“You remember all of those details from that long ago? It’s so strange. Your amnesia,” Carina remarks.
I’m thankful for the memories I’ve kept, but a lot of times they’re just a reminder of everything I’ve forgotten. Megan. My stomach flips. I have an honest to goodness bout of dizziness.
Sighing, I hang my head down to regain my wiles. “I’m lucky to be alive. That’s the fact we need to focus on.” I blink several times to clear my head. “Do you believe in a higher power, Carina?”
She seems taken aback by my question. “Of course,” Carina replies, waving her hand to the side. “Look at this.” She lays a hand on her chest. “And this,” she says, gently laying her fingers on my exposed forearm. “Why do you ask?”
“I have to believe the things I’ve forgotten were meant to stay that way. When I think about it, I feel guilty, so I’ve come to blame someone else. I may never remember, or I could wake up tomorrow and have every single memory come flooding back. I chose to believe I have no control in that. Someone or something larger than life has a hand in that choice. I’m okay with it. So, yes. I remember those details because I was supposed to.”
Carina shakes her head and slides her notebook back into her bag. “I don’t know if I believe in it that much. I understand why you do, though.” She sits up straight, tucks her golden locks behind one ear, and narrows her eyes. “It’s easy to blame anyone other than yourself.”
With one sentence, she’s torn a hole in my defense. I can’t blame myself because I can’t remember. But I should be to blame. For pushing Megan away inadvertently. For trying to gain our old relationship back for too long. For spending more time rehabbing my career instead of my engagement. I am to blame, and I’ve realized all of that is okay. I take her hand in mine. “Thank you.”
She smiles and looks away. “I have no idea what you’re thanking me for, but you’re welcome. I should be the one thanking you. You gave me enough to write into the wee hours of the morning.” I release her hand, but she doesn’t move it away from me. I do see her quick gaze dart around us every once in a while. Her gaze flicks back to the little dog. She smiles.
“Don’t be afraid, Carina. You’re safe. I’m proud of you. I’m here for you.” I also tell her that there’s no way he would recognize her with her new hair.
She doesn’t think the joke is funny, but she does tell me she’s shopping for a new car this afternoon with Jasmine. She is trying to disappear without disappearing.
“You can’t be there for me,” she says, stopping mid-sentence. Carina closes her mouth and looks away. “You can’t.”
“Of course I can,” I return.
She sighs. “You don’t live with me, Smith. No one can keep me completely safe twenty-four hours a day. There’s vulnerability in merely living. I’m sure it will get better with time,” she says, swallowing. “But right now the last thing I feel is safe.”
I nod. With a hammering heart, I say the first thing that comes to mind. “I’ll live with you.”
“What?” Carina asks, voice loud.
I shrug. “I’m not allergic to cats.”
Chapter Nine
Carina
SWEAT IS POURING DOWN my body. “And then he said I’ll live with you,” I say, dotting my brow with my workout towel. My workout capris and tank are soaked through. “Just like that. Tell me what that sounds like to you.”
“He didn’t say anything else?” Jasmine asks.
Our other friend, Teala, the one I usually just see at our boot camp class, looks at me with confusion. “That seems really weird. Like he asked to move in with you? Or you to move in with him? Confusion isn’t strange in this instance, honey.”
I shake my head, still breathing heavy from the intense cardio. We’re unable to talk during the ferocious hour we’re getting our butts handed to us by the trainer, so it all spills out as we make our way into the street to find our cars. “He got a phone call from Moose and had to leave after that. I didn’t have a chance to probe. God, I should have. It makes no sense whatsoever. He texted me this morning and wants to meet for dinner tonight.”
“Dinner?” Teala asks. “Not an interview, but dinner?” She knows our story, so she’s able to keep up for the most part.
Raising my sweaty brows, I nod. “Dinner. At my favorite tapas place in Gaslamp.” I wipe in between my boobs with the towel and then tuck it into the back of my pants. The Gaslamp district is downtown San Diego. They have the best restaurants and bars. It’s eclectic and vibrant, full of museums and historic apartment buildings. It’s a place where you can feel everything. “That isn’t a place where we’d ever do an interview. It’s loud.”
“It’s a date,” Teala says. “You said yes, right?”
If my heart wasn’t hammering from my workout, it would be now. Someone else saying the word I’ve been thinking makes it real. Smith asked me on a date. I can’t be the other girl in this twisted relationship. Megan is the woman he should be with. The photos I saw of them confirm that. He loved her. Everything about her, Smith loved. He cherished her smile, worshipped the ground she walked on. But then again, I catch myself thinking in the past tense. He loved her in those photos from their past. Everything changed after he lost Henry. After he lost pieces of himself.
“I said yes. He’s my friend,” I reply.
“Moose. That’s a real name, Care?” Jasmine asks, detouring our conversation to something that may benefit her.
Tossing my hands up, I say, “That’s what you’re worried about in all of this? Smith’s best friend is named Moose. Yes. I don’t know if it’s short for something. They all have weird nicknames, so I’d assume so, but they’re goddamn Navy SEALs, so Moose fits. It’s part of the culture. Or so I’ve gathered from talking to him.” Smith wants me to meet Moose. Our schedules haven’t jived yet.
Both Jasmine and Teala laugh. I shake my head. Try as I might I was unable to write anything last night. Visions of Smith clouded my thoughts. One would think that’s what I would desire to gain focus to write a novel about his life, but it was so distracting. The way he touched me, looked at me seemed so intimate. I wanted him all to myself. More than I’ve wanted anything else in my entire life, I wanted him to see me like he sees Megan. And he did. I believe he really did.
Teala downs the rest of the water in her bottle. “I need to find a friend who looks like that, too. Can you make that happen? Write me in as the love interest!” she exclaims. A wave of mild annoyance washes over me. In my mind the love interest has always been Megan, but perhaps, just maybe another woman enters the picture. My stomach sinks and flips at the same time. If I write it, it’s fiction, but I could live in the place I so desperately desire to be.
I unlock my car door. It’s a brand-new German engineered sedan. The windows are tinted, and I ordered new tags. It gives me another layer of security against my past. I haven’t seen or heard from Roarke. His mother called me twice to ‘talk’. What she really wanted was reasons. For the first time in the history of knowing Roarke’s creator, I told her everything. The reason we spoke twice, is because it took two-hour-long phone calls for me to get the whole story out in between her sobs. She told me she suspected something was amiss in our relationship, but never would have guessed how dubious her son was behaving. She apologized for him several hundred times. It made no difference. If anything it solidified my decision.
I wave a quick goodbye to Teala, tell Jasmine I’ll see her at home, and excuse myself to write. And write I do. I plot and outline and add quotes to the large marker board that covers half my wall. I’m a mad woman—a woman on a mission. I don’t change out of my workout gear. The sweat on my clothing and my hair eventually dries and I’m sitting in the middle of my bedroom at Jasmine’s house staring at the last blank, white bubble at the right side of my board.
“The ending,” I whisper. “How does it end?” Love triangles aren’t my strong suit, or any suit if I’m being honest. This is two love stories streaming at the same time.
One from a forgotten time, and one present—now. One that is wildly alive and thriving. The choice should be easy, but I see no easy choice for my characters. I close my eyes and think of the photo albums. I let my mind replace Megan with me. The images flit through one by one, until when I open my eyes, tears are pouring down my face.
Jasmine pokes her head in my room after knocking softly. “You have an hour before dinner. Smith called the house to remind you. I told him you were zoning.” She closes the door after widening her eyes at the mess of my multicolored marker board. She never asks questions about my process.
I don’t stop thinking about the blank bubble while I shower or blow-dry my hair, nor when I have a meltdown trying to decide what to wear. “A date? Not a date?” I ask myself, as I toil between a skirt and blouse or a low-cut dress. Jasmine made the executive decision for me. When I open the front door to greet Smith, I’m wearing a dress covered in sloths. The neckline dips down low enough to reveal the swell of my breasts. This is a date, I think when I see Smith.
“You’re early,” I say in greeting. “Sorry I was busy when you called.” Planning our future without you realizing it.
“No apologies needed. Especially when you appear like this,” he says, turning his hands palms up and motioning to my body. “And on time, too, might I add. Wearing sloths. You should join me on my planet. I think you’d enjoy the weather there.”
Shaking my head, I giggle. “Come in,” I say, flustered. His hair is coifed like I’ve never seen before. The smile he wears is mine, and everything inside of my being is drawn to him. I have to repeat her name in my head. Megan. It’s my mantra. What is he doing to me? When he walks past, I smell his soap, and I swallow down a lump of desire.
“You have a beautiful place, Jasmine,” Smith says.
Jasmine acts bashful, turning her face down. He’s fucking with everyone. It’s pheromones. It has to be. And I have to spend a whole dinner pretending to not be affected. Jasmine finally thanks him and retreats to the kitchen to continue making soup.
Smith licks his lips and turns his gaze my way. “Are you going to show me your room?”
I panic. The marker board. He can’t see that. Oh my God. What was I thinking? It’s a book about his life. He will read it. In my frenzy, I failed to remember the most important part of this. Smith and his feelings.
“Aren’t we going to be late? It’s a mess right now. Plus, I have so many questions. I’m pretty confused, Smith. Should I grab my notebook?” Finally something intelligent comes out of my mouth. “You look like that. I’m wearing my sloth dress. I don’t know what that means.”
Laughing, he lays a hand on my bare shoulder. It’s warm and dry. I shiver anyways. I don’t shrink away from his touch like I did with Roarke. Smith’s hands have never done anything to betray me. There’s nothing sinister in his actions—only honesty and sincerity. ”It’s dinner, Carina,” he says. His explanation does nothing to quell my nerves. “We’re going to eat at your favorite place. I showered, if that’s why you’re wondering why I look like this. I’m clean. Also, I’m assuming the sloth dress is only reserved for special occasions. I’m honored to meet you, sloth dress,” Smith says, running a finger underneath the strap on my shoulder. No cardigan is needed tonight.
My breath catches in my throat. “Smith. What is this?”
“Whatever it wants to be, Carina.”
I blow out a large breath through both my nose and mouth. Before I put my foot in my mouth, I ask, “Explain, please.” I keep my voice low and hold up one finger when he parts his lips to speak. I know Jasmine is listening to every word. I usher Smith out the front door into the warm, breezy air. “Now explain.” My hand burns where it lies against the outside of his shirt. It makes me wonder what it would feel like to touch his bare skin on the other side of the shirt.
Looking up at the sky, he pauses a few beats. My pulse hammers against my neck and I rock from one foot to the other, thanking Jasmine for choosing a pair of ballet flats instead of heels. She told me sexy heels don’t belong with my sloth dress. It was a fair point. Smith’s gaze flicks down to meet mine. He’s determined something in those few seconds of silence. I see the steely reserve reflected in his dreamy eyes.
“We broke up. Megan and I are no longer together. I wanted to tell you the other day, but you left him, and I was so happy for you that I didn’t want to ruin that news with my news.” He works to swallow. “It’s over.”
Relief hits me square in the chest, but it’s quickly replaced by sadness. She’s not only a real live person. She’s also one of my beloved characters. “You broke up with her,” I say.
Sighing, he clasps his hands behind his head. “She initiated it, but I agreed with it. It’s for the best. It’s not fair to either of us. There are no hard feelings.”
Of course there aren’t. She’s perfect. Megan wouldn’t be catty or cruel to this man. He’s perfect. He wouldn’t make this harder on her than it has to be. I cough. “It’s tragic,” I whisper, hiding my face with both hands.
He shakes his head. “A second ago you would have been happy about it. I see the way you look at me.” My eyes widen. “I know there’s more between us than either of us will admit. You asked what this is,” he says, motioning between our bodies. “We can finally find out.” This is why he spoke of living with me. It’s a real option now. When I stay silent he continues. “You’re going through a lot,” he says.
I interrupt. “We’re standing on my best friend’s deck because I had to leave my abusive fiancé. A lot doesn’t define what I’m mucking through right now, Smith.”
“Nothing has to happen between us. This means I can be at ease looking at you.”
I scrunch up my nose. “Looking at me?”
He nods, asks if I still plan on eating dinner with him, and then leads me down the steps. Next, he opens the passenger side door of his blue truck. The same one I had fantasies of riding away in the day I met him. When he’s in the driver’s seat, his hands on the steering wheel, he looks over. “If there’s one thing you should know about me is that I honor my commitments. I can look at you and not feel guilty, Carina. I can let my mind wander to places I didn’t let it before. I don’t have to wonder what if, because I can live it if we choose to. We have freedom of choice. Friendship? Of course. More? Who knows.” His words comfort me in a sense, but I can’t imagine how Megan must be feeling. “So, yes. Look at you.” Pointedly, he lets his gaze roam from my neck down to my waist and back up.
He leaves his hand on the seat between us, the pink scars visible against the beige leather. Accepting the subtle invitation, I place my hand in his. “If I’m to blame, even in the least, I hope you know I won’t be able to sleep at night ever again. I would never wish ill will on anyone. Especially her.” My voice cracks on the last word.
He squeezes my fingers. “That’s something you don’t have to tell me. I know you’re a good person. You’re not to blame at all. Circumstances are. Ones that are out of our control. My relationship with Megan after the accident was tedious at best.” Sure, but for her it was more than that. Smith leaves me no choice but to remove myself from their break-up equation. It’s not my fault. It’s not. It can’t be. I didn’t do anything wrong. I have to believe their demise happened organically. A fading away that happens gradually when one person loves another person more. I’m well versed in that arena.
Smith drives, and I think. Never in all of my years have I felt such a serene calm. There’s no fear about what tomorrow brings, or how I’m going to survive another day. It’s the first time I’ve felt this carefree since I was a child. Before my stepfather, Greg, came along and changed me down to the cellular level.
“The photo albums, Smith. All that love. As a romance author, I can’t in good conscience let that go by the wayside. You had a timeless love. Amnesia isn’t something that stopped that. It can’t. It’s inside you.”
Smith clears his throat. “Not all romances have happy endings. You know that,” he says.
For a second I think of all of my favorite books. About half of them have a happy ending. The others end poetically sad in that literary way that serves the story well.
At the reminder of stories, I think of my current work in progress and my marker board of shame. I can’t write myself into the story if Megan isn’t in the picture any longer. It’s cheating. It’s fiction. I can do whatever I want. In Pinion Lane there were so many truths about my childhood and the love story was contrived of my hopes and dreams for a life with Roarke. I twisted everything to my liking. I’ll do it again.
We arrive at the restaurant, place our drink and dinner orders, and make small talk over the live band in the corner of the restaurant. Sipping my mojito, I try to steer the conversation away from our personal lives. I end up asking him questions about his career, which frustrates me because I don’t have anything to write with and I know I’ll forget important details.
“I told Moose to stop by and say hi. I hope that’s okay,” Smith says during a lull. “He was next door at the pub with a few of our friends.” He motions with his thumb to the wall to the left.
I’ve heard so many stories about Moose that I’m literally bouncing with excitement. “Yes. That’s fine. I’ve wanted to meet him for a while,” I reply.
Smith scratches the side of his head. “You can’t grill him like you grill me. Don’t get too excited.” Smith smirks, waves to someone over my shoulder, and stands. His stance is tall and regal.
I make a show of crossing my arms under my chest. “Who do you think I am?” I ask. “I’m not going to grill him. Too hard.” I smile. Standing, I turn to see Moose heading our way. The restaurant is full, but there’s no question who Smith’s best friend is. He’s a lumbering man with broad shoulders, a don’t mess with me attitude, and a smirk that is probably famous all across the world.
Black and White Flowers (The Real SEAL Series Book 1) Page 7
