Remembering Everly (Lost & Found #2)

by J. L. Berg

Every time we gathered, I felt guilty. Guilty for their roles in this. Guilty that they were part of my life and of this dangerous thing we were doing.

  It ate away at me until I found myself staring at the ceiling at night, listening to the crashing waves as they beat against the cliffs. I’d hold on to Everly, feel her warmth against me, and let the fear consume me until I found myself waking her with my tongue, my mouth and every other part of me, just so I could convince myself she wasn’t an illusion.

  “You’re not happy,” Everly said late one night after I’d once again awakened her from slumber, taking her fast and hard as my body quaked with need.

  Turning toward her, I saw sadness in her eyes. Smoothing back strands of coppery hair from her face, I questioned her words. “Why would you say that?” I asked, my heart still beating wildly from our lovemaking.

  “You barely sleep,” she began, sitting up in the darkness, taking the sheet with her. I watched the moonlight touch her ivory skin. It illuminated her, making her look almost ethereal under its soft glow. “And when you do, you have nightmares. You call out my name in your sleep.”

  Letting out a heavy sigh, I reached for her. She came willingly, lying next to me. I tucked her into my side, my fingers slowly brushing over her arm as I spoke.

  “I’m terrified I’m becoming him,” I admitted, knowing lies would only send us backward. I’d seen what kind of life lies had produced. I had no interest in a repeat performance.

  “Becoming who?” she asked, her gaze turned upward toward me.

  “The old me,” I said. “The paranoid, fearful August who panicked and did rash, stupid things. What if I haven’t changed at all?”

  She sat up slightly, rising up on her elbows so I could see the powdery blue of her eyes. “When I first discovered you’d lost all of your memories, my first question was what type of person would you be? Would you be different or the same? When I got to know the new version of you, my fears changed and suddenly, I was scared you’d morph back into the old August—uncaring and dominating.”

  “And now?” I asked, touching her face. She smiled.

  “Now you’re just you,” she said simply. “There is no older version of you, or new improved model. There is just August. You are a representation of your life—past, present, and future. What you’ve experienced, just like the rest of us, will mold you and shape you, but it doesn’t have to define you. Be whom you choose. Be brave. Be loved and be you—whoever that may be.”

  My mouth took hers. We spoke no more for the rest of the night as my fears dissipated in the deep valley between her breasts.

  Be whom you choose, she’d said.

  I chose this. I’d always choose this.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Everly

  It had been weeks since we’d instigated our little offensive against Trent, and in that time we’d done little to push ahead. Trent was turning out to be smarter than we’d anticipated. Although he was thrilled with August’s ability to lock in Magnolia’s father for a substantial sum, he was not talking.

  Or giving anything up.

  We’d hoped that over time, with the Yorkeses money in play, he’d loosen up and August would be able to dive in and find something—anything—that would get us the information we needed to turn him in to the authorities.

  But without solid evidence, we were without a case.

  It was literally August’s word against Trent’s.

  If we went in without all fingers pointed solely at Trent, he could turn the tables and claim that August had had his hands in everything. With August’s memory so spotty, it wasn’t as if he could defend himself against such a charge. Sure, he had solid records and books, but those could be considered fakes.

  We needed proof. I would not see August go to jail for the sins of that man.

  “Everly? Did you hear that last order?” Trudy asked, turning to me from the counter. Blinking several times, I looked around and shook my head.

  Focus, Everly.

  Lack of sleep had me nearly seeing double. August wasn’t the only one having sleep issues. I was burning the midnight oil trying to come up with new spots to search in the house. I’d all but torn the place apart half a dozen times looking for hiding places.

  The evidence August had collected before his coma had to be there.

  “Um, can you repeat it?” I asked, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks.

  “Sure.” She smiled, rambling off the order for a soy latte to me again. I repeated it back and started the process as my plans to investigate closets and rummage through boxes took a back burner. I needed to be present at work; otherwise I’d end up burning something, and I really liked all of my skin and extremities exactly how they were.

  Hand-delivering the coffee, I took a moment to stretch my legs and check on creamer and other supplies around the front of the store. It wasn’t technically part of my job, which was working the back end, but we all liked to help out when we could, and considering we were short-staffed with the recent departure of Steve, I knew Trudy would appreciate the help.

  Our manager had said Steve had left to focus on his budding music career, but Trudy and I both feared he’d been laid off. Business wasn’t booming, and with the tourist season over until late spring, I knew funds would be tight for the tiny coffee house.

  It made my chest squeeze as I looked around. This place had been my home for three years, giving me work when I needed it and comfort when I’d had none. I’d met Ryan here and even though things hadn’t worked out exactly as we’d planned them, my time with him would always remind me just how big a heart could be.

  “Hey, can I ask you something?” Trudy said just as my cell phone buzzed in my pocket.

  Nodding absently, I pulled it out and glanced at the text message that had just come in from Sarah.

  Thick packet came from the Culinary Institute? What’s that about?

  My eyes went wide and a small squeak escaped my mouth.

  “Trudy, you went to college, right?” I asked, momentarily forgetting her question.

  “Yep,” she answered brightly, before adding. “Well, for a few years.”

  “Thick envelopes are good, right? For admissions?”

  “Oh yeah. Thick envelopes are the best,” she agreed, watching me with a speculative gaze.

  “Did someone get a thick packet, Everly?” she asked then, nearly singing the words as they gently flowed from her mouth.

  I looked up at her, nearly forgetting I hadn’t told her I’d applied anywhere.

  I hadn’t told anyone—except August.

  “I think I may have gotten into culinary school,” I said, the words still feeling foreign to my tongue as they dissipated into the air.

  She slid under the counter, jumping up and down as we hugged in the middle of the coffee shop, in front of the few local patrons, who clapped and cheered for my success.

  I really hoped that thick envelope wasn’t just a really nice way of telling me I sucked, otherwise later on this moment would be totally ruined.

  * * *

  Turned out “thick” still meant great things, and as I opened the packet in my borrowed room at Sarah’s place (that had mostly been cleaned out as I slowly moved back to August’s—finally deciding I was never going to live on my own, and was perfectly happy with that conclusion), I fell back onto the bed in amazement.

  Staring up at me was the acceptance letter I’d always dreamed of getting. There in big bold letters was my name, under the official school seal. It had even been hand-signed by the Dean of Admissions.

  I’d done it. All by myself.

  When Sarah discovered my treachery, she scolded me for not telling her and then promptly hugged the crap out of me.

  “You did it!” she exclaimed as we jumped up and down, doing a repeat performance of the dance I’d done with Trudy in the coffee shop. “Does August know?” she asked, grabbing the letter from me so she could see it for herself.

  “No, I’ve barely had time t
o process it,” I answered, feeling giddy. “But he knew I applied. And he was excited. And proud.”

  “Well, he should be. Cooking has always been your passion, through everything. I can’t wait to see what you do with it.”

  Something about what she said struck a chord, and I found myself repeating her words in my head. “What did you say?” I asked.

  “Cooking has always been your passion,” she echoed.

  “Just like photography was always August’s,” I said slowly, feeling like the pieces of a puzzle were coming together. I’d torn the house apart several times over, going through boxes and boxes until there was nothing left to look through.

  Except film.

  Hundreds and hundreds of canisters of film.

  If he were to hide something, and hide it well…that would be the place.

  “Sarah! You’re a genius!” I exclaimed, kissing her on the cheek as I jumped to action.

  “Where are you going?” she asked, laughing as I grabbed the letter from her hands and fumbled around the room for my purse and car keys.

  “August’s! I think I know exactly what to look for now!” I hollered over my shoulder as I raced out the door.

  Film.

  The answer was film, and I was going to find it.

  * * *

  The house was eerily quiet when I entered, the slapping sound of my flip-flops echoing around the walls like a wild boomerang.

  “August?” I called out in vain, looking around the unlit house for his familiar form. His car was parked outside, and the little bowl by the front door held his keys—all evidence of his presence.

  What if he’d blacked out? I’d never seen it happen, but he’d mentioned it happened every once in a while and when it did, he couldn’t control it.

  I hollered for him once again, then climbed the stairs two at a time, suddenly feeling frantic.

  Turning the corner into the master bedroom, I finally found him. There on the floor, his large body lay in a messy heap, as if he’d fallen mid-step.

  “August!” I yelled, rushing to his side. My hands roamed over his chest and his beautiful face.

  Breathing. Oh thank god, he was breathing.

  His eyelids fluttered and danced as his subconscious forced another memory loose. It was as if he were dreaming. He looked peaceful.

  I hoped it was a good memory.

  Winding my fingers with his, I did the only thing I could and sat with him. I watched as he lay unconscious before me and patiently waited for him to return to me.

  It felt like an eternity as I clung to him, listening to the waves crash in tandem with his tempered breaths. This was how I remembered him—before I’d left.

  Before I’d walked away and started a new life.

  Night after night, I’d held his hand and tried to will him back into existence with my thoughts alone. But he never woke. And eventually I’d had a decision to make.

  Some may assume it was an easy one. Our life together had been anything but easy by then, but still…leaving August had been the hardest decision of my life.

  Because no one could walk away from their own soul and not feel pain.

  That’s exactly what I’d done, and I’d been grieving ever since.

  Ryan had eased my suffering, made life bearable again, but we’d both known in the end it was temporary. No one would ever replace August in my heart and the moment he awoke, so did my damaged, embattled heart.

  And it only beat for one man.

  Sudden movement had me nearly jumping out of my skin as I looked down at August. His breaths became shallow and his fingers twitched with movement.

  “Hi,” he finally said as his mossy brown eyes found mine.

  “Hi.” I smiled faintly, still worried—still checking over every inch of him to make sure he was well and safe.

  “My memory—it was of you,” he said as a happy wistful grin spread across his face.

  Standing, I offered him a hand, hating the way he looked sprawled out on the floor. The idea of me helping his six-foot frame up obviously amused him. Taking my hand in his firm grip, he stood, not needing to use my offered leverage at all.

  “Tell me about it,” I asked as we both sat on the bed, still tossed and messy from our lovemaking hours earlier. Kicking off my shoes, I let my fingers hover over the smooth sheets, loving the luxurious feel against my skin.

  His hands found mine, and I looked up to see the tiny crinkles around his eyes as he watched me.

  “I remembered the first time I saw you,” he said.

  My breath caught in my chest and I froze, waiting for him to continue.

  “You were the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. I knew there was something special about you the moment I saw you.”

  “You seemed completely out of my league,” I confessed, remembering how my breath caught the second he approached me that night. He’d been still dressed for work, wearing gray slacks and a sharp, checkered tie. I’d felt completely wrong standing next to him as he introduced himself, and I’d tugged at the tight dress I’d borrowed from my roommate.

  “I noticed your eyes first,” he said. “The milky blue intensity as you looked up at me.”

  “Your smile,” I replied. The nostalgia of that moment surrounded me like a warm blanket. “That’s what I remember most. It was so confident and I was anything but.”

  He laughed, shaking his head. “All a sham. I was terrified. My work buddies had seen me eyeing you and forced me to go introduce myself. I thought for sure you’d turn me down or throw a drink in my face.”

  “Never.”

  “Your dress was tattered and frayed at the edges, and I caught you eyeing the food the bartenders brought around several times. I don’t know how many times I offered to buy us appetizers, but you refused. I knew you were hungry.”

  Biting my lip, I turned away, feeling ashamed. “Pride—stupid pride. I didn’t want you to know I hadn’t eaten that day. It wasn’t exactly first date material.”

  “But I knew anyway. I always wanted to protect you. Save you—even from the beginning.”

  “I wasn’t a damsel that needed to be saved,” I said, watching as our fingers slowly intertwined.

  “I know that now. I always wanted to give you more—make you happy. But I never stopped and realized that what we had—what was happening between us—was enough.”

  “It was always enough—even when it was just flower boxes and drafty kitchens,” I pressed, hoping he’d finally understand. “Do you remember the earthquake a few months ago?”

  “The small one?” he asked, his gaze turning curious as we sat on the bed. Our feet wrapped together under the warm blankets.

  “Yes. What were you doing?” I asked.

  “I was at work,” he replied. “The walls shook and by the time I had a chance to get under my desk, it was over. I barely remembered what to do—having no memory of being in any other quakes.”

  “Were you scared?”

  “For a moment, yes,” he answered honestly, our eyes meeting. “I thought of you—where you might be. The moment the ground began shaking, I longed for you, wished for you.”

  “I was at work, too,” I explained. “And I remember Trudy saying something about when it came to the end, she hoped she had someone special to be with. It struck me because in that moment, I didn’t think of Ryan. I thought of you. Even then, in the midst of wedding planning and my belief that you hated me for everything I’d robed you of. I knew in those last moments on earth, you were the only person I’d reach out for.”

  He pulled me close.

  “I’ll still always want to give you the world.”

  “And I’ll still only want just you.”

  * * *

  “That’s a lot of film,” he groaned, looking at the boxes and boxes of tiny black canisters we’d collected throughout the house. Most had been tucked away in the closets, long since forgotten after years of dormancy.

  But several more had been scattered throughout the hou
se—in kitchen drawers, strewn all over the office. We even found one in the guest bathroom medicine cabinet.

  “Do you think I did this on purpose?” he asked, looking down at the monstrous task. “Leaving them everywhere?”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me,” I answered. “You were extremely paranoid, and perhaps for good reason. If you were collecting evidence against Trent, you would have done everything and anything to protect me—including erratic measures, to hide it.”

  “Well, this is erratic,” he said as he grabbed a box, hoisted it over his shoulder, and headed for the makeshift darkroom.

  All of the film had been developed, thankfully, so our task was fairly simple—just cumbersome. The darkroom wasn’t necessary to see the film, but the light table August had purchased did make it easier. Plus he owned several magnifying tools which would make the job even simpler.

  It was like finding a needle in a haystack. After hours of searching, we were feeling the magnitude of our task.

  “What if I’m wrong?” I asked in defeat, sitting back in the leather chair, the sting of my aching back making me groan in pain.

  “What is your gut telling you?” August asked, bending over yet another fruitless canister of film.

  “That it’s here,” I answered, “Somewhere.”

  “Then we keep looking.”

  We ordered Thai food and then continued going meticulously through each roll of film. Sometimes it was hard to keep focused, seeing our past come alive on the tiny black and white film sheets. Every so often, though, we’d stop and I’d share a memory with August: picnics, trips to Muir Woods, and birthdays long since gone.

  “What about this one?” August asked eagerly, holding out the magnifying glass for me to use. Bending down, I felt the heated touch of his hand as it rested on the small of my back, gently rubbing the sore spots.

  Frowning, I tilted my head sideways, trying to recognize the photos he’d asked about. They were hard to make out, as all exposed film was. But usually I could pick out something in the backgrounds, a scenic location or a familiar landmark that would help me deduce where a photo had been taken.

  But these shots were completely foreign to me.