my shoes, forgoing the shower and makeup because what did it matter?

  I sighed with relief when I got to Jack’s apartment and saw that Sam, good as his word, had fixed the broken kitchen window. I fired off a quick text, not expecting a reply because he was on his way to Chicago, but within a few seconds the three telltale dots appeared and he replied Call me if you need me, to which I responded with a simple thumbs-up. I wandered through to Jack’s bedroom, where I stared out the window. From my vantage point I saw a blue Dodge Charger crawl down the road and up to Sam’s driveway. I couldn’t see the number plate, but as I watched it sit there for a good minute, something started to feel off. I snapped a couple of pictures with my phone and waited until the car took off again. The windows were heavily tinted, and I hadn’t been able to spot who was in the vehicle, but coupled with the guy showing up at the house the night before, a feeling of unease dug into my stomach.

  Needing to restore some sense of calm, I went back to the kitchen, where I filled the kettle and fetched a mug from the cupboard, into which I dropped a spoonful of instant coffee. My stomach let out a long, high-pitched wail, and I admitted defeat, deciding a piece of toast might keep it quiet for a while. When I opened the bread box, my eyes landed on the stack of mail on top of it, the one I’d teased Jack about a few weeks ago, as we were cooking pasta.

  “You do know it’s the only thing in your entire apartment that’s untidy?” I’d said with a laugh. “I mean, everything’s pristine, your dishes are always done.”

  “Why would you leave them lying around for the flies to get to?”

  “Your bed’s always made.”

  “The advantage of having a duvet, not sheets.”

  “I like my sheets. Anyway, I thought you were trying to impress me at first, but I’ve never seen you leave as much as a dirty sock lying on the floor.”

  Jack pulled me close, kissed my neck, murmuring, “I never knew dirty socks turned you on. I’ll leave a trail of them leading to the bed...” He pressed his lips to mine, making a delicious shiver of excitement, the one I always felt when he kissed me that way, travel to my belly where it set me on fire.

  “I don’t need any help,” I whispered. “And I don’t need a bed.” He’d groaned as I’d unbuckled his belt, proving my point on the kitchen table, and we’d eaten overcooked pasta and burned Bolognese sauce for dinner.

  Another surge of anger bubbled up inside me as I tried to cling to the memories of Jack, of his lips, his hands, his voice. I wanted to keep them vivid and alive—because he was alive—and I couldn’t let them ebb away, have them replaced by the agonizing uncertainty of what had happened to him, or of who he truly was. I grabbed the stack of papers and threw them into the recycling bin, before changing my mind and fishing them back out, spreading everything over the table. There was nothing of interest in the restaurant flyers and take-out menus, offers for better cable TV or pool supplies, but as I went through the mail again, what wasn’t there settled on my chest with the weight of the entire United States Postal Service.

  None of the letters were personalized. Every single one, without exception, was addressed to Resident. Jack preferred to pay cash for everything, had said it kept him on budget, something I’d admired him for, but flicking through the mail, there wasn’t a single bill from an insurance company, or an official letter, and no bank or credit card statements, either. Not even a check or pay stub from his ex-boss.

  Another uncomfortable sensation grew in my stomach as I wondered if the reason Jack didn’t have a truck of his own but had talked Sam into letting him borrow his was because the arrangement suited them both, or because Jack was unable to get insurance. Did he not have a credit card because of his self-imposed financial constraints, or because he hadn’t been able to provide proper identification to apply for one? If so, why? The answers I played in my head ranged from Jack being a serial killer to an international spy, or in witness protection, and everything in between. The insatiable desire to know the truth about the Jack Smith I’d fallen in love with grabbed me by the throat, the knowledge of his lies combined with the mystery of what they meant, and what we’d meant, transforming into a raging war inside me. I had to know his secrets. I needed information. Details. Something.

  My pursuit of the truth began in the bedroom, where I riffled through his clothes, trying to quash the memories they represented so they didn’t distract me from my purpose. The blue shirt Jack had worn the day we’d met, the black one he’d loaned me when I’d splattered pancake mix all over mine—almost every item held some signific
ance. I pushed them away as I emptied his closet, searching the pockets of every damn pair of shorts and pants, shaking out shirts and underwear before unfolding his balled-up socks and examining them, too.

  The bedside table was next. Two books, a box of condoms, the lip balm I’d left here because he never had any, something else I’d teased him about as his mouth was always so soft. “All the better to kiss you with,” he’d whispered, and the memory of his voice made me gasp.

  “Figure this out,” I urged, abandoning the bedroom, and heading for the bathroom to continue my mission. It didn’t take long to inspect the open shelves, or the medicine cabinet above the sink. When I examined the toilet, I told myself I was being stupid, but couldn’t stop the relief from coming when I didn’t find a gun, or a stack of drugs and fake passports duct-taped to the tank.

  Only the living room, kitchen and hallway closet were left. I plowed through the first with an equal amount of fervor, my rage billowing when my rampage yielded nothing, not until I grabbed a chair to reach the top kitchen cupboard, where I found a dented Christmas cookie tin I’d never seen before, stowed away at the back, hidden behind a set of mugs we never used.

  I opened the tin, my heart thumping, pulse tap-tapping in my temples. The cookies had been replaced by packs of batteries, books of matches and appliance warranties. I dug deeper, inhaling sharply when I found a wad of cash, a stack of folded twenties, fifties and hundreds sandwiched inside a brochure and secured with a blue elastic band. At least a couple grand. I lowered myself onto the chair in case my legs gave way, clutching the tin in my hands as I examined it from every angle, taking in the scene of a jolly Santa and his rosy-cheeked elves. I tried hard to justify the discovery. Yes, Jack preferred using cash, but why leave this much lying around, especially with a broken window he hadn’t repaired? Why hadn’t he put it in his bank account? I shuddered. What if he didn’t have one? And, once again, why wouldn’t he have one? I looked more closely at the brochure. It was from a jewelry store, and one of the pages had been dog-eared. Not only that, but an item had been clearly circled three times with red pen. A white-gold and sapphire engagement ring. Sapphire. My birthstone.