by Nia Arthurs
“Just… don’t do anything stupid.”
“I won’t. Bye now.” I successfully kick Diandra from my house and head to my room to finish getting ready.
My heart is racing, but not because I’m interested in the man I’m about to see. Kent wants to visit the hospital and the police station today—two places I should have taken him to the moment we met. But I didn’t.
It’s nerve-wracking. If the hospital declares something wrong with him because of our shoddy home care, I’ll be devastated.
If the police investigate his case and trace it back to Tyron, I’ll be horrified.
But I don’t have any other choice. I owe him this much.
After pulling on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, I run leave-in conditioner through my curls and grab my car keys. On the way to the hotel, I call Kent.
When he answers, he sounds different. Reserved. “Who is this?”
“Hey, Kent.” My eyebrows crinkle in confusion. “This is Amaya. I’m on my way.”
“Amaya?”
My thoughts race. Did he really forget me? “I’m the woman who helped you after you were robbed. We made plans to meet today, remember?”
“I… don’t.”
I swallow, realizing that he means that. “Have you read your journal yet?”
“What journal?”
“Your journal.” I flick my indicator and drive carefully so I can focus on the conversation. “You promised you’d write about me. Don’t worry. I’ll be there soon so I can explain in person.”
I hang up and slam my foot on the gas. As I drive, I wonder how Kent survives with his illness. We met a couple hours ago, but his mind has already erased me. Like I never existed.
There’s no way he’s acting or pulling a prank, but I kind of wish he was. At least then I wouldn’t have to see the ramifications of his amnesia for myself.
Kent literally starts with a clean slate each day.
Even if I did like him—which I don’t—it would be impossible to maintain a romantic relationship under such tragic circumstances.
My footsteps thud as I dash into Queen’s Hotel and ride the elevator to Kent’s floor. I knock on the door and step back. It opens a moment later and Kent sticks his head through.
His shaggy hair is messier than usual. Uncertainty shines in his eyes that are more green than brown in the light. Lips pursed, he glances at me. “Yes?”
“Kent.” I point to myself. “I’m Amaya.”
He blinks once. Twice. “Amaya.” Kent places a hand to his chest and mumbles, “It is racing.”
“Huh?”
“Nothing.” He widens the door. “Come in.”
I walk into his room and glance around at the bed that has yet to be spread. My eyes land on the journal open on the end of it.
So he read his journal.
He knew my name, but he didn’t know my face. Maybe I should leave him with a picture.
Why would you do that? You plan on hanging around him after today?
I shake the thought and whirl around, scanning his outfit from head to toe. He’s dressed in a plain T-shirt and sweatpants. “Okay, you’re not ready.”
“We were supposed to go out today,” he says slowly, like a man reciting a word he can’t quite pronounce.
“Yeah.”
Kent strides to the journal and flips it to a page. “You’re the one who snuck into my room last night.” He arches an eyebrow. “Why would you do that?”
“To check up on you,” I explain.
“Really?”
“We had this conversation yesterday.” I’m trying to be patient, but it’s hard to come to grasps with Kent’s amnesia. There’s a part of me that hopes he’ll have a faint memory of something.
He runs his fingers through his hair, messing it up even more. “I’m sorry. And thanks.”
“No problem.” I jerk my chin toward his torso. “How’s the wound?”
He steps back, eyes narrowed. “How do you know about that?”
I sigh. “Forget it. How long will it take you to get ready?”
“Answer me.”
“Okay. Okay. You don’t have to raise your voice.” I dive into a spiel about how we met, feeding him every detail I can remember. By the time I’m done, Kent is visibly relaxed. I tilt my head. “Believe me now?”
Silence falls. Kent studies me like he’s trying to decide if I’m worthy of his trust.
“Well?” I ask. “Are you coming or not?”
He turns toward the bathroom and then wheels back around. “Are we… in a relationship?”
I almost choke. “What?”
“By that reaction, I guess not.”
“Why would you ask that?”
He shrugs. “Just checking something.”
I stare at his back, completely puzzled as he disappears into the bathroom and locks the door. The shower starts pouring, a perfect background to my confusion.
What exactly did Kent write about me?
My eyes find his journal again. I shuffle toward it. Freeze. Walk the other way. Reading his diary would be a major invasion of privacy.
“Come on, Amaya. You’re better than this.”
I search for the remote so I can turn on the television, but the book is calling to me. Singing to me. I can’t resist. My feet are moving and my hands are reaching before my brain can list all the reasons why I shouldn’t.
The leather cover is soft in my palms. The shower’s still going, but I don’t know how much longer Kent will be in there. Especially after I rushed him. Instead of breezing through the entries from the start, I coast to the last few pages.
My eyes bug when I notice the perforated edges of a torn page. Did Kent throw a journal entry away?
Doesn’t matter.
I skip to the page detailing what happened last night. In Kent’s surprisingly neat scrawl, it says:
Woke up.
Met a girl named Amaya who told me I was robbed last night.
Found out I got stabbed.
Who stabbed me? And why?
Read my journals.
Called Wilson.
The shower cuts off in the background. Adrenaline pounds through my entire body. Kent will burst out of the bathroom any second.
I desperately read the rest:
Went to the park to eat. Fried tacos are amazing. Must have more.
Came back. Found the door unlocked.
Amaya snuck into my room.
Returned my wallet.
The knob turns.
That woman is very strange.
She makes me feel…
Before I can read the rest, Kent opens the bathroom door. I toss the journal back to the edge of the bed and dive beneath the sheets, struggling for a natural pose.
Kent stops in the bathroom doorway and stares at me. “What are you doing on my bed?”
“It’s… so soft.” I brush my hands over the mattress for good measure and then scramble to sit up. “That was quick.”
“You told me to hurry.”
“You didn’t have to listen,” I grumble beneath my breath.
He moves to the other side of the room and deposits a bundle of clothes on the floor. “I just need to brush my teeth then we can go.”
“Sure.”
Kent returns to the bathroom. I push off the bed and follow him. It’s strange, but it kind of feels like I know him. And not just because I read a page of his diary.
Despite his sickness, Kent carries himself with a poise and strength I really admire. The more I learn about him and his struggles the more I admire that coolness. Even if it makes it hard to tell what he’s thinking.
He notices me leaning against the doorway and then spits toothpaste suds into the sink. “What?”
“Nothing.”
His eyebrows slant together. “How long have we known each other?”
“Uh…” I glance up and calculate. “About a day and a half.”
“And we’re not in a relationship?”
�
�Not a romantic one.”
He frowns. “Then why are you watching me brush my teeth?”
I want to ask him about his diary, but that would be stupid so I say instead, “Because we’re in the type of relationship where I can do that.”
He narrows his eyes. “Why do I get the feeling you’re dangerous?”
“You said that yesterday too.” I chuckle.
Kent’s thin lips curve up in a smile. A funny feeling moves through my body when his gaze lingers on me. I’m… intrigued. And I want to know more about him.
Maybe Diandra was right. Maybe I am crazy. But I’m not sticking around Kent Barton because I want to. When I’m sure Tyron is out of harm’s way, when I’m sure he won’t be dragged to jail for his mistake, then I’ll leave Kent alone.
Chapter Nine
Kent
I want to trust Amaya. She’s gorgeous and funny. Soft, yet strong. Charming. Audacious. The type of woman who barges into a stranger’s hotel room just because she wants to. Just because she can.
She feels familiar, even though I can’t remember her. The déjà vu effect makes me want to spend more time with her, to pry back the layers of my missing memories so I don’t forget her.
But there are many reasons why I can’t.
For one thing, we haven’t known each other that long. According to my journal, we met yesterday. Amaya helped me after the mugging and returned my wallet, but she’s still a complete mystery.
And her actions? They’re even more confusing.
I don’t get it. Why didn’t she report the robbery herself? Why didn’t she call an ambulance instead of dragging me to her house to bleed out on her sheets?
There’s also the pesky feeling that she’s not being one hundred percent upfront with me. A fact that is hammered in when, at the police station, Amaya refuses to fill out a witness statement.
A few minutes later, she takes me to the hospital and even walks me through the patient form I have to complete, but she insists I see the doctor by myself.
It’s strange. Suspicious. Why is she suddenly holding me at arms length?
“Mr. Barton? Mr. Barton?”
I straighten and glance at Dr. Heller. He’s a short, pale-skinned man with liver spots all over his body and thinning, grey-white hair.
“Sorry. Can you repeat that?”
His eyes darken as if he said something important and is annoyed that he has to repeat it. “Your stab wound is not infected, thankfully. Someone did good work re-stitching the laceration.”
I don’t have a clue what he’s talking about. “Re-stitching?”
“Yes. I can tell by the progression of the scarring on the edge of the wound. Did something happen after the initial injury?”
“I was robbed a few days ago,” I explain. “Maybe that’s why.”
“That makes sense.” Dr. Heller nods. “Anyway, just keep it clean and change the gauze everyday and you should be fine. Have you filed a police report?”
“Yes.”
“Good. You can come back to the hospital if you experience excessive pain or symptoms of infection.” The doctor scribbles out a prescription and sends me on my way.
As I return to the waiting room, Dr. Heller’s words linger. “Someone did good work re-stitching the laceration.”
That doesn’t make sense. I thought Amaya and her friends helped me because I was robbed, not because my stab wound had reopened. If things were that dire, why didn’t she take me to a hospital?
A sudden keening sound blares to life in my head. It peals through my ears louder than church bells. I grip my ears and stumble against the wall, struggling to hold on to something that will keep me upright.
Above the chaos, I hear someone call my name. “Kent?”
My gaze slides up. Meets Amaya’s. Concern blares from her eyes and the horrified slant of her eyebrows. Her curly hair flaps against her back as she races toward me and clasps her hand over my bicep.
“Are you okay?”
Her voice is soothing, but firm enough to command the storm. The blaring in my head ceases like magic. I keep staring at her, my breath ragged. Chest heaving. Thoughts conflicting.
When I’ve composed myself to the point that I can talk, I pull my arm out of hers. “I’m okay.”
“You sure?” Her brown eyes search mine. “You scared me. What did the doctor say?”
I search my mind for the answer, but it’s not there.
“Kent?”
“I don’t know.”
She frowns. “What do you mean? You just talked to him. Let me—”
I grab her hand before she can storm the doctor’s office and demand an audience. “Don’t.”
“What’s going on?” She strides closer to me, staring intently into my eyes. “Are you losing memories so quickly?”
I lick my lips. “Of course not. It was just a little headache.”
“Really?” She folds her arms over her chest. “Then tell me what the doctor said.”
“He said I’m fine,” I lie.
Her eyes narrow. “What else?”
“And…” I clear my throat and tighten my fingers. Something crackles in response. I glance down and find a paper in my hands. My face brightens. “He gave me a prescription for the pain.”
Amaya nods slowly as if she’ll believe me. Grudgingly. “Okay. Are you hungry? It’s almost lunch time.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Alright.” The tension around her mouth eases. “Would you like to take a boat ride with me?”
“A what?”
Her smile breaks out in full force. It’s almost blinding. Amaya takes my hand and drags me away from the wall. “Come on.”
Twenty minutes later, I hop off the pier and shuffle into a boat filled with tourists wearing straw hats, faces pasty with sunscreen. Their excited chatter rides the waves. Sunshine slices through the sails.
Amaya glances over her shoulder, her eyes shaded behind dark sunglasses. She beckons with her finger. “Let’s go, Kent. You’re holding up the line.”
I swallow and move forward. When we’re seated, I lean over and hiss, “Why are we going to San Pedro all of a sudden?”
“It’s La Isla Bonita. I told you I’d take you to see Belize. You can’t come to my country and not visit a beach.”
“Should I…” I glance at my polo and khakis and then at the other passengers’ beach bags, “Maybe I should have gone back to the hotel to get a change of clothes.”
“That wouldn’t be fun.”
I arch an eyebrow. “This is fun for you?”
“Yeah.” She slips her sunshades to the top of her head so I can see the sincerity in her eyes. “Since I was a teenager, I wanted to have the freedom to drop everything at a moments notice and take a trip. I’m finally doing it.”
“Why didn’t you do this before?”
“I had no one to go with.” Her smile turns strained. “But now I have an excuse. You.” She pokes me in the arm.
I study her intently, seeing past her cheerfulness for the façade that it is. “Did something happen when you were younger? Something that made you wish you could run away?” I realize how deep my question is and face forward. “Not that you have to share.”
The boat moves away from the dock and maneuvers through the canal, heading toward the Caribbean Sea.
I think Amaya is going to ignore my question, but she answers quietly. “My stepfather was… abusive.”
“Did he,” I wince, “hurt you?”
“No.”
I’m surprised by how relieved I am to hear that.
“Not me.” She shakes her head. “Weirdly enough. My mom and my brother got the brunt of it, but he never hit me.”
“Did he try other things?”
“No.”
Again, the strength of my relief is palpable. “Oh.”
She stares at her hands. “My mom didn’t want to run away and my brother was too young so he couldn’t. I was the only one who couldn’t wait to get out of th
ere. Maybe he didn’t touch me physically, but I still have scars.” She tucks a curl behind her ear self-consciously. “Well, that was awkward. Sorry to dump that on you.”
“Our experiences shape who we are. There’s no shame in that.”
Her gaze softens. “So what’s your sob story?”
“Both of my parents died in a car accident when I was nine,” I say casually.
Her grin drops. “Kent, I’m so sorry.”
“I went to live with my aunt and cousin. It wasn’t so bad. Aunt Katrina treated me like her own child. I don’t have any complaints.”
“What did your parents do?” she asks.
“They owned a tech company. My aunt and uncle took it over. Invested in the business. It expanded like crazy and now they have several branches all over the United States.”
Amaya nods although she looks a little bored. “How do you remember all that but not what happened yesterday?”
I shrug. “My brain can store memories. I just have a problem retrieving them.”
“How far back can you remember?”
“The past three years are shot, but anything before that is fair game. I may remember or I may not.”
“Sounds fun.”
“You have no idea.” I shrug. “But that’s life. And I get to enjoy my favorite books and movies like it’s my first time. There are perks.”
“That’s a nice way to look at it.” She smiles.
My heart kicks into overdrive. Given Amaya’s title in my phone, I’m guessing it’s not an unusual occurrence when I’m around her.
She breaks eye contact first and then settles into her seat, her eyes on her phone. I pull mine out and skim the game apps for something to fill the time. After losing a few rounds of Tetris, I feel something drop against my shoulder.
I stiffen and glance beside me, noticing that Amaya has fallen asleep and she’s using me as a pillow. My first instinct is to shake her off, but I don’t. Instead, I hold very still so I don’t disturb her.
Amaya mumbles in her sleep and cuddles even closer.
What is wrong with this woman? We barely know each other, but she’s comfortable enough to fall asleep on me. She’s making my heart pound and inviting me to share information about my life that I don’t even share with friends back home.
