Broken With You

by J. Kenner

  “Exactly. Essentially what we’ve been doing, but kicked up a notch. Before, it was almost academic. They’d dumped me like garbage, but where was the rush? Now, we know there’s something in my head they want. Which means I caught wind of something specific they’re up to. We need to know what. And the sooner the better.”

  She crossed the patio to him, then stood right in front of him. She bent, cupped his face, then kissed him ever-so-gently on the mouth.

  Then she pulled back, a sad little smile touching her lips as she said, very simply, “No.”

  13

  I shouldn’t have kissed him.

  I don’t know what the hell I was thinking, but I know that I absolutely shouldn’t have kissed him. It was just an innocent peck. A friendly touch. But, dammit, it opened a door I should have kept firmly shut.

  Now, my lips tingle from the memory. I can still recall his scent. Can still hear the way he drew in a sharp breath in surprise at my boldness.

  Most of all, I want more. Want him.

  It’s as if I struck a match and now my whole body is on fire, every hormone buzzing and humming. My nipples are tight. My skin so sensitive. I flipped a switch that I had no right to touch, but the truth is that I don’t regret it at all.

  I’d felt so helpless after Seagrave’s call had awakened me. The colonel had given me the entire rundown of Mason’s meeting with Dr. Tam. And knowing that Mason intended to take such extreme risks because he was worried about me, was like getting a hard punch to my gut.

  “He stormed out,” Seagrave had told me. “I imagine he needed time to think, but I don’t like leaving him alone that long.”

  Neither did I, and the relief that had washed over me when I found him here at our house—right where he belongs—was like sunshine blooming inside me.

  He was Mason in that moment, not Jack. He was my husband, asleep in our home, his focus on protecting me.

  And then he’d called me Denny, and it had taken all of my strength not to cry.

  It was all too much, and I’d needed that one, tiny kiss to ground me.

  Still, I shouldn’t have done it. I shouldn’t have opened that door.

  Now, I lean against the kitchen counter and draw a breath, gathering myself. In front of me, the coffee maker’s automatic timer triggers, and I hear the gurgle and hiss as it starts to brew.

  Behind me, I hear Mason open the door.

  “No?” He says the word as if no time at all has passed. As if I haven’t wandered down long roads in my mind, only to come back here to my kitchen and my problems. “You can’t just shut me down with a no.”

  “Yeah, I can.” I draw a breath and then turn to face him. His expression of determined frustration is so familiar that I almost laugh. I really do know this man so well. “You want to dig deep into your past? Peachy keen. But you can’t do it alone because, hello, you don’t remember your past. So, yeah, I can say no. And that’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  “Then I’ll find someone else.” He takes a step toward me. His jeans are dusty, his T-shirt wrinkled. His jaw is shadowed with stubble and his hair goes every which direction. He looks tired and irritated and amazing, and all I want to do is pull him into my arms, kiss him, and tell him to shut up about doing stupid things.

  “No,” I repeat. “You won’t.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  He’s only inches away, his eyes boring into mine as if he can read the answer on my soul. I reach up without thinking and cup his face, his stubble scratchy against my palm. I see the spark flare in his eyes, and I draw in a breath, feeling it—fighting it—too.

  “I know what could happen,” I tell him gently. “Seagrave’s call woke me up and he told me everything.”

  He starts to turn away, but I lift my other hand and hold him in place, my gaze never wavering. “It’s amazing that you would take that risk for me, but I won’t let you. I won’t let you risk losing yourself.”

  “That’s not your decision to make.”

  “And,” I add, ignoring him, “I can’t handle the thought of losing you that way. I’ve already lost most of you. Don’t steal the rest from me because of some bullshit sense of chivalry.”

  For a moment, we just look at each other, the air thick between us. Then he takes a step back. I lower my hands, releasing his face.

  He reaches out and, very gently, runs the tip of his finger over the thin, red cut that the Face’s blade left on my neck. “I don’t like seeing you in danger.”

  “I’m not crazy about it either, but it comes with the job description.”

  He sighs, then sits in his usual spot at our breakfast table. “This whole situation is fucked up.”

  “No argument from me.” I sit across from him, just like I have for so many mornings. “Thank you,” I say.

  His brow furrows. “For what?”

  “For being willing to take such a huge risk for me. Just because I won’t let you go through with it doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate it.”

  His mouth curves into a wry grin. “You’re welcome,” he says, then stands up and heads to the coffee maker. I stay seated, thinking about another risk he took about four months ago on Valentine’s Day, our anniversary. A day when he broke cover to come to me, knowing how desperately I was missing him.

  Not that he ever admitted that it was him. And not that I saw him. Our reunion had rules, and one was that I was blindfolded.

  But I know my husband’s body. His touch.

  And I know that it was him who made love to me that night. That one magical respite in a sea of days and months and years apart.

  “You’re smiling,” he says as he returns to the table with coffee for both of us.

  “Why shouldn’t I be? It’s a lovely day, and I woke up to find one of my favorite people on my patio.”

  He laughs. “I don’t know, Denny. Sounds like you’re too easy to please.”

  “Denny,” I repeat as I lift my coffee cup. I look at him over the rim. “Mason used to call me that. He was about the only one who would until Quince decided to take it up.”

  I shouldn’t be telling him this. It’s edging too close to the truth. But I can’t seem to help myself.

  “Does it bother you?”

  I press my lips together in an effort to battle back the tears that threaten. Then I shake my head. “No.”

  Almost as a diversion, I lift the cup to my lips, breathing in the coffee scent I usually love, but I realize I don’t want it and put the cup back down.

  After a moment, I notice that Mason’s staring at me, his brow furrowed. Jack, I remind myself. But it’s getting harder and harder to remember.

  “What?” I ask as he continues to study me.

  “Coffee.”

  My brows rise. “Yes. Good call. What was your first clue? The smell? Or the glass container of grounds sitting next to the machine?”

  He ignores my sarcasm, and when he speaks, his voice is low and a little unsteady. “I remember,” he says. “I remember you and coffee. Always a cup in your hand. Always making jokes about needing your caffeine hit.”

  I sit back, my body going cold as my stomach churns.

  He cocks his head, looking at me. “You haven’t taken even one sip. Are you feeling okay?”

  I ignore the question. “You remember? You’re not just piecing together things you’ve seen since you showed up at the SSA?”

  “I don’t kn—” He cuts himself off, and I watch as a violent shiver cuts through him. He’s looking down at the table, his hands tightening on the edge. When he lifts his face, there’s triumph in his eyes. “I remember.”

  A shock of joy cuts through me and my throat goes dry. “Everything?” My voice is raspy, my entire being on edge.

  He shakes his head, the triumph fading, and I feel like a total heel. “No. No, not everything. Hardly anything, I suppose.”

  I reach across the table and take his hand, squeezing hard. “That’s okay,” I say. “You remember coffee. And me. I think that�
��s a hell of a good start.”

  His mouth twitches, then curves into a smile. “Yeah,” he says. “I suppose it is.”

  “So you remember my coffee habit. What about yours?”

  For a second, he looks blank. Then his face clears. “I don’t have one. Not a habit, anyway. I drink a single cup in the morning, then I switch to smoothies. Greens and protein. I make them myself…” He trails off, shifting in his chair as his gaze locks onto the Vitamix that sits near the coffee maker. He frowns, and for a moment I wonder if he’s putting it together. If he’s realizing that he’s Mason. That he’s my husband.

  But he just frowns and says, “A contraption like that. Every morning. Right?”

  I shrug, trying to look nonchalant. “As far as I know.”

  “Okay. Good. This is good. What else?”

  “We’re not going to push, remember?”

  “That wasn’t a push,” he says. “That was a memory. A real, live, fucking memory.”

  I get up and take my coffee to the sink, then dump it. My back’s to him, and I allow myself a bright smile and a silent sigh of relief. Maybe his memory really will come back. Maybe—

  “Hey.”

  I whirl around to find him right behind me. Immediately, my pulse kicks up, and I pray he doesn’t notice.

  “What’s up with that?” he asks, nodding toward the sink.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I remember coffee and so you dump it?”

  He’s teasing, I know, but I feel unreasonably defensive anyway. “I’m not changing my habit because I want to mess with your head.”

  He lifts his hands in supplication. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to—”

  “No, I’m the one who’s sorry. I’ve got some sort of stomach bug, and it’s been lingering. I shouldn’t have snapped. Feeling bad is making me moody.” I take a deep breath, willing myself to feel better. “It’ll pass,” I add. “It always does.”

  Something important flits into my mind, then flits right back out again. A thought. Something I should heed. But damned if I can lock onto it.

  Frustrated, I shake my head, then focus on Mason. “Listen,” I say, “I have an idea.”

  He takes a step back, his hands sliding into the pockets of his jeans. “I’m listening.”

  “I’m not going to tell you stories about the past like I’m some modern version of Homer,” I begin.

  “But?”

  I roll my eyes, but I’m secretly delighted by the interruption. Because that’s exactly how Mason would interrupt.

  “But,” I continue, “you and I did a lot of stuff together, even outside work. And I’m thinking maybe we should cover some of that ground. See if it trips any memories.”

  “You mean play hooky today.” His smile lights his face, and I match it.

  “That’s exactly what I mean.”

  “Lead the way.”

  “Really?” I plan to start with the beach, and I know that lunch will be on the agenda. One of the places that Mason and I haunted regularly. I take a quick look at Jack, then frown. “You look like you slept in your clothes.”

  “That would be because I did.”

  I smirk. “Do you want something else to wear?”

  “Do you have something?”

  “You and Mason are about the same size,” I say casually. “You can borrow whatever you want.”

  He stays still for a moment, and I begin to fear that I’ve somehow gone too far. But then he nods and smiles. “Let me borrow the shower, too, and we have a deal.”

  14

  “You remember how to ride a bike well enough,” I say, as we both bring our bicycles to a stop. We’ve been riding for the last hour, first on the Venice Beach bike path, and then through the cute little neighborhoods of the coastal LA-area town.

  “Let’s walk for a bit,” he says. “I saw someplace I want to check out.”

  “Someplace you remember?”

  “Maybe.”

  I’d been about to suggest food, but since his plan sounds promising, I decide to ignore my growling stomach, appeasing it with only a long swig of water from my bottle. The bikes are ours—not that Mason realizes that he’s riding his own bike—and we brought them here from Silver Lake on the rack that’s a semi-permanent fixture on the back of my Highlander.

  Now, we lock them back onto the car, and I follow Mason’s lead as he weaves us back toward Windward, one of the main streets that runs perpendicular to the ocean.

  He twists and turns and obviously knows where he’s going. I’m honestly not paying that much attention. Instead, I’m lost in my thoughts, wondering how he can remember his way around a town but not his wife.

  Which is why I’m completely blown away when he stops at a corner, points down the street, and says, “There. We passed it earlier, and I want to go in.”

  He’s pointing at Totally Tattoo.

  “Do you remember that place?” My mouth is so dry it’s hard to get the question out.

  “Honestly? I’m not sure. I think so. I thought we could go in and ask them if that’s where I got this.” He taps the tribal band below the sleeve of the Grateful Dead T-shirt he “borrowed” from Mason.

  I follow him toward the shop, forcing myself not to cross my fingers. I want so bad for it all to flood back. Maybe it’s foolish, but I can’t help but think that if he just finds the right key, all of his memories will ease back into their proper little boxes.

  Could our wedding tattoo be that key?

  All the chairs in the parlor are full, but Cass herself isn’t doing anyone’s art. Instead, she’s sitting at the counter, her laptop open and a scowl on her face.

  “What a warm and welcoming look for those of us entering the shop,” I say with a laugh.

  “Hey, you two,” she says, glancing up. Her hair has streaks of magenta today, and she’s wearing it in a ponytail, probably to keep it out of her way as she works.

  “Bookkeeping?” I ask.

  “The devil’s work,” she says. “I’m absolutely sure of it.” She smiles at Mason, and I hope she remembers that for the time being, he’s Jack. “Did you have fun at Westerfield’s?”

  “I did,” he says, his eyes cutting to me. As for Cass, her gaze shifts between Jack and me, and she looks a little too much like a girl with a secret. Honestly, I love Cass, but it’s a good thing she doesn’t work in my profession.

  “I didn’t realize this was your place,” Jack says. “Denny told you about my memory?”

  Cass’s eyes widen as she looks at me, obviously unsure if she’s allowed to be in the know. I nod, and she visibly exhales. “Yeah. No offense, but it’s like something in a movie.”

  “I suppose this is the town for it,” he says. “I was wondering what you know about this.” He taps the tattoo, and once again Cass looks to me.

  Jack laughs. “Never mind. Got my answer.”

  “Oh, shit. I’m sorry,” she says to me. “Was I not supposed to say anything?”

  “You didn’t say anything,” Jack points out.

  “It’s fine,” I tell her. “Jack remembered your storefront and thought this might be where he got the tattoo. It’s fine that you confirmed, but you can’t tell him anything else about it.” I look at her hard, willing her to understand. “It’s important that all the memories come from him. No prompting.”

  “Sure. Right. I’ve totally got it.”

  “I just want to know when you—” Jack begins, but I cut him off with a shake of my head.

  “No,” I say. “Take a seat, soak up the atmosphere, meditate if you want to. But nobody is going to just plop facts in your lap. Okay?”

  He doesn’t answer, but he does walk to a display wall and start looking at photos of some of the ink the shop’s turned out.

  “Can I talk to you for a sec?” Cass asks me. “You’re okay for a bit, right, Jack?”

  “I’ll be here,” he says wryly. “Lost in my memories.”

  I roll my eyes and follow her into the back storeroom.
/>   “What’s up?” I ask, expecting to hear a blow by blow of her evening with the cute blonde she was talking to at Westerfield’s.

  Instead, she says, “Are you ever planning on telling me? I mean, I get that you didn’t want to talk about it before, what with him being gone. But now that he’s back and he can’t even know … I guess I just figured you’d need someone to talk to.”

  My stomach twists, but I’m not sure if it’s nausea or dread. “What are you talking about?” But even as I ask the question, I know.

  Cass leans forward. “Seriously?”

  “I can’t be.” I shake my head. “I can’t possibly be pregnant.”

  “Wait. Whoa. Back up. You really didn’t think about it before? And yes you can. Four months ago, remember? He was here. With you. On Valentine’s Day.” Her brow furrows. “Are you telling me you’ve had your period since then? Because if that’s the case, then maybe you’re just sick, and—”

  “I haven’t,” I say, feeling like the world’s biggest fool. “I never got them regularly, and I’m on the pill so I never thought about it.”

  “And I’m guessing you weren’t that careful about the pill, what with Mason being gone.”

  I nod. “And I don’t keep track on a calendar because why bother? It’s not like I’ve had sex in forever.”

  “Except for Valentine’s Day.” She takes my hands. “Is this good or bad?”

  I look up into her blurry face and realize I’m crying. I pull one hand free and wipe my tears, then suck in a watery breath. “Good,” I say. “Of course it’s good. Mason’s child. But—”

  “You can’t tell him.”

  I shake my head. “I can’t tell Mason because he doesn’t know he’s Mason. And I can’t tell Jack because he knows how long Mason’s been gone.” I choke out an ironic laugh. “I don’t want him to think I cheated on my husband.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s kind of a mess.”

  “But a good mess,” she says, pulling me into a hug as I nod. “You should take a test just to be sure.”

  “I will. But I’m sure.” Now that we’ve said it out loud, I don’t know how I could have been so blind for so long. I can only assume that my subconscious didn’t want to think about being pregnant without Mason here to go through it with me. Denial. Big time.