by Rye Hart
Hearing him talk about me, about memories I can't recall, makes me blush. More than that, it makes me feel a little sad. It's like a really big piece of my life – a good piece – has been ripped out of my heart and I don't know if I'll ever get that piece back.
“That sounds like a really nice memory,” I say softly.
“It is. It's one of my favorites,” he says. “Which is why I've kept coming here all these years.”
“Only you?” I ask. “Don't I come too?”
He pauses and puts his coffee cup down, the smile fading from his face. He clears his throat and starts to say something when Daisy sets a plate of fresh, piping hot chocolate chip pancakes down in front of me, and a plate with chicken fried steak, hash browns, and eggs in front of Jack. We didn't even have to order.
“Enjoy,” she says with a wink. “Made especially for you, Sydney, w with love.”
The pancakes are light and fluffy, still warm from the griddle. There's a generous swirl of chocolate sauce on top too. It's almost too sweet to qualify for a breakfast, but I'm not about to complain. I pick up my fork and dig right in, taking a huge bite and closing my eyes, trying to unlock the door in my head. The taste is familiar and delicious, and I savor it. It's amazing, but no memories come back to me. Nothing other than the fact that I've had these before, and I have a strong feeling that it wasn't all that long ago either.
Which makes sense if Jack comes here often.
“We have a lot to talk about, Sydney,” he says, not even touching his food yet. “A lot to clear up.”
The door to the cafe opens with a jingle and Jack's eyes dart toward the entrance, taking in the newcomer. His entire body tenses for a second and a tension suddenly fills the air, so I turn around to see what he's looking at. A guy walks into the cafe wearing a thick jacket and a hat that covers most of his face. He looks toward us but passes our table without a word.
“Do you know him?” I ask Jack.
Jack relaxes. “I thought I might,” he mutters. “I guess I'm just being paranoid.”
My eyes narrow as I look at him. “Paranoid about what?”
He opens his mouth to speak, but then he closes it again, his words dying in his throat. He clasps and unclasps his hands, tension radiating from every pore in his body.
“Like I said, we have a lot to talk about,” he says. “But for now, let's enjoy our food and we'll talk as soon as we get home.”
I want to press him, to keep him talking. I'm hoping the more he talks, the closer I'll come to unlocking those doors in my mind. I have a feeling there's a lot more to all of this than he's telling me, and it's driving me crazy not being able to remember.
“Did you think that man could be the person who hurt me?” I ask after a few minutes of him not saying anything.
“Maybe,” he says. “I couldn't really see his face.”
“So, you know who did this to me?”
He nods.
“And did you tell the police?”
“I told them all I knew, which isn't much,” I say.
“Do you remember a name? Anything?”
His eyes dart over to Daisy who's listening in. They share a look – a look that leaves me feeling a little unsettled.
“No, I don't,” Jack says at last. “Now eat your pancakes before they get cold.”
Why did I get the idea I wasn't going to like what he had to say?
ooo000ooo
“We live here?” I ask as we pull up to the cabin in the mountains. “I mean, not that I'm complaining. I mean, wow.”
I stare through the window at a house that’s part cabin in the woods, part mansion. It's way larger than the cabins and homes we'd passed to get here and is located off a secluded mountain road in Redstone. It's gorgeous, but as with everything else, nothing about it feels familiar to me.
“Yep,” Jack says, parking the truck. “There's someone who's going to be very excited to see you.”
I panic as a sudden thought occurs to me – something I hadn't even considered before.
“D - do we have kids?”
My heart races at the mere thought of it. I want kids. Very much so, actually. Someday. I love children. But, the idea of having kids I can't even remember? My palms begin to sweat and my pulse races as a feeling of cold dread settles down over me, wrapping my heart tight in its icy tendrils.
“No, silly,” Jack laughs. “I have a dog.”
“You have a dog?” I say. “Not, we have a dog?”
He doesn't respond to my question. Sure, it's nitpicky, but the way he talks about things – I instead of we – makes me uncertain about our relationship. It raises a lot of questions that I don't even know how to begin finding the answers to. I can't put my finger on it, but something just feels – off.
Jack helps me down from the truck, but unlike at the diner, there's no panic attack this time. Just plain old nervousness about falling on the ice. Jack takes care of that, though. He holds my hand and walks me, carefully, to the front door. We walk up a few steps to a large, wraparound porch, that as far as I can tell, circles the entire house. I hear footsteps sound on the other side of the door, which is quickly followed by the sound of whining. As Jack unlocks the door, the whining turns to barking and I'm hesitant to enter at first.
I stand in the doorway and stare at the chocolate lab, who's stopped barking and started slobbering all over Jack with affection. The two of them seem to be lost in their own little world of drool and kisses until the dog turns his big, brown eyes toward me. He catches sight of me, and rushes over, leaning against my legs and wiggling as if he can't contain his excitement, nearly knocking me over in the process.
“Easy boy,” Jack says, taking hold of his collar. “Sorry about that. He doesn't know his own size sometimes.”
A dog. I can't recall ever having a dog. Not that I don't like dogs, I do. I like all animals. I would have suspected myself of being more a cat person though. Easier to care for. Less responsibility. They're independent and low maintenance. You just make sure they're fed, have water, clean litter, and you're good to go.
I rack my brain and don't even remember having a dog growing up. Just a cat. A black cat. When I recall the cat, images rush back to me, filling my mind. I see a black cat and it feels like it was only a few days ago that he was in my life. Maybe he is.
“Do we have a cat?” I ask Jack.
“No, I don't,” he says. “Just Gunner here.”
Again, with the “I” thing.
“Do I have a cat?”
Jack stands up and motions for me to step inside. He shuts the door behind me, and I stare at the living area. A large, stone fireplace is off on one wall with fine leather sofas and chairs surrounding it. Paintings decorate the walls, making it look almost more like a showroom on HGTV than an actual house where people live. I step into the space and notice the loft overhead that's filled with bookcases. Wall-to-wall books. A library that overlooks the living room. It's beautiful.
From the front of the house, I can see through the windows out to the back. I can see the snow covered back porch and mountains off in the distance. It's a gorgeous view and almost looks like a painting itself, except for the dog prints all over the snow breaking up the almost perfectly white, flat canvas.
I notice that Jack still hasn't answered my question, so I turn back to him, arms crossed in front of my chest. I grit my teeth and stand firm. I want some answers and I intend to get them.
“You keep saying we're going to talk,” I say. “So, talk.”
“Can I at least let Gunner out first?” he asks. “He's been cooped up in here for a while and probably has to pee like a race horse.”
He shoots me an adorable smile that touches me right to the core, even though I know he's just delaying. Still, Gunner is at the back door, tail wagging excitedly, looking back at us with a goofy doggy grin on his face.
“Fine,” I groan. “I'm going to look around.”
“Maybe we should talk before you take the tour,”
he says.
“No, maybe you should tell me what the hell is going on,” I finally snap.
Gunner whines. I see the pull in Jack's face, so I wave him off and sigh, irritation coursing through me.
“Go. Take care of the dog,” I say. “Then we talk, okay?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, snapping me a small salute.
He opens the back door and the dog runs out. Jack goes outside after him, shutting the door behind him, leaving me alone in the house. I walk around the living room looking at everything I can find. What strikes me first are the things that aren't there that I would think should be. There's no pictures of people anywhere. No wedding photos. No pictures of us. Just generic artwork. Nice artwork, sure, but nothing that feels personal. Nothing that rings familiar to me at all.
If Jack and I have as much money as he says we do, I can't imagine why we wouldn't make this space ours. Why there would be no personal touches and why would the environment feel so sterile and spartan.
Unless spartan and sterile is my style?
But that doesn’t feel right to me. Though I don’t know many things right now, I feel like I’m neither spartan nor sterile. I'm pretty sure I'm more of a nester; somebody who likes to make her space her own, complete with all kinds of personal touches. This museum quality showroom is definitely not me. It just feels wrong; at odds with who I feel that I am. There's a spiral staircase leading up to the loft, and it calls to me. I slowly walk up to the top landing, my hand on the carved wood railing for balance. It's a narrow, slim staircase, but I make it to the top without topping over backwards and stand amongst the books.
So many books. Classics like Moby Dick and The Iliad. Modern works by Stephen King and James Patterson. History books. Biographies. An entire section devoted to the Marines. A few books that look about a hundred years old, the bindings coming loose and titles I don't recognize. I run my hand along the spines and take a deep breath, letting the smile spread across my face.
I have the distinct notion that the smell of books has always been one of my favorite things. This library is me, one hundred percent me. It makes me think maybe, just maybe, this is my house after all. Even still, the library doesn't feel familiar the way the cafe had.
It's hard to put into words, but it just feels new. Exciting. This doesn't feel like a space I've spent a lot of time in, which doesn’t make sense if this is supposed to be my house. There's a hallway off of the library, and I'm curious. It's like exploring a funhouse. I have no idea what to expect around the next corner, and so I walk down it. It ends in a large master suite. A king-sized bed is against one wall, in a bed frame that is seemingly hand-carved from some rich, dark wood that's been polished to a bright shine.
Large windows overlook the mountains in the distance, with curtains that are pulled back to let the natural light in. The furniture is all made to match, relatively simple and built from high-quality wood. There's a dresser, some end tables, standard bedroom fare.
Two doors are against one wall, and I walk over. One leads to a bathroom with a shower large enough for an entire football team, with multiple shower heads and a seat carved into the corner. There's also a soaking tub, which appears unused, large enough for two or three people and complete with jacuzzi jets. The idea of crawling into a nice, hot bath is appealing, but I step out of the bathroom and check out the next door instead.
It's a gigantic closet that I'm pretty sure is larger than some people’s apartments. Shelves line the walls and remain mostly empty. There's a rack of suits, some men's shoes, and other men's apparel, but that's it. Seems like Jack isn't the type who owns a lot of clothing. His wardrobe, such as it is, contains mostly just black t-shirts, a few long-sleeved tees, and jeans.
But again, it's what's not there that raises the questions in my mind. Amongst his wardrobe, there is no sign of women's clothes. My clothes. And I know it's not from a lack of space. The closet is mostly empty, with plenty of bare shelves and open racks that can hold an entire wardrobe. The back wall has a large three-way mirror and some seating. It's enormous and elegant, and almost feels like a department store, rather than a closet. A men's department store, anyway.
Jack's voice is muffled, but I hear him calling my name as he steps back into the house. I hear his footsteps crossing the floor downstairs, quickly followed by the clicking of Gunner's nails on the wooden floorboards.
“Sydney?” he calls. “Where are you?”
The sound of footsteps on the spiral staircase makes my pulse race, and I hurriedly shut the closet door behind me as I step back into the master suite.
“I'm in here,” I say.
He steps into the bedroom, his head and beard wet with freshly fallen snow. White bits of powder still cling to him, melting away gradually in the warm house.
“I told you not to explore,” he says.
“It's my house too, isn't it?” I stand with my arms crossed in front of me.
“Well – ” Jack stops and looks down at his feet.
“It isn't, is it? I don't live here with you, that's why my clothes aren't in the closet. Only yours,” I say, my voice rising. “In fact, we're not even really married, are we? I can't help but notice that neither one of us is wearing a wedding ring.”
Jack sighs and walks over to the bed. Sitting down, he puts his face in his hands. I consider leaving the room. Scratch that, I should leave this house entirely. I don't know who this man is or what sick game he's playing, but my survival instinct is telling me to get the hell out of here. The man might be dangerous.
Despite all of the reasons I should leave, something keeps me there.
“Was any of it true? About how I introduced you to Daisy's cafe?” I ask. “Do we even know each other, Jack?”
“Yes, that's true. All of it's true. Just not – well, the married part,” he says. “But, there's a perfectly logical explanation for that.”
My blood pressure rises, and I can feel the rage boiling inside my veins. I grit my teeth and stare daggers at the man. For the most part, I'm not shocked to find out that he lied to me. I think somewhere deep down, I already knew. But, the fact that I might have already known he's a liar, and have it confirmed straight from his mouth, doesn't piss me off any less.
“You lied to me,” I hiss. “Not just me, to everyone.”
“I had to, Syd,” he says, removing his hands from his face and stares up at me.
His eyes are so warm, so filled with love and compassion that I stop breathing for a minute. I forget where I am entirely. I almost forget that I'm mad. Those blue eyes of his draw me in deep, keep me there, and I almost lose myself within them completely.
Almost.
“Had to? You had to lie?”
I'm shaking now, as I pace the room. I can't look at him, because when I do, I feel things. Things I can't explain, but they're there, and they're real. Even if nothing he's told me is true.
“Do you realize my head is already scrambled enough, and I don't know what's real or what's not?” I shout. “Is this all some fucking game to you, Jack? And who are you? Really. Who are you to me?”
“Listen, let's go downstairs, sit down at the table and talk.”
I try not to let my nerves shine through. I'm tired. Exhausted, even. My entire body is shaking, and I can't tell if I'm hurt, angry, scared – or all the above. Tears well up in my eyes before I have a chance to stop them. I angrily scrub them away as they roll down my cheeks.
“Dammit,” I say, turning away from Jack so he can't see that I'm crying.
I wipe at my eyes and feel so incredibly helpless – a feeling that's foreign to me. I may not know everything about my life right now, but I do know I'm not the helpless type. On a deep, primal level, I know that I'm strong and independent. But, this shit is too much even for me. I'm in way over my head. I’m overwhelmed – and I feel like I'm only getting pulled in deeper.
Even though I try to hide the tears, Jack sees them. He's by my side in an instant, his arms around me. I try to
push him away, but he holds me fast and I eventually let myself lean into him because, despite the fact that he lied, he still somehow feels so safe and comfortable. I can't understand it, let alone explain it. He's shown me nothing but kindness since I woke up at the hospital though, and frankly, he's the only person who seems to know who I am, aside from maybe Daisy at the cafe.
His big arms hold me tight and his beard is ruffling up my hair. I can't explain it, but right there, in that moment, it feels like home. As if I've been looking for this for years and finally found it. Then I remember the lies again and push him away. This time, he takes a couple of steps back, giving me some space.
“No, tell me who you are first,” I say. “And why you're lying about it. Tell me, Jack. Or else I'm calling a cab and getting the hell out of here, because quite honestly, I'm scared. I don't know who you are or what we are to each other, and it scares the shit out of me.”
“You have no reason to be afraid of me,” he says. His eyes look so sincere, and I find myself wanting to believe him. “We may not be married, Sydney, that's a lie I told the hospital just so I could be there with you. To help make decisions regarding your care. If I told them who I really am, well, they'd have told me to get lost and I couldn't bear leaving you there unprotected.”
“So, we are together?” I ask. “Together and just aren't married?”
He cringes at those words as I speak them, and I realize even that's not the case.
“No, not anymore at least,” he says. “We used to be. A long time ago.”
“You're an ex then?”
“Yes,” he says then quickly adds, “But I've never stopped loving you, Sydney. And we didn't end because we weren't good for each other. We ended because –”
He stops talking, and the lines deepen in his face. Reaching out, without thinking about it, I stroke his cheek gently. He leans into the touch and a soft smile parts his lips. I can see the torment in his eyes and my heart goes out to him. I find that I want him to tell me – and not just to satisfy my own curiosity-- but because I can see that he's been carrying a heavy burden for a very long time and I find that I want to help ease it from his shoulders a bit if I can.
