Every Tomorrow

by Nia Arthurs

  Queen’s Hotel.

  The handwriting is mine, but the name itself has no special meaning. What is Queen’s Hotel? A business in the city? A code name?

  Whatever it is, it’s the only clue I have.

  I quickly dress and head outside. My footsteps are silent so the girls don’t hear me coming. I round the corner and find them huddled together, whispering.

  Diandra glances up and notices me. She hisses to the other two and they all go quiet.

  Uncomfortable and eager to leave, I approach them. “I still don’t remember what happened yesterday, but…” I glance at the blankets on the floor. “I think I owe you all thanks for helping me out.”

  “Don’t thank us,” Diandra says. “Honestly.”

  Zora arches an eyebrow. “You’re right. You should only be thanking me.”

  I slip my hands into my empty pockets. I’m assuming my cell phone was taken during the mugging yesterday so I don’t bother asking about that. “Thank you.”

  “Are you leaving?” Amaya wisely interprets.

  “Yes.” I debate telling them about the hotel, but choose not to. They’re treating me like a stranger so it’s probably safe for me to do the same.

  “You should go to a hospital,” Zora says.

  “I will.” Eventually.

  “Do you really not remember anything that happened yesterday?” Amaya asks.

  I stop and stare at her. She stares right back.

  Something in her voice hints that she’s not just concerned about my safety. Something else is going on here, but I’d probably get stabbed again before I find out what.

  “No. Nothing.”

  She nods decisively and then steps forward. “Where are you staying? I’ll drive you there.”

  “I’m fine on my own.”

  “All your money was stolen yesterday along with your cell phone.” She arches one eyebrow. “Besides, I can’t let you leave without making sure you’re really okay. If your memory suddenly returns, I want to know.”

  I study her, measuring her slight frame. “How did you know my money and cell phone were stolen?”

  Diandra whimpers.

  Zora finds something on the ceiling extremely interesting.

  Amaya doesn’t even bat an eyelash. “We looked through your pockets for your identification, but we came up empty.”

  “Oh.”

  “You’re allowed to be suspicious in your situation,” Amaya says. She reaches over, grabs a set of car keys from the counter and swings it around her ring finger. “I’m happy to answer any other questions.”

  “No. I’m okay. Thanks for the ride.”

  Amaya turns to her friends. “You two should get going.”

  “Will you be okay?”

  “I’ll be fine.” Amaya smiles. “Ready to go, Kent?”

  I follow her through the door. Whoever this woman is, I’ve got no choice but to trust her.

  Chapter Four

  Amaya

  “What the heck are you thinking?” Diandra hisses through the phone’s speakers. She’s so loud I have to pull the cell away so her voice doesn’t shatter my eardrums. “We should get as far away from Kent Barton as physically possible.”

  “I can’t take the chance that he remembers the mugging and gets Tyron in trouble.”

  “You have no idea what you’re doing.”

  “That’s true, but Zora says he might regain his memories in a few hours. I want to be there when it happens and make sure nothing he remembers can hurt my brother.”

  “And if he does remember Tyron?”

  “Then I’ll convince him not to make trouble.”

  “How? You saw the way he acted this morning. He doesn’t trust us.”

  “Then I’ll gain his trust,” I say with determination.

  “Are you insane?”

  I’m starting to think that I am, but I won’t admit that to my best friend. After nursing a man with a stab wound, I’m capable of doing anything.

  I glance up. My gaze slams into Kent standing all the way across the room.

  I drove him to Queen’s Hotel where he strode forward like a man who had all his memories and headed straight to the concierge.

  Looks like he’s finished with the front desk.

  “I’ve got to go,” I say to Diandra.

  “Wait! Amaya!”

  I hang up on her shrieks and stride forward, meeting Kent at the counter. His shoulders strain against Tyron’s shirt, accentuating his muscles and lean waist.

  Women have been doing the double take since we stepped into the crowded lobby.

  Not that I blame them.

  With his height, swimmer’s body, and that full head of dirty blonde hair (yes, I looked it up), Kent is worth a second or even a third and fourth look.

  Even I was affected, but not by his body.

  This morning Kent Barton opened his eyes and it literally drove the breath from my lungs. His eyes are a unique mixture of green and brown. Now that we’ve settled into the cool interior of the fancy hotel, they’re more brown than green.

  Does it make sense? No.

  Is it hot? Yes.

  But it’s not like I’ll share that with Kent. Especially now when I’m borderline stalking him for my own agenda. All I want to do is protect my brother and fade out of Kent’s life. Like smoke.

  It would be great if he forgot he ever met me.

  Of course, I know that’s wishful thinking so the best I can hope for is that I don’t give him any reason to seek me out again.

  I wipe the screen of my phone against my pants and smile at him. “Good news?”

  “They know me,” he says with the exuberance of a small child meeting his idol.

  “Congrats?”

  Kent tilts his head as if he reads my sarcasm but is choosing not to comment on it. “Apparently, I booked a room here three days ago.”

  “That’s great.” I turn to the concierge. She’s a buxom woman with dark skin and a curly wig that looks like it belongs in the trash or on a hooker.

  Despite her appearance, her smile is warm and she seems genuinely eager to help. “I just need your ID and you’ll be all set.”

  “Mr. Barton was robbed yesterday so he doesn’t have any ID.”

  “You were robbed?” The concierge, whose nametag says ‘UNIQUA’, widens her eyes. “Have you called the police?”

  Shoot. I walked into that one. “No!” I blurt. “No, it wasn’t that serious.”

  “I’ll do that later,” Kent says.

  I school my expression so the panic I feel doesn’t show. “It looks like you’re all set here. I should go.” And tell Tyron to lay low for a while.

  “Wait.” Uniqua types something in her computer. “I’m afraid there’s a slight problem.”

  Kent grips the rim of the counter. His face is pale which is the only indication that he’s in pain. “What problem?”

  “I’m assuming the key card was lost in the robbery?”

  “Everything was taken,” Kent says.

  “We require the guest’s ID before we can reissue a key. No exceptions.”

  “But I paid for my stay here. You recognized my face. It’s my room.”

  Uniqua looks stricken. Her thick curls tremble as she says, “I’m sorry. It’s the hotel’s policy.”

  “What if we prove his identity?” I blurt.

  Both Kent and Uniqua turn to me.

  I lift my chin and speak confidently. “Kent, you didn’t travel with your passport on you. Remember? It’s too valuable.”

  “I don’t know if I did.”

  I shoot him a dark look and mouth, “Work with me here.”

  “Uh… you’re right. I wouldn’t do that.”

  “Uniqua—can I call you Uniqua?” Before she answers, I dive in. “We’re not trying to bamboozle the hotel. As Mr. Barton said, he’s a paying customer who’s been through a horrible ordeal. His identification is in his room. If you let us in, we can show you.”

  “I… I’m not sure.
”

  “That’s too bad,” I say.

  Uniqua blinks. “Excuse me?”

  “Tourism is our country’s biggest industry. If Mr. Barton goes back home and tells his friends he was robbed in Belize and kicked out of his hotel room, imagine the damage it would do. Tourists would stop coming. The hotel would have to let people go and who knows? Your job might be in jeopardy.”

  Uniqua’s dark hands climb to her neck. Suddenly, she picks up a phone and presses a button. “Milton, I’ll need another key made up for Room 103.”

  I bite on my lip to hide my smile but when I glance at Kent, he’s appraising me with open admiration. Something a lot like shyness washes over me, but I’ve never been the bashful type.

  Kent leans in, eyes narrowed. “Why do I get the feeling you’re a dangerous woman?”

  “Who? Me?” I shrug innocently.

  Before he can interrogate me, Uniqua returns with a maintenance man who leads us to Kent’s hotel room and opens the door. We all wait awkwardly near the bed while Kent disappears into the closet.

  A moment later, he pops out with his passport. “Found it.”

  Uniqua accepts the document and gives it a cursory scan.

  “Will that work?” I ask her.

  She nods. “Thank you so much, Mr. Barton. And I’m sorry for any inconvenience caused.”

  “You’re just doing your job.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  Kent dips his head.

  Uniqua and the maintenance man leave while the room falls into silence.

  Kent plops on the edge of his bed. Deep lines spring from the corner of his eyes. Sweat beads on his forehead and peppers his arms.

  I spring toward him. “Kent!”

  “I’m fine.” He lifts a hand and waves it limply. “Just winded. The pain is getting to me.”

  “You should lie down.”

  He resists me when I hold his wrist and try to drive him on his back. “Rest and take a breath. I’ve got medicine in my purse.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Kent—” I push forward while he pushes back and somehow, I find myself sprawled on top of him. We freeze for a minute. Then I realize I’m putting pressure on his wound and scramble up. “Sorry.”

  He eases up, face creased in pain.

  I duck my face inside my purse to hide my embarrassment and thrust the pain reliever pills at him. “Take it.”

  “Can you get water from the fridge, please?”

  I wince at the thought of how much he’ll have to pay for the tiny bottle of water, but I listen anyway. As I pass the fridge, my hip bumps the edge of a wooden desk. A black laptop springs to life.

  The wallpaper is a picture of Kent holding up a sign that says ‘THE PASSWORD IS PASSWORD’.

  I scrunch my nose at the image. Isn’t the point of putting a password on something to keep people out? Why would he give it away in a message?

  “Thanks,” Kent says when I hand him the water. He tosses a pill down his throat and chases it with the refreshing liquid. When he’s done, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

  I point to the laptop. “That’s not very secure.”

  “What?” He migrates to the desk and chuckles when he sees the phrase. He types something on the keyboard and, though I try not to spy, I do notice that the word takes longer to type than it should.

  “I’m guessing that’s a clue for something else?”

  Kent chuckles. “My grandfather was very forgetful in his old age. He used ‘password’ whenever he needed a protection code for his devices.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Michael,” Kent says easily. He scoots the chair in, focusing on his computer. A minute passes. Two. Either Kent Barton is so engrossed in his work he’s forgotten I’m there or he’s ignoring me.

  I hang back, debating if I should just leave or spoil his concentration and exchange goodbyes all over again.

  I’m about to walk away when I hear Kent’s voice. But it’s not his voice. At least not in real time. His face fills the laptop screen and he speaks in low, measured tones.

  “Your name is Kent Barton. Three years ago, there was an accident. You were hit by a truck and suffered brain damage.”

  This has nothing to do with me, but I can’t seem to walk away or give Kent the privacy he deserves.

  “It’s a rare disease. Doctors call it Cinderella Amnesia. Every night, you forget what happened the day before.”

  My heart thumps. Cinderella Amnesia?

  “If you have any problems, you can call Wilson. He’s your cousin and business partner. You co-own an app development company.”

  “I develop apps?” Kent mumbles. He sounds so astonished that it’s hard not to believe his surprise is real.

  “Yes, you develop apps,” Laptop Kent says like he can hear us.

  Weird.

  “Read your journals if you have them. You’ve been keeping them since the accident three years ago. All your important information is stored there. If you need extra help, call Wilson. He’ll explain everything. You can trust him.”

  “Wilson...”

  The video ends and Kent goes very still.

  Afraid he’s fainted or something, I tiptoe toward him and press a hand on his shoulder. “Kent?”

  He jumps, his eyes wide. “Amaya. You’re still here?”

  “I’m sorry.” I duck my head. “I didn’t mean to overhear.”

  “No, it’s fine.” He lets out a breath.

  “I’m sorry. About your illness. I didn’t know.” It does explain why Kent can’t recall anything that happened yesterday. And why he couldn’t tell us why he’d been stabbed.

  It wasn’t because he didn’t trust us. He just… didn’t remember.

  My mind skips to the moment when Zora suspected Kent of a concussion and asked him commonplace questions that he couldn’t answer.

  That was all because of his amnesia.

  Incredible.

  My initial—and selfish—instinct is to dance in victory. Kent will never remember what happened last night. My little brother’s future has been saved.

  But I feel guilty for rejoicing in someone else’s mental illness because it suits my own gain. Intentionally deluding a naïve tourist is one thing. Manipulating a sick person is another.

  I watch as Kent disappears into his closet and rummages around his suitcase. A moment later, he emerges with three books. He glances up and seems stunned to see me standing there.

  “Sorry.” I apologize again. “I should go.”

  He smiles, causing the wrinkles around his eyes to multiply. “Thank you for everything, Amaya. I’ll take things from here.”

  “Are you sure?” I wince. “Your memory…”

  “Is obviously something I’ve been dealing with successfully for a while now. Tell Zora and Diandra I appreciate everything.”

  It’s a clear dismissal and I would look stupid if I stick around now. I force myself to turn on my heels and head for the door.

  Just before grasping the knob, I glance back and find Kent sitting on the bed, his head ducked toward the leather-bound book open in his palms.

  I have a bad feeling, but I open the door and step out of his world, leaving him behind.

  Chapter Five

  Kent

  Learning I have amnesia is… devastating. But it explains why I can’t recognize my own face in the mirror. And why the panic I experienced this morning was so familiar.

  My body instinctively recognizes the pattern of fear and confusion, even if my mind feels like it’s going through the process for the first time.

  All I want to do is sink into my bed and soak in the ramifications of my illness, but I don’t have time to feel sorry for myself. Before calling Wilson like Video-Me suggested, I need to read through my journals.

  There are three books in my suitcase and, as I flip through the thin pages, I realize I’m holding three months worth of memories.

  Apparently, I had a dentist appointme
nt two months ago where I was instructed to floss more. Though I probably didn’t follow up on that.

  The landlord raised the rent on my apartment.

  I took my car to the mechanic for a tune up.

  The electric bill was due on Tuesday.

  I paid on time.

  It’s strange. I managed to reduce the sum of a day into a few bullet points on a page, a measly scramble of words arranged in order. I don’t know what I said or how I said it or why I said it. I don’t know if I was happy that day or angry or sad.

  Nothing.

  It’s like reading a short text message and puzzling through what the sender’s tone and intent is.

  There is one event that was traumatic enough to earn a paragraph.

  October 5th.

  Aunt Katrina’s birthday.

  I stand in the corner and try to look alive. Inside, I feel out of place. My friends look older. They’ve gotten married. I don’t remember attending their weddings, graduations, and parties. I don’t remember if we fought. Made up. Grew closer.

  The things that bound us, the subtle moments that make a relationship… are all lost to me. Who are these people? How much do I trust them? Did they tell me their secrets? Did I tell them mine?

  My thumb skates over the words. I find myself sympathizing with the past version of me. And, I guess, the current version.

  He sounds so lonely. Even surrounded by loved ones, he can’t be himself. Life has become a series of bluffing, darting eyes, searching for clues in the context of a conversation, in the other person’s body language and facial expressions.

  My fingers thumb through page after page. The pain in my side is a dull ache that I’ve pushed to the back of my mind.

  As I read, I feel a bit of my control returning.

  By the time I get to the more recent journal entries, I’m confident I’m not completely crazy. Though it feels like an imposter has been living my life for the past three years, at least he was kind enough to leave a journal for me to follow.

  In the book, there are several mentions of Wilson and our business—the progress we made on a particular code, the details of a meeting, a funny joke Will cracked that I wanted to remember.