But wouldn’t he make her come tonight, of all nights?
Unless he’s bashed her face in again.
“Happy New Year!” Rust stands to pat his nephew’s back as if he hasn’t seen him in months, though Boone’s been out with him almost every night lately. I have a feeling Miller will be out of a job come spring. “Jesse!” He offers me his hand.
I put up with two minutes of small talk before I excuse myself to use the restroom. Really, to text Alex.
I’m at The Cellar. Where are you?
She hasn’t returned the three texts that I sent her since the night at the restaurant. This time, though, she answers almost immediately.
I’m not feeling well so I stayed home.
Dread swells.
Did he hit you?
I’m fine, Jesse.
A moment later:
Have a Happy New Year.
Fuck that.
I round the corner and nearly plow into Viktor.
“Jesse.” That snakelike smile greets me. “Where are you off to in a rush?” A slight slur twists his words.
I force my jaw to unclench. “Another club. I promised some friends I’d meet them there for midnight,” I lie. I always was a good liar.
“You should reconsider. We have a few extra girls here tonight.”
“Too rich for my blood. I like the low-maintenance ones.”
He stares at me for a long moment, as if weighing the truth to my words. I’m expecting him to bring up the car rebuild he wants me to do, but he only chuckles. “You are an odd one. Have a good night.”
I speed through the crowd without a second glance back.
I’ve been buzzing the gate for ten minutes now and she’s not answering. When I see her run out the front door in her pink coat and head for her car, I know Alex isn’t willing to deal with me here. Not with Viktor in the same city. That’s fine, as long as she’s willing to see me.
I tail her BMW for ten miles, until she finally pulls into an empty park in a wooded area. I’m out of my car and pulling her door open before she has a chance. “What happened?” I demand, taking her face in my hands. It’s even more drawn than before and pale, but otherwise, it’s unmarked.
And yet the fear in her eyes is unmistakable.
“What’s going on, Alex?”
Tears begin to stream down her cheeks. “I’m pregnant.”
Two words, whispered so softly, punch me in the stomach. “Jesus.” I didn’t expect that. I take a few steps back, inhaling the cold air. It’s too cold to be out here without a jacket and gloves, but I barely feel it. My eyes automatically drift down to her stomach, though I can’t even see it, buried within her jacket. “Does Viktor know?”
She shakes her head. “When he heard me throwing up my lunch today, I told him I have the stomach flu. That’s why he didn’t make me come out to The Cellar tonight.”
“I . . .” I struggle for what to say.
“I’m keeping it.” Fierce determination flashes in her glossy eyes.
I nod slowly. Of course she is. I’ll bet she’s going to make an incredible mother, too. I think I’m in shock. In the back of my mind, I keep thanking God that we used condoms every single time we slept together, or I’d be losing my shit right now.
But I don’t bring that up.
“Viktor doesn’t want to be a father, does he?” I remember her telling me that.
She opens her mouth but it only hangs there, whatever words are sitting on her tongue left unspoken as hesitation swims in her eyes. Finally, she says, “He’s never going to find out.” She pauses. “Viktor is always handing me cash. Lots of cash. For groceries and bills and shopping. I’ve been saving it all since I found out. And I’ve been quietly selling off some of my jewelry and designer stuff. I should have enough to cover rent and basic necessities for the next two years, if I live really cheaply. I’m just going to leave a note and tell him that I’ve had enough of his cheating. I can’t risk confronting him and having him hurt me. Not now. A legal divorce will have to come later.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. “How long have you known?”
Her steady gaze answers me before her words do. “About a month.”
That night at the restaurant . . . she knew. That’s what she wanted to tell me but couldn’t. “When are you leaving?”
“In the next few weeks, before I start to show.”
As if things weren’t hard enough for her before, now this? I crouch down in front of her. “Are you afraid?”
“Terrified,” she whispers, her eyes searching mine, an unreadable look in them. Like a soft plea, only not quite.
“Where are you going to go?”
“I don’t know yet. I’m definitely leaving Portland. Probably Oregon. Viktor can’t ever find out about this baby.”
I don’t blame her. She’d have the asshole in her life forever, then. Even if he doesn’t want kids, he seems like the kind of guy who would keep tabs on it.
But . . . far away from Viktor means far away from me.
My heart sinks.
“Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“I don’t want to drag you into this,” she admits. “I wish things could be different for us.” She sighs and then tunes the radio, just in time to hear a crowd cheer from wherever the station is broadcasting. “Happy New Year, Jesse,” she whispers, saying my name in that way that sends shivers down my back. Leaning down, she skates her lips over mine, the very same hesitant way she did the night I stopped to change her flat tire for her.
I guess some may say that it was the flat tire that changed me.
But, really, it was Alex.
“Don’t go,” I hear myself blurt out. I can’t lose her.
I think I’m in love with her.
“I don’t have a choice.”
“Yeah, you do. Stay with me.”
A sad smile touches her lips. “You know that won’t work.”
“No, not in Portland.” It’s all so clear to me now. “In Sisters, in my apartment. Viktor’s not going to find you there. I know it’s not much, but you said you were happy there. So be there, with me.”
“But . . .” A deep furrow creases her forehead. “What are your parents going to say?”
“Don’t worry about them. I’ll deal with them. The garage is mine anyway.”
She scoops my hands within hers, pink from the cold. “Things have changed, Jesse. I’m having a baby.”
“Yeah, I haven’t forgotten,” I mutter.
She pauses, frowning. “You’d take me, even if I’m carrying someone else’s child?”
“Yeah. I guess I would.” Am I crazy? Maybe. But the truth is, I’ll take her however I can have her.
“Jesse, it’s . . .” She hesitates and then clamps her lips shut, as if to stop herself from saying whatever she was going to say. Tears well in her eyes and she nods. “Okay.”
Relief and happiness slams into me, and that’s how I know this is the right decision.
Shutting her door, I climb into the passenger seat and take her hand.
And we begin making our plans.
THIRTY-FOUR
Water
now
The second she flicks on the high-frequency needle, I tense.
I remembered that sound, and the pain associated with it.
And then a thrill courses through me.
Because I remember that sound, and the pain associated with it.
“The outline is the worst part, I promise,” the artist—a young part-Asian woman named Ivy, her ears filled with silver rings—says as she begins tracing the transfer of Dakota’s design on my right shoulder.
I grit my teeth against the sting, trying not to move as the needle pierces my skin.
“I don’t get tattoos,” Amber mumbles, her gaze roaming the gallery on the wall. “It’s permanent. Why would you want to put something on your body now that you’ll just regret later?”
“Not everyone regrets their tattoos,” Ivy interjects, her own
full sleeve of them on proud display.
“I won’t regret this, Amber. Besides, my scars are permanent too. At least I’m choosing something beautiful.”
“I guess . . .” Amber squints, leaning in. “Is that a man’s—”
“Yup.” Ivy doesn’t even need to glance back to know which tattoo Amber’s referring to.
Amber folds her arms over her chest and dips her head sideways to examine it more intently, her long brown hair hanging in a shiny curtain. “I can’t say I’ll ever be able to look at an elephant again without thinking of this.”
“You see a lot of elephants, do you?” I don’t miss the sarcasm in Ivy’s voice. And, thanks to the mirror on the wall, I also don’t miss the judgmental look she throws Amber’s way. It’s similar to the one Amber settled on her the second we stepped into Get Inked, the Bend tattoo shop that Dakota recommended.
“No, but I will when I go on an African safari next year,” Amber answers lightly. She’s being nice enough—she always is—but I sense the invisible barrier between the two of them. On the other side of that barrier is my warm, considerate friend. Not just anyone gets to hurdle it, though.
“Huh . . . No kidding.” Ivy’s tone changes quickly. “I’ve thought about doing that before.”
“It’s really expensive. The African safari alone is going to cost me close to ten grand.”
“Yeah?” I see the smirk curving over Ivy’s lips. “That’s not too bad.”
“It is when you add traveling through Europe and Asia, too.”
“I backpacked through Europe when I was nineteen.”
“Oh, I’m not backpacking.”
I feel like I’m watching a pissing contest but with girls. “I think you two should go together,” I suggest, more because I need a distraction from the pain in my shoulder than anything else.
“Don’t make me laugh when I’m inking you,” Ivy murmurs. I get nothing more than a high-browed glare from Amber.
A few minutes of silence pass. “So the almighty sheriff’s daughter doesn’t remember me, does she?” When Amber frowns, Ivy elaborates. “We went to the same high school. You were a year older than me.”
“No. Can’t say I do. Sorry.”
And that’s the end of that conversation, though I suspect much more could be said.
Its takes another thirty minutes to finish Dakota’s elaborate design. I let my thoughts drift to last night’s revelations, thanks to my dream. I’m still shaken up by it and, though Jesse says that whatever I did before doesn’t matter, I could tell by the frequent frowns and hard gazes this morning that he’s troubled by it.
For the first time since meeting Jesse, I’m relieved to get some time and space from him. Because if he decides he doesn’t want this thing between us to work . . . the very idea makes me break out in a panic.
And that tells me that I’m falling in love with him.
When the buzzing finally stops, Ivy holds up two mirrors, one to reflect the one from my back. I can’t help the grin from spreading. “It’s beautiful.”
The last time someone held up a mirror in front of me like this, that’s not a word I would have used. But Dakota’s creation—a symbol of resilience—doesn’t resemble Jane Doe.
This symbol represents all that I am, right here, sitting in this chair.
Today.
Alive, and living my life, regardless of whatever ugly mistakes I may have made in my past.
“Wow,” Amber mumbles, walking up closer. “It actually looks nice.”
“You ready? I’ll even do it for half off,” Ivy jokes, flicking the needle on and letting it buzz before shutting it off again. She dresses my shoulder with gauze—upon which, of course, Amber interjects, telling her that she’s doing it wrong.
Leading us into the front foyer, Ivy reaches over the desk to grab a sheet. “Okay, here are the instructions. Make sure you—”
“I’m sure it’s pretty straightforward.” Amber snatches it from her grasp.
Ivy’s flat stare makes me want to laugh. “You can call here if you have any questions.” She points to the card that she has stapled to the top of the bill. “And if you want me to do any more, just call ahead and ask for me specifically. I can give you an appointment.”
“You stealing my client again?” a booming voice echoes.
“Shut up, Beans. She’s new here.”
Beans? Like the vegetable? I turn to see a guy in his mid-twenties with a long goatee and a shaved head.
“Is that what you told her?” he says, his eyes on me. “I remember you.”
“No . . . Not likely.” I shake my head. There’s no way.
Is there?
“That’s what he says to all the pretty girls,” Ivy warns.
“No. I remember you. You came in a few months back—in the winter, I think—and I did your tattoo. But . . .” His head dips to the side and he frowns. “You didn’t have that scar back then.”
I glance at Amber, feeling my eyes widen. Is this really happening?
“Prove it. What’s the tattoo?” Amber tests.
“A round symbol, on your pelvis.”
“Water.” It’s barely audible as it escapes from my mouth.
“Yeah.”
My blood doesn’t know whether to drain from my face or race through my limbs, and so I end up feeling both faint and hot. If I was really here, then. . . . “Did you photocopy my license that time, too?”
His mouth curves into a frown. “Yeah. We always do.”
There’s a paper in this shop with the old me on it.
I lunge for him, grabbing on to his arm. “Can you please find it? I need that photocopy.”
“What for?”
“Just, please . . .” I beg, tears springing to my eyes.
His eyes shift to Ivy. “It’ll take me awhile.”
“If you want, I can have my dad, the sheriff, here in fifteen minutes to help you do it,” Amber says, holding up her phone. “Of course, he’ll probably close you down for the rest of the day. Maybe tomorrow, too.”
Beans doesn’t look happy, but he holds up his hands in a gesture of surrender.
I trail him as he rounds the desk and, using a key hanging from a chain affixed to his pants, he opens the filing cabinet. “Date? Name?”
“Just look for my face.”
He stares at me for a long, hard moment before simply nodding to himself. His fingers begin rifling through the pages and I’m temporarily distracted by the letters tattooed on his hand.
Beans = knuckles.
Oh my God.
It was a clue. Dr.Weimer’s exercise wasn’t pointless after all.
“Are you okay?” Ivy asks, stepping in to take my elbow as my knees wobble.
I can’t manage more than a nod in return.
It takes only five minutes to find my past, fit neatly on an eight-and-a-half-by-eleven-inch sheet of paper.
“You were here in November,” Beans says, holding up the paper in the air.
I feel Amber’s hand settle on my back as I reach for it, my own hand trembling as I look at the black-and-white face staring back at me.
“Alexandria Petrova,” I read out loud, swallowing against the rising nausea that threatens as I hear myself say it for the first time.
I know that name.
It’s there, inside my head. I can feel it—my real name—trying to break free of its shackles.
I scan the rest of the information. “I’m twenty-two. I lived in Portland. There’s an address. Right here. This is where I lived,” I choke out. I could drive there. I could go right now and find . . . what? “Why can’t I remember any of this?”
The truth is right here. Am I not supposed to have some great epiphany now? Should this not trigger something? Why is my brain still denying me?
Somewhere in my haze, I hear Amber ask, “Do you remember if she came in with anyone?” I’ve forgotten that Beans and Ivy are even in the room.
“Uh . . . yeah. That’s the license plate number, w
ritten on the bottom. I took it down because you were pretty banged up when you came in. You said he didn’t do it, but I wasn’t sure.”
My eyes snap to Beans. “He? Who was I with?”
“Uh . . . the guy driving the car.”
“Can you be a little more specific?” Amber demands, at the same time that Ivy smacks him in the arm and mutters, “Come on.” She’s obviously picked up on the fact that something here is very wrong. “What did he look like?” Amber presses.
“He looked like a guy! Hell, I don’t remember. You two left in in a black car. Old-school muscle car, you know?”
My hands go for my throat, which is starting to close up.
No, it can’t be.
“A Barracuda?” I manage to get out in a hoarse whisper.
“Yeah. I think that was what it was.”
His words feel like a solid punch to my chest.
“My dad will get the truth out of him—I swear it, Water. I mean . . . Alexandria. I mean . . . Oh God.” Amber’s hands shake as she races up the Welleses’ driveway, nailing each pothole with her little red Mini in her rush.
I’m not crying. I’m not talking. I’m barely breathing, my chest laboring with each inhale as I frantically claw away at the recesses of my mind, looking for Jesse in there. And all I can keep thinking is how stupid I am, how he’s been right there in front of me. This entire time, my heart was trying to tell me what my mind still refuses to: I didn’t know someone like Jesse.
I knew Jesse.
I knew the smell of his skin, the taste of his mouth, the sound of his voice, the feel of his dark gaze on me.
“Why?” I whisper.
“We’re going to find out. I promise.” Amber reaches out and takes my hand, squeezing it as she continues racing down the driveway. She looks green. I doubt I’m much better.
By the time we pull around to the back of the Welleses’ house, heading for the two figures standing by the garage, I can barely feel my body. My hands open the door, my legs hold my weight, my muscles pull me out, but none of it registers. All that registers is that the guy facing me, with his arms folded over his chest and a smile on his face, knew who I was all this time.