by JB Salsbury
I sit up in bed and clutch my legs to my chest. “My memories. They’re coming back.”
“Okay,” he says cautiously. “We knew they might eventually. Are you having nightmares? Depression? Anxiety?”
I close my eyes. “Can I trust them? Are they really memories, or are they my imagination?”
Dr. Madison takes the next fifteen minutes to talk me through my feelings and explains the neuroscience behind my regained memories. He asks me to make an appointment to see my therapist—another person I let go of years ago when I realized there was no progress to be made.
When I hang up the phone, I get the gist of what he explained.
My memories are coming back.
Kingston was in my life before the accident, and he may have been the cause.
He may be responsible for my life being ripped from me.
Kingston
“It’s open!” I say from my prone position on the couch to the person who just knocked on my front door.
I haven’t locked my door since the morning Gabriella left days ago. I also haven’t left my couch. I keep thinking she’ll change her mind, that she’ll come back, and I don’t want to miss the chance to see her. To talk to her. To explain.
She’s refusing my calls and won’t respond to my texts. The only thing left to do is hunt her down.
The click from the front door opening would normally send me to my feet with the hope of seeing Gabriella, but I know who’s here because she texted me saying she was coming over for an intervention.
“Smells like two-day-old Chinese food in here,” Jordan says as she comes through the door. “Oh, look. Two-day old Chinese food.” She grabs the white cartons filled with food that I barely picked at and tosses them in the trash.
I stare at the blank television screen and listen to her tidying up behind me. Empty booze bottles hit the recycling container, and she gags as she rinses out days-old cereal I couldn’t swallow.
She circles the couch and shoves aside empty glasses on the coffee table to sit across from me. She sighs. “You look like shit.”
I grunt. “I feel like shit.”
“Alexander told me what happened.” She leans forward with her elbows on her knees. “For what it’s worth? I believe you. I don’t think you’d turn on North Industries like that.”
“Huh?”
She frowns. “Ms. Coleman? August firing you?”
“Oh, that.”
“I have to admit.” She takes me in, from my dirty, messy hair to my stained sweatpants that I haven’t taken off since Gabriella left—time just stopped the second she walked out of my life. She continues, “I didn’t think you’d take the firing this hard.”
I roll to my back and rub my eyes and scratch the stubble on my face.
“Alexander said you’d be over here packing up. We have the spare bedroom ready for you.”
I drop my hands from my face and look at her. Her expression is neutral, but there’s worry in her eyes. “I’m not leaving.” Gabriella might be back, and I want to be here when and if she comes around. And it’s only a matter of time before my phone is shut off, seeing as it’s paid for by North Industries.
Jesus, when did I become so entwined with North Industries that parting ways meant that I lost my job, income, home, and my fucking phone?
Her brows pinch together. “But Alexander said—”
“I’m not leaving!”
Rather than recoil from my outburst, she narrows her gaze and leans closer. She studies me now with a scrutiny that makes me shift uneasily under her inspection.
“What?” I snap.
“This has nothing to do with North Industries, does it?” She looks around my place as if seeing it all under a different light. Her gaze comes back to me. “Gabriella?”
The groan that responds to her name is one of pain and regret.
She takes in a deep breath and blows it out slowly. “Okay, this makes a lot more sense. What happened?”
The death grip that squeezes my chest makes it impossible to take a full breath. “I screwed up,” I grunt without enough oxygen.
“You North men seem to do that, but rarely without a good reason.”
I throw my forearm over my eyes. “I can’t let her go. I’ve tried, and I can’t.” My voice cracks.
Her warm palm lands on my shoulder, and she squeezes. “Hey, it’ll be okay. Gabriella really cares about you. Just give her some time. Maybe she’ll come around.”
“My only hope is that she does. Which is why I’m not leaving.”
“August’s realtor is going to be here to list the place, so we need to get you packed up and out of here.”
“I said I’m not—”
“Kingston,” she says and pulls my arm away from my eyes. “How long are you going to lay around here and let life happen to you? What is it going to take for you to get the fuck up and make your life your own?” She hops to her feet and uses both hands and all her strength to pull me upright. “We do not lie around and go whichever way the wind blows us. We make our own destiny.”
My shoulders slump. “That seems like a lot of work.”
“It is the most gratifying work you’ll ever do, which, in turn, makes it not feel like work at all.” She pulls me to my feet and pushes me toward the hallway. “Hot shower, stat. Dress in comfortable clothes. We have a lot of work to do.”
“I’m not leave—”
“You are.” She gives me one final shove into my bathroom. “And once you do, we’re coming up with a plan to get your life back. And hopefully, Gabriella comes with that.”
I suck in a shuddered breath and drag my feet to the shower.
I want to believe that Jordan’s idea is possible because imagining a life without Gabriella is no life at all.
I remember. I lived without her before.
I can’t do it again.
Twenty-Six
Kingston
Thanks to Jordan, I was packed and moved in a matter of days. My first night sleeping in Alexander and Jordan’s guest room was a sleepless night filled with fears that I may never see Gabriella again. Never get the chance to explain. Wanting to be close to her for one last time, I headed back to my old condo praying the locks hadn’t been changed yet.
Just as I hoped, walking through my empty Lenox Hill condo for the last time, I see Gabriella everywhere. Her turning around to laugh at me from her position on the couch, her sitting on the island after stepping on glass, and her in my room. Even with the furniture gone, I can still see her sleeping on the bed as if nothing had changed.
But everything has changed.
With each day that passes, the dread of never seeing her again grows and kills what little hope I clung to.
I stare out my old bedroom window to the city and all of the millions of New Yorkers, wondering where she is. Has she already forgotten about me? Or does her hatred for me fuel her resolve to stay away?
Sick and tired of wallowing in my own pity party, I say one final goodbye to my now-empty closet.
I walk leisurely down the hallway, knowing this will be the last time, and stop in my tracks when I see Gabriella standing in the foyer, her hands gripped tightly on her purse at her stomach.
She must sense me because she turns abruptly toward me. Her hands fist tighter onto her bag.
Am I dreaming? Is she really here? “You came back?” I soften my voice so as not to scare her away.
“I tried to call.” She makes an attempt to relax her shoulders and appear less nervous, but I can see the tension in her expression.
“My phone is disconnected.” I take a few steps closer, cautious not to get too close.
“You’re moving.”
I nod and take another step closer. “I’m living with Alex.” I want her to know where to find me.
Her gaze darts around the empty space, but only for a second before coming back to me. As if I’m a dangerous animal she has to keep in sight. “I need to talk to you.”
“Of course. There’s a coffee
shop down the street. We can—”
“No. Here is fine. It’ll be quick, and then I’ll get out of your hair.”
The weight of what she’s saying sinks against my shoulders, and I nod. At least she’s here now, and for that, I’m grateful. “What did you want to talk to me about?”
She breathes in through her nose and juts out her chin. “The night of the accident.”
My pulse skips and races.
“I have gaps in my memory, and I need you to fill them.”
“I don’t know—”
“You led me to believe we were strangers. I trusted you to the degree that we made love, Kingston.” Her eyes glisten with unshed tears, but she beats them back with anger. “You owe me the truth. And I’m not leaving until I get it. All of it.”
I run both hands through my hair and nod. “Okay. I’ll tell you everything.” I crank my mind back to where it all began. “It was the last day of your freshman year, the night of your final performance at Julliard.”
Three years ago…
Gabriella
“I don’t care what you say, you’re coming with me.” Ainsley hooks her arm in mine as we leave the backstage of the Peter Jay Sharp Theater.
The applause ended an hour ago, and the audience is gone. The last of the dancers, including Ainsley and me, leave our first year at Julliard behind.
“I’m so tired,” I whine as she drags me across the street toward our residence hall.
She pulls out her phone and smiles at whatever she sees on the screen. “You just need a drink. That’ll perk you up.”
“Or put me right to sleep.”
“How old are you again?” She punches out a reply text. “Because you sound like my mom.”
“Not old enough to drink, but neither are you.”
We get to our dorm room and drop our dance bags. My twin bed calls me, but Ainsley is right. How can I not celebrate the completion of my freshman year?
“This guy will buy for us.” She grabs her robe and heads for the bathroom. “He wants us to meet him in an hour, so we have to get showered fast.” The excitement in her voice and the sparkle in her eyes make me groan.
“Hold on. Which guy is this? Please tell me it’s not that nouveau-riche guy who’s always flirting obnoxiously.” I work on releasing my hair from my ballet bun. “What’s his name? Kingsley?”
“Kingston.”
“More like Queenston,” I mumble to myself. The guy dresses as if he’s an offspring of Elton John and David Gandy.
“And you’re in no position to call anyone nouveau-riche, Miss Sterling-Penn.” She shakes out her tightly wound hair.
Touché. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather eat our weight in carbs?” I fall back onto my bed, thinking carbs in bed seems like a lot more fun than fighting off the advances of rich, drunk dudes.
“You’re coming out. The topic is not up for discussion.” She disappears into the bathroom.
I down an energy drink to rally and get myself cleaned up but make little effort getting ready. Jeans, a lightweight sweater, and Converse. Ainsley’s stunning in a short dress and heels. Good, she’ll catch all the eyes tonight, and I can fade into the background.
An hour and fifteen minutes later, we walk out of our dorm and climb into a cab.
“The Yacht Club,” Ainsley tells the driver.
“The Yacht Club?” In the past, we’ve met this guy out at parties or swanky restaurants. Not that I’ve ever hung out for long. As soon as Ainsley was properly draped against him, I’d grab a cab home.
“Don’t sound so surprised. The guy is loaded.”
“Are you guys dating?” I’ve found it nearly impossible to connect with friends in the last few months, much less romantic possibilities. If I’m not in class, in rehearsals, or sleeping, I’m doing laundry or having a meal with my parents, and neither of those happens often enough. How Ainsley manages a social life is beyond me. The only reason we’ve remained friends is because we’re roommates and in the ballet program together.
“I wish.” She checks her makeup on her phone camera. “I’ve made it clear that I’m interested…”
From what I’ve seen, she’s made it more than clear. She’s thrown herself at him on more than one occasion.
“…but he never takes the bait.”
“So why exactly are we meeting up with him again?”
“He keeps inviting us out, so he must be interested. Maybe he just wants to get to know me better before jumping into anything.” Satisfied with her face, she puts her phone back into her purse. “Anyway, he’s hot.” Her eyes light up with excitement. “I’m not giving up on him yet.”
He’s leading her on. Now I really don’t like him. I see my night play out in my head—me, drinking alone, while Ainsley flirts obnoxiously, and he rejects her to fluff his own ego.
We pay the cab and hop out at the Yacht Club marina. The scent of seafood and sunbaked bay water is not an unpleasant one. The inside of the clubhouse is decorated in marine-time décor ala Ralph Lauren—red, white, and blue mixed with rusty ship anchors, steering wheels, and flags on the walls.
I follow Ainsley to the bar, wondering if I should’ve dressed in something nicer because I’m getting a major dress code vibe in this place. Or maybe it’s just because the average age of those inside is at least twenty-five years older than us.
“Oh, my God, there he is,” Ainsley says.
The guy looks completely out of place in a sea of sport coats and golf shirts. He’s tall, lean, wearing fitted black slacks that are rolled up, with red socks and black combat boots. His shirt is bright red silk and covered in little tigers. The whole ensemble would look clownlike if he didn’t wear it so well. He has the kind of face that belongs on a Houston Street billboard.
“You made it,” he says, and he’s not looking at Ainsley. He’s looking directly at me.
“Yes, I dragged her out.” Ainsley smiles up at him adoringly. “Let’s get her a drink before she changes her mind.”
“She won’t change her mind.” He smirks. More cocky than confident. “What do you want to drink?”
“To get through this night? Dirty Kettle One martini with two olives.”
“I’ll try to at least make it memorable,” he says smoothly and turns to the bartender to order our drinks.
I pull out cash to pay for my drink.
“They don’t accept cash here.” He eyes my twenty bucks as if it’s colorful Monopoly money. As if he finds it and my offer to pay cute. “Drinks on me.” He scoots the frosted martini glass toward me.
“Thanks, um…. what was your name again?”
He turns back from placing his order, a smirk on his lips. “Kingston.”
I hold up my glass in an air toast. “Thanks for the drink, Kingsley.”
His eyes narrow, but his lips tip up on the ends. “You’re welcome, Bee.”
Ugh. I take down a healthy sip and try not to react to the burning booze as it slides down my throat.
“Come on. We have a table over here.” He leads us out to the patio that sits on the docks, where multi-million-dollar yachts are docked next to fancy sailboats and a handful of smaller speedboats. “Gabriella, Ainsley, this is my friend, Remy.”
His friend doesn’t have nearly the same fashion standards as Kingston. He’s wearing an untucked blue polo shirt with tan cargo shorts. He’s a prep-school guy, complete with the slip-on Sperrys. He’s attractive but not nearly as eye-catching as Kingston. Not that I’m looking at either of them in that way. We say hello and head to a table outside. Conversation between us comes easily with Remy. We talk about school and our most recent recital, and he talks about his classes at NYU. He’s a couple of years older, legal drinking age, but his stories of fraternity pranks and parties make him sound much younger.
I notice Kingston doesn’t participate in the stories at all.
He’s hardly spoken a word.
I catch him watching me several times, and whereas most people would look away, ashame
d at being caught, he only tilts his head and stares longer, more directly, every time I catch him.
“What about you, Kingston?” Ainsley leans into him.
“What about me?” he says without looking at her.
Ainsley does her best to entice him into conversation, entice him into her, but he acts as though she’s an annoying fly at our midnight picnic.
What an asshole. He invited her just to ignore her? Ego much?
Emboldened by my martini, I face him directly. “What? Is there something on my face?”
I feel Ainsley tense at my side, probably worried I’m going to ruin the whole night.
He grins as if amused by my irritation. “Not that I can see. If you want to come closer—”
“Pass.” I swallow back the last of my drink.
“You don’t like me.” His observation makes him chuckle.
My guess is he’s used to women falling at his feet, laughing at all his jokes, begging for his dick.
“I don’t know you,” I say, even though he’s right. I’ve had these types of men thrown at me since I was old enough to date. Words and phrases like pedigree, he comes from a good family, and he’d make a good provider have haunted my young adult years. Don’t let feelings cloud your judgment. Pick smart, Gabriella. As if I’m buying a racehorse rather than dating.
“If you knew me, you’d like me.”
“Doubt it.”
“Is that a challenge?”
“No. It’s called rejection. A new concept to you, I’m sure.”
“Gabby,” Ainsley hisses. She mouths stop.
I hold my hands up. “I’m going to the restroom.”
Or maybe I’ll call an Uber and text Ainsley that I took off.
Kingston
“Damn, your friend is a bitch,” Remy says to Ainsley the second Gabriella is out of earshot.
“I know,” she replies. “I shouldn’t have brought her.”
“No,” I say. “I’m glad you did.” I look at the eager-faced blonde. She’s an attractive woman, but she’s not the reason I’m here tonight.
I’m here for Gabriella.
