by J. L. Berg
* * *
I was just putting the finishing touches on the table when Ryan walked in, causing me to nearly jump out of my skin.
Calm down, Everly, I silently chanted, turning to face him.
The look on his face was priceless as he wordlessly stared down at the candlelight and then back up at me. It was that scared, fearful look guys get when they see the house is set a certain way, and suddenly their minds start flashing through dates and memories as they try to remember if something significant happened on this particular day.
“Relax, you didn’t forget anything,” I assured him, an amused smile pulling at my lips as my pulse slowly returned to normal.
His eyes wandered up and down my body shamelessly. “Are you sure? Because I can’t remember the last time I saw you pulling a casserole out of the oven, dressed like that.”
I guess I had gone a little overboard. Guilt will do that to a girl. But I just wanted him to know how much I loved him and when I got stressed, I tended to act out in odd ways. Particularly in ways that involved food.
“No—no anniversaries. No special celebrations. I just thought it would be nice to have an evening together. We always eat in a rush, gathered around the TV. Isn’t this better?”
The coppery flecks of his eyes caught under the lights, turning a dazzling gold as he walked toward me. A casual smile tugged at his face.
“Yes. Very nice.” Placing a slow, soft kiss upon my lips, he lingered, grabbing me around my waist to pull me closer. I could smell the familiar scent of his aftershave mixing with the fruity scent of my own shampoo. He’d run out of his own brand, so he’d been using mine for the last few days. The thought made me smile as I rested my head on his shoulder, loving the fact that I had someone to share my shampoo with.
“Now, what can I do to help?” he asked, stepping back to admire me one more time. I hadn’t really done much to my appearance—just a little more makeup than I usually wore and a nice pair of jeans that hugged all the right areas. I appreciated the attention, though.
“Nothing, really—oh, maybe pour the wine?” I suggested, pointing to the bottle I’d just uncorked.
“How was your day?” I asked, hoping he’d have some stories worthy of discussion—lengthy discussion. Although I did want to tell him about my day, I didn’t want to do it right away.
Maybe after he’s had a glass of wine…and a bite of pasta. That might make things better, right?
Cheese and wine always put me in a better mode.
“It was good—okay, I guess.”
I laughed at his muddled response. “Can’t quite decide yet, huh?” I asked as I watched him finish pouring the merlot. He set the bottle back down on our small dining table and turned back around, leaning against a chair.
“Just frustrating, I guess. This new client I have. They’re—”
“Frustrating?” I guessed with a smirk, as I finished stirring veggies that were sautéing over the stove.
“Yes. One minute they want one thing. The next minute they want something else. And then they decide they don’t like something but they’re not sure why.”
Ryan was a graphic designer—a pretty good one, and he worked with one of the top website companies in the area. He was used to picky clients.
“And they’re different from your last client how?” I questioned.
“I guess I’m just tired,” he sighed. “Ready for a vacation.”
“You mean a honeymoon?” I corrected him with a grin. He stepped forward and slid his hands around my waist again, resting his chin on my shoulder.
“Yeah, that would be nice. Any thoughts on my ideas for that?”
Reaching forward to shut off the burner, he stepped back and allowed me to plate everything.
“Paris? It’s just so much, Ryan. Can we even afford that?”
“Ev, I’ve been a bachelor for a long time. Which means, I’ve basically had myself to care for. I don’t know if you’ve noticed but I’m not exactly high maintenance.”
I snorted, remembering the hint of raspberry shampoo wafting from his hair. No, definitely not high maintenance.
“With my job, I’ve managed to save up quite a lot over the years. I don’t want to go crazy, but let me do this for us. We only have one honeymoon.”
Turning to face him, I couldn’t help but smile. He brought that out in me—simply by being him. From the moment I’d met him, he’d always managed to bring out the best in me.
“Okay, but only on one condition,” I said. “I want to pay for half from my savings.”
His mouth opened to protest, but I stopped him, holding up my hand to silence him.
“My choice,” I pressed. “You already take care of more than your share of the rent. Let me do this.”
“Fine,” he grumbled, obviously hating the idea, but a small smile escaped from his lips before he pivoted back toward the table. “But soon, it’s not going to be yours or mine…it’s just going to be ours. That’s what this whole marriage thing is about.”
“Oh yeah?” I teased. “Is that what I got myself into?”
I pulled the few remaining items out of the oven and headed toward the table. When I’d arrived at the grocery store earlier, I had no menu planned and little to go on but the guilt eating at my gut, so I’d decided to stick with what I knew best. Looking at the table as I set everything down, I wondered if I should have planned better.
“It looks great, babe,” Ryan said, taking his usual seat by the window. We didn’t sit here often, but when we did, we tended to migrate toward the same two chairs. Mine was closer to the kitchen since I liked to flutter between the two areas for forgotten items like butter and extra knives.
“Are you sure?” I asked. “It looks kind of strange.” I was always my worst critic when it came to cooking.
“Are you kidding? This is every man’s fantasy. Meat loaf, mac n’ cheese—hell, even the veggies are floating in butter. It’s great.”
“I guess I was in the mood for some comfort food,” I shrugged, scooping mac and cheese on to his plate. He helped himself to the meatloaf and we dug in. Thankfully, it was all pretty tasty and Ryan was reaching for seconds within minutes.
All those hours watching Paula Dean and every other Food Network star over the years seemed to have paid off.
“So, are you going to tell me what’s going on?” he asked after a third helping of meatloaf. He pushed a piece of a roll around his plate, catching the leftover bits of cheese and meat.
Our eyes met and I knew my ruse was over. Suddenly the idea of shoveling food into my face didn’t seem appetizing anymore. No amount of sinful casseroles or dolled-up outfits could cover up the fact that I was hiding something. He knew me too well, and I might as well have stamped it on my forehead—he’d seen it coming a mile away.
I sighed, my head falling forward into my hands.
“Am I that obvious?” I asked.
“Well, the dinner was a little much.” He grinned.
“Okay, yeah…you got me there.”
Smooth fingers gripped my chin, tilting it upward until I found myself swimming in the warm glow of his gaze.
“What is it, Ev?”
“I saw August today,” I answered, feeling each word as I tried to maintain eye contact.
His hand fell, the warmth from his touch dissipating like thin air. He slumped into the seat, as I watched his eyes lose focus.
“Did you”—he paused—“seek him out? Did you want to see him?”
And this was why I should have never told him—why I should have never done any of this. The hurt in his words, the anguish he felt in that very moment cut me to the core. That ultimate trust we’d had—it was gone. I could see the first fragments of doubt in his eyes now.
“No, god no, Ryan,” I answered, moving to take his hand in my own. “It was an accident.”
He finally looked at me—an encouraging sign—so I decided to continue. “He was lost. He’s been released from the hospital, and I guess he
decided to take a walk. He wandered into the coffee shop. He wasn’t looking for me.”
A pained laugh escaped his throat as he shook his head.
“I bet he wasn’t,” he said quietly, under his breath.
“Ryan, I honestly don’t think he was trying anything.”
“And what did you do—when he showed up at your door, lost and alone, Everly?” He asked as if he already knew the answer.
“I—I gave him a ride back home.”
He smiled, a tortured smile, as he pulled our joined hands close to his lips. I watched in confusion as he kissed each of my knuckles, slowly. Reverently.
“You’re too damn nice for your own good. Don’t let him get under your skin. Don’t forget, Everly. Don’t ever forget the person he once was.”
I felt him tug gently on my arm and I willingly went to him, just followed him into the bedroom later that night and willingly gave myself to him, promising myself I would do anything to make him forget the pain and distrust he must have felt from the reappearance of August in my life.
I wouldn’t let August come between us.
And yet, later that night…as Ryan slept in our bed, I couldn’t help but think of August sitting among those boxes, wondering. Always wondering and never knowing. And it gnawed at me.
Until I couldn’t stop myself.
I was too damned nice.
Too damned nice and a whole lot of stupid.
Chapter Eight
August
It had been fifteen minutes.
Fifteen of the longest fucking minutes of my life.
Or at least I think it had.
How the hell was I supposed to know? It wasn’t like I had a memory of my life to compare it to.
But as I sat there listening to the latest shrink’s sound machine, as he tried to lull me into a sense of security with the fake sounds of ocean waves and birdcalls, it surely felt like the longest damn time ever in that room.
Was he ever going to talk?
I continued to look around the small but tidy room, taking in the hip gray walls and modern suede couch he sat on across from me. All very different from Dr. Schneider’s preferred dark wood and leather. The furnishings obviously weren’t the only things that differentiated the two men. The lack of communication from this guy was high on the list.
Weren’t psychologists trained to speak? Or was this guy special because he’d been labeled a therapist? Great, I’d probably been stuck with the college dropout. Just like that, the chorus line from “Beauty School Dropout” started running through my head on repeat. I really needed a few good friends around every once and a while to tell me when the Internet was dead wrong about movie suggestions.
I glanced up at him and he gave me a polite, encouraging smile but remained mute. I resisted the temptation to let my head fall back in frustration but finally decided one of us needed to say something. At the very least, I wanted to know if he could indeed speak words. Actual words. From his happy, smiling mouth.
“So, are you going to say anything in this hour…or are we going to just stare at each other for the next”—I glanced at the clock and nearly rolled my eyes. Only two minutes had passed since I’d last looked at the damn thing. “—forty-three minutes?”
The gentle smile returned to his face as he simply shrugged. “This is your session. You can choose to use the time however you wish, August.”
Well, huh—the man could actually form complete sentences.
“So, I’m just supposed to talk? About anything?”
“If that’s what you want,” he responded. His voice sounded very passive, as if he really couldn’t give a fuck whether he was here or not.
“What if I wanted to sit here and do nothing?” I challenged, crossing my arms in front of me defiantly.
Poker-face just continued to smile. “Again—your session, your choice. I get paid no matter what goes on in here so it doesn’t really matter to me one way or another.”
“Isn’t that kind of a crocked way to conduct business?”
His grin widened, and little wrinkles appeared around his dark brown eyes. I’d gotten to him. Good.
“Not really. Why try to help someone who doesn’t want it? It’s frustrating for everyone involved. You don’t have to be here—no one is mandating you seek therapy. It was just highly recommended, and yet here you are. So I’ve got to figure some part of you wants help; otherwise, why bother showing up? So until you figure out what kind of help that is, I’ll just be over here waiting—earning money while I plan my grocery list.”
My mouth hung open for a moment as I tried to formulate my comeback, but I had none.
The damn asshole was right.
No one was forcing me to be here. When I’d been released from the hospital, Dr. Schneider had written down names and numbers for a few therapists and psychologists, underlining this particular one. Schneider had said he was highly recommended, but nothing was required of me after I walked out those doors.
So, why was I here?
I didn’t have an answer.
And neither did Dr. Abrams—that was his name, this crazy doctor with the sound machine, who didn’t speak unless spoken to.
The crazy doctor who was charging me to stare at the dark gray walls of his office until I figured out what was wrong with me.
Me…not him.
This man was a fucking genius.
* * *
The boxes from the attic had been scattered across the living room for weeks now.
I’d unpacked every single one of them and so far hadn’t made any headway into my past by doing so. It was a fool’s errand and I was definitely the fool. Nothing was dated or labeled, and half of the boxes didn’t seem to have any sort of organization whatsoever—as if I’d just thrown random shit into boxes, uncaring whether any of it made any sense whatsoever.
Of course, the younger version of me had probably also figured I’d have all my faculties intact and would be able to make sense of all of it down the road.
Yeah…funny how that all worked out.
There were some nights I contemplated lighting every last box on fire, and roasting marshmallows while all the confusion went up in smoke. But the rational side of me knew I’d regret it. Besides, rational people didn’t start fires in their living rooms, and I was supposed to be proving I was sane. Or at least somewhat sane.
Running a frustrated hand through my hair, I picked up a picture I’d been staring at for the past few hours and sat down on the couch. As I reached for the half-empty bottle of beer I’d been nursing for over an hour, I flipped over the picture once again, somehow hoping that a date or timestamp had magically appeared since the last time I’d checked. But no, the only thing printed over and over diagonally across the back of the print was the word “Kodak”, like so many of the others.
Turning it back around, I skimmed my thumb over the surface as I starred at the younger version of myself.
How odd to recognize yourself in a picture, but have no memory of ever being there.
But there I stood, probably no older than ten. I was standing by the ocean, holding a giant caramel apple in my hand. As I held the picture close, I couldn’t help but notice the huge smile on my face. I wondered who I’d been looking at. My mother or father, maybe? I’d seen pictures of them—or at least I assumed I had, based on what I could deduce from everything. Had I loved them? Where were they now? Were they dead? Had they abandoned me like everyone else when I’d become too volatile to be around?
Looking at the picture, I held it close and noticed something I hadn’t seen before. The hand that held the caramel apple had a tiny bandage—cotton, white and large, wrapped around my left thumb. Maybe I’d climbed a tree or tried my skills as a chef? Wondering what had happened, I instantly glanced down and saw a faint scar just below my thumbnail I’d never noticed until that moment.
The discovery made me feel ill. The sudden realization was like a tidal wave and I felt like I might drown in the deluge of m
emories from my former life.
It was too much.
I’d been up late the other night and caught the last few minutes of this old film where an entire town had been taken over by body-snatching aliens. That’s how I felt. I wasn’t August Kincaid. I was just someone who inhabited his body, and somehow I was expected to take over as if nothing had ever happened. Go on as if life were normal.
Life for me would never be normal again.
Not unless I started getting my memories back, and I couldn’t bank on that. It had already been weeks since I’d come out of the coma and not a single memory had surfaced. Every day that passed just felt like further proof I’d never regain anything that was lost.
Finishing my beer in one long swig, I threw the picture back on the pile and rose to my feet. I needed air and I needed away from this house. I’d done nothing but comb through this mess for the last few weeks and suddenly the air in here felt stifling and stale.
I headed for the front door intent on walking out my frustrations, but made sure to grab my cell phone. With my address now programmed into my phone’s GPS app, at least now I wouldn’t get lost in this maze of a neighborhood I lived in.
Shaking my head as I locked the deadbolt, I remembered the awkwardness between Everly and me on the day she’d driven me home. How much had I hurt her to cause so much pain and tension between us? How could love have become so excruciating? I honestly wasn’t sure I wanted to know. What would I learn about myself? Some things you can’t unlearn.
When I took a deep breath, the salty air seemed to help clear my thoughts. I walked down the street. It was a weekday, still early in the afternoon, so the only sounds were the waves pounding against the nearby cliffs and the occasional bird or passing car. I’d realized shortly after moving back into this house of mine that this wasn’t like the neighborhoods I’d seen on TV or movies, where children played in the streets and neighbors talked between driveways.
After a bit of hunting around on the Internet, I’d realized I was living among movie stars and millionaires. Sea Cliffs was like the Beverly Hills of San Francisco, and somehow I’d managed to snag a little piece of it for myself.
