Broken With You

by J. Kenner

  And now that he is here … well, part of me still wants to ignore it while another part of me wants to sing with joy.

  “Ready to go out and face him?” she asks. “Or do you want to sneak out the back and I can say you were kidnapped by fairies?”

  “A nice offer, but I’ll go with door number one.” I draw a breath, square my shoulders, and head back out.

  “What do you think?” he says, pointing to a picture of a guy with a shaved head and a tattoo of a tree going up the back of his neck to burst into leaves on his scalp. “Is it me?”

  It’s kind of cool in theory. But Mason, it’s not.

  “Come on,” I say, taking his hand as he grins. “I want an ice cream and a walk in the surf.”

  He glances over at Cass. “How do I say no to that?”

  “I don’t think you do,” she says. She wiggles her fingers in a goodbye gesture, then adds, “If you remember more about getting the band and want to ask me questions, you know where to find me. And don’t worry,” she adds to me, “I won’t tell any more than I’m supposed to.”

  I nod. But I don’t know if she’s talking about the tattoo, the baby, or both.

  “Is this something else we use to do,” Jack asks later as we walk through the surf. I have my shoes in one hand. The other swings beside me, and more than once it’s bumped Jack’s free hand. It feels flirty, like we’re on a date. And under the circumstances, I like the way I feel a little more than I should.

  Which, of course, is totally unfair. He’s my husband. I’m supposed to be able to hold his hand and romp in the surf. I’m supposed to be able to tell him about our baby. I’m supposed to be able to stop and kiss him. I’m supposed to be able to say, “I love you.”

  But I can’t. Not yet.

  And today especially, that breaks my heart.

  “Are you okay?”

  I realize I’ve slowed down and have fallen behind him.

  “Yeah. I am. Sorry. I’ve just been thinking.”

  “Me too.” He tilts his head inland. “Can I buy you dinner?”

  “Sure.” It occurs to me that Seagrave must have set up a full Jack Sawyer identity, which would include Jack Sawyer credit cards and bank accounts. I hadn’t thought about it before, and those aren’t the kind of details that usually escape me.

  What do they call it? Baby brain?

  We walk silently to Blacklist, a restaurant Mason and I frequent when we’re in the area. Usually, we sit at one of the sidewalk tables, but today he leads me inside to a small table in a dark corner.

  We order, then sit in an awkward silence until the waiter returns with our food. Cheese fries to share, a sparkling water for me, and a beer for Jack. He takes a sip, looking like a man seeking liquid courage, then puts his glass down.

  “What’s going on?” I ask, hearing trepidation in my own voice.

  “We need to talk,” he says, and I wonder if he overheard Cass and me talking about the baby. And about who he really is.

  For a moment, I’m giddy. Because if that’s the case, then Dr. Tam was wrong. He had the truth dumped on him, and his brain is just fine.

  Then he says, “I know you loved your husband,” and my little fantasy goes poof, replaced by my hard, sharp-edged, strange reality.

  “I did,” I say. “I do.”

  “Of course. I didn’t mean to suggest—” He cuts off the words. “My point is that I know that. And I’d never try to suggest that you don’t love Mason or that you should try to get over him.”

  I frown, not understanding where he’s going with this.

  “I should probably just keep my mouth shut, but we know I have to get my memory back, right?”

  I nod.

  “And that means I have to look at all my memories.”

  “Jack, I’m really not following you.”

  He sighs. “Look, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. I don’t want to ruin our friendship. I’m asking you this because we are friends. Because even if this is something you want to leave behind, I trust you to give me an honest answer, okay?”

  “You’re kind of freaking me out.”

  “Okay?” he repeats, and I nod.

  “Yes. Of course. Okay.”

  He draws a breath, then looks down at his hands where he’s been ripping his napkin into tiny shreds. I still have no idea what he’s going to say, but I definitely know that he’s nervous.

  “Before when we worked together—even when Mason was around—was there … I mean, were we … oh, hell. Were we having an affair?”

  I’d been about to take a sip of my water. Now I freeze, the glass suspended there. Slowly, I return it to the table. “Why do you ask that?”

  He sighs. “Vague memories. The way Cass looked between us—as if there was more connection than just partners. The way I see you looking at me sometimes. The clothes in your closet that fit me and don’t feel like another man’s clothes. The Vitamix that makes me wonder if I left it at your house to make my mornings easier. The way I knew where you were going to sit at the breakfast table. The way—”

  “Okay. I get it.”

  “—the way your kiss this morning felt like—”

  “Like what?” I whisper when he cuts himself off, leaving silence hanging between us.

  He hesitates, his focus on the napkin shreds. Then he lifts his eyes to mine. “Like coming home.”

  “Jack, I—” I take a long sip of water, then stand, my mind racing. “Excuse me,” I say, then hurry to the ladies’ room before he can stop me.

  In the small space, I clutch the counter and lean forward, staring at myself in the mirror as his question swirls through my mind. Literally, the answer is no, because I’ve never cheated on my husband, and Jack ... Mason, whoever he is, wouldn’t ever betray a friend. And I don’t want him thinking that he’s the kind of man that would.

  But the core of his question—the are we together part—well, the answer to that is yes.

  Except I can’t tell him so without risking destroying him. Literally destroying him, since, “Why no, honey, we’re not having an affair because we’re married,” is exactly the kind of memory trigger that Dr. Tam is certain would set off a horrible chain reaction.

  Bottom line, I have to lie. I have to tell this man I love and am desperately attracted to that I don’t want him. That I’ve never wanted him. Because he’s Jack and I’m married to Mason, and neither of those men are the type who would cheat with their partner or a friend’s wife.

  With a sigh, I press my hand over my belly. “Your mommy is a mess,” I say. “And Daddy’s not doing too great either.”

  I draw in a breath for courage, open the door, and step out into the dark alcove that separates the dining area from the kitchen and restrooms.

  I don’t see him until he says, “Denny.” Then I turn and find him in the farthest corner. And, because I’m a fool, I go to him.

  I start to speak, but before I can utter a word, he takes my wrist and pulls me close. I only have time to gasp before his arm is wrapped tight around my waist and his mouth closes over mine. And, damn me, I can’t help it. I melt into his embrace. My mouth opens to his and our kiss is deep and hot and oh, so wild.

  It’s everything I want, everything I need, and I feel the surge of our connection pulsing through me. I want him so badly. Want to feel his hands on my breasts, between my legs. I want to feel him moving inside me, making me wild and wet. I want to forget everything except the reality of his touch, and when I explode, I want to return to a world where my husband knows me and himself.

  But that won’t happen, and it’s the memory of that truth that has me pulling away.

  “Jack, please, we—”

  “I remembered something else, too,” he says, gently brushing my hair out of my face. “I remembered making love to you.”

  A lump of tears sticks in my throat, and all I can do is shake my head helplessly. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to do.

  And so I take the coward’s way
out, and bolt.

  I pause at the entrance to the dining room and look back. “I can’t,” I say, a sob stuck in my throat. “And I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to find your own way home.”

  15

  I’m a wreck. A sniveling, teary-eyed mess who clearly doesn’t know what she wants and is utterly incapable of navigating a personal crisis.

  I also should never have gotten behind the wheel of my car, and it’s only by some miracle that I got home safe and sound, because God knows my mind wasn’t on the road, and I could barely see through the tears that kept leaking from my eyes.

  I made it, though. And I’d burst into the house, raced to my bedroom, threw off my clothes, and slid all the way under the covers. My plan was to sleep through the rest of the summer and on into Christmas. Then, like a groundhog, I’d peek out and decide if it was safe to emerge.

  Of course, I hadn’t factored in little things like eating and giving birth. All I wanted to do was sleep off my misery like a horrible hangover.

  He wanted me. I wanted him.

  And I couldn’t have him.

  Why?

  Why, why, why?

  The question keeps circling in my mind, and the more it bounces around in my head, the more I lose sight of the answer. I know I’d had reasons to walk away, but what were they?

  That I don’t want to cheat on my husband? That one is laughable. Mason is my husband, no matter what his name.

  That I don’t want him to see me as a woman willing to cheat? Maybe, but to what end? I’ve never been unfaithful, and under the circumstances, Jack can hardly think ill of me.

  That I don’t want Jack to see himself as the kind of man who could seduce a married woman, a co-worker, a friend? Maybe, but again, to what end? If his memory comes back, he’ll understand. And if he never remembers his past? Well, in that case there won’t be any danger of a visit from a cuckolded husband.

  Every reason I consider and shoot down makes me feel foolish for walking away from him. Foolish and empty, because damned if I don’t crave him so much I feel hollow.

  And yet…

  I close my eyes and let the truth wash over me—I want him, and yet I run. But I don’t understand what it is I’m afraid of.

  I toss and turn in the bed, but I can’t sleep for even an hour, much less until Christmas. Annoyed, I slip out from between the sheets, tug on my bathrobe, and pad barefoot into the kitchen.

  Coffee, wine, and whiskey are all out of the question, so I settle for hot chocolate. I haven’t made it in ages, but I have milk and a tin of real cocoa that I bought last winter. I even have some whipped topping in the fridge, left over from a recent craving for ice cream with bananas and caramel. A craving that had seemed inexplicable at the time, but now makes perfect sense.

  I stir the chocolate into the milk, then wait until it just starts to bubble around the edges. Then I pour it into the huge Disneyland mug that Mason bought on our first and only trip to the park. I add a squirt of whipped cream, put the mug on the table, and then head to the pantry in the hopes that I have a package of Oreos. Honestly, I should have planned my descent into self-pity better.

  As it turns out, my quest is successful. Shocking, really, since without Mason in the house, my shopping list doesn’t usually include sweets. But I’ve been shopping on autopilot lately, and apparently the little dude or dudette growing inside me is making some of my choices.

  “Good job,” I say, patting my belly with one hand and carrying the Oreos with the other. “What are we going to tell your daddy, and when are we going to tell him?”

  Excellent questions, and not ones I feel like contemplating at the moment. Because unless Mason miraculously gets his memory back, I know that the first thing I have to do is set a meeting with Seagrave and Dr. Tam. I want Mason—or Jack—to know his child. But I don’t want to fry his mind while telling him the truth. And the idea of him being Uncle Jack instead of Daddy just doesn’t seem fair.

  Frustrated, I break open an Oreo, then eat the un-iced half as I wait for the cocoa to cool. I’m just about to lift the mug for a tiny test sip when a rap on the kitchen door makes me jump.

  I hurry to the wall switch, flip on the light for the covered patio, and find Mason standing on the other side of the kitchen door, peering at me through one of the six panes of glass he’d installed himself.

  I should tell him to go away; I’m too raw to do this tonight.

  I should, but I don’t.

  Instead, I open the door, greeting him with, “What the hell are you doing sneaking in through back patio again?”

  “I wasn’t sneaking, I swear.”

  “Most people arrive in the front.”

  “Your lights were off. I wanted to see if you were still up, and I figured if the lights were off back here I’d leave you a note on the porch. But the light was on, and there you were, and so I came in.”

  “You shouldn’t have,” I say, suddenly very aware that I have nothing on under my robe. “And I shouldn’t have let you in.”

  “Maybe not. But since you did…” He trails off, his head tilted a bit to the side and a cocky grin dancing on his mouth.

  I shouldn’t take the bait, but I do. “What?” I demand as I tighten my sash.

  “Since you did, the least you can do is share your Oreos.”

  Mason, I think, feeling both delighted and a little weak in the knees.

  I stand up straighter, and keep my expression stern. “That seems awfully extreme. I mean, we’re talking Oreos. There are some sacrifices a woman shouldn’t be expected to make.” I allow myself a slow grin, and he smiles back.

  “I promise I’ll make it up to you with the pleasure of my company.”

  “Sit,” I say. “I’ll get you some cocoa. Unless you’d rather have bourbon?” Bourbon and Oreos is Mason’s favorite late night snack. I’ve always thought it’s a bizarre combination, but he swears by it.

  Now, I watch his face, but see nothing other than an adventurous acceptance. “I’m game. Will you join me?”

  I shake my head. “It’s a cocoa night for me. But for you…” I trail off as I grab a bottle of Knob Creek from one of the lower cabinets. I put it on the table, bring him a glass, and watch as he slams a shot back.

  I lift my brows. “It’s supposed to be savored with the cookies.”

  “I’ll do that, too. I needed a bit of fortification for what I need to say.”

  “Oh.” I pull out my chair and sit down. “So we’re to that part already.”

  He takes another sip, this time pairing it with an Oreo. “That really is remarkably good,” he says, then stands up again. “And completely beside the point.” He draws in a breath. “I should never have followed you in the restaurant. And I definitely shouldn’t have kissed you. I probably shouldn’t have even asked you if there was ever a thing between us. I pushed boundaries. I made you uncomfortable. And I’m sorry. Truly sorry. It won’t happen again.”

  “Oh.” This isn’t at all what I expected, and I want to say something else, but I honestly don’t know what, and an awkward silence hangs between us, all the more awkward because I’ve never for a moment felt uncomfortable around Mason.

  “Right.” He clears his throat. “Well, I should get back to Malibu. Liam’s going to start to wonder if I forgot the way there along with everything else.”

  He turns to leave, and as I watch him go, it hits me, and I know what it is I’m afraid of. That he’s going to disappear from me just like my father did. Like my mother did. And, yes, like Mason did.

  My father walked away, but Mom didn’t want to leave me. She hadn’t been given a choice. Neither had Mason. One day he was here, and the next he was gone. He’s back now—not whole, not yet—but he’s here.

  And my deepest, darkest fear is that he’s going to disappear all over again. Losing him once almost killed me. Twice will do me in.

  So there it is, the reason I don’t want to get close now. It’s not because of Dr. Tam’s rules about his memor
y or any misplaced notions of fidelity as applied to amnesia victims. It’s because I’m protecting my heart.

  But in that moment, I realize how much more I’ll lose by not going for it. Even if it’s only a month, a week, a day’s worth of memories, that will be that much more to keep for our baby. Even if he forgets everything. Even if he disappears for another two years, I’ll have a little bit more of him than I did before.

  But oh, dear God, I hope to hell he doesn’t disappear.

  He pauses at the kitchen door, then turns back with an apologetic smile. “Thanks for the snack. I’ll see you at work tomorrow. And I’ll behave myself from now on.”

  I just stare, by mouth literally gaping open, stuck in that horrible place between what I want and what I fear. But then he pulls open the door and leaves the bright kitchen for the patio, and I can’t stand it any longer.

  I race after him and grab his hand before he can push open the screen door that leads into the backyard. “Wait!”

  He stops. “Denny?”

  “I can’t,” I say. “I can’t let you walk away. Not knowing that you might end up staying away forever.”

  Confusion washes over his face. “I don’t know what you’re—”

  “Dammit, Jack,” I say, untying the sash on my robe and then shrugging it off my shoulders. I stand there naked, my heart pounding in my chest as I watch his face, illuminated now only by the light from the kitchen seeping out through the windows. “Just touch me.”

  “Denny.” His voice is thick with a desire so familiar I don’t know if I want to cry or celebrate. “Dear Christ, you’re beautiful.”

  “Look all you want,” I say, taking his hand once again and this time putting it on my breast. “But you have to be touching me, too.”

  “I like your terms,” he says, his eyes on mine as his thumb brushes my hard nipple, sending rocket flares of need coursing through me. I make a whimpering sound, and bite my lower lip, fighting the urge to beg him to kiss me. I want that kiss, yes, but mostly I want the pleasure of losing myself as Mason explores my body for the zillionth—and the first—time.