I put my keys in my pocket and step over the cracks in the pavement on my way to his front door. I hate this place already. It pulls at the fabric of my comfort, tearing the seams until I can see slivers of a life I didn’t think was possible in my cute little town.
I square my shoulders and lift my fist, knocking three times. Inside, someone hollers Adam’s name. I hear a cough next, a horrible, wet rattle. Two doors down, a young mother heads for her car with a crying baby in tow.
I glance down at the cigarette butts on the edge of the sidewalk because I don’t want to look. I feel like a spoiled, ungrateful brat who doesn’t belong here.
The door swings open, and there he is, this darkly beautiful and apparently tragic boy. He doesn’t look happy to see me.
“What do you want, Chloe?”
“I need to talk to you.”
“Talk to Blake,” he says.
Holy crap, he was jealous. And I don’t get it. I just don’t. But I like it. Some very twisted part of me wants him to be jealous.
I want him to want me. Because some part of me clearly wants him.
“Can I come in?” I ask, my voice too high and small.
“In here?” he asks, like I’m completely crazy for asking.
“Or we could walk,” I say, though my voice trails off when I glance around at the broken bottles and total absence of pretty.
“It’s cold, Chloe.”
“I know. I know that, but I really need to talk to you.”
And I do. I’ve got questions burning up in my throat. I can feel them wanting to bubble out of me. Questions about the list. About the study group. About me and him and this thing that is so obviously happening between us.
He slides out of the doorway, close enough that I’m forced to look up to keep my eyes on his face. He’s wearing a guarded look now, tilting his head at me.
“You think Blake would really want you here, Chloe?”
I feel breathless. Like something’s squeezing hard around my ribs. He looks so angry. And even guilty in a way.
I can’t take seeing him like this. I have to do something.
Adam scoffs at my silence and backs up. I snatch his sleeve, pulling on him.
“Adam—”
“Let go, Chloe.”
He’s shaking me off and moving back, and I feel a little frantic as his sleeve slips out of my grasp. I need him to stay here with me because I feel right with him. And I remember things with him. And I need to know why. But I don’t say any of those things as he steps back into his house.
It’s like my tongue is paralyzed.
“Go home,” he says, and the door shuts in my face.
“I can’t remember anything!” I shout.
My breath steams in the darkness as I wait one heartbeat. Then another. And then Adam opens the door.
I feel my shoulders sag with relief. He might as well have taken a thousand pounds off me. Whoever is inside his apartment coughs again, breaking the spell, reminding me that I’m still outside. Unwelcome.
Adam closes the door behind himself when he comes out again, his dark gray sweatshirt unzipped over an old T-shirt. He hasn’t shaved. It lends a cold edge to his features, but he still looks like a slice of heaven to me—safe and warm and true.
“What are you talking about?” he asks.
I hesitate because I know I can’t come back from this. I can’t unsay these words once they’re out.
“Chloe,” he says, pressing me to go on.
“I can’t remember,” I say. “I can’t remember anything since May. And I know it sounds crazy, and it is crazy, but I’m not insane. Something happened to me. I fell asleep in study hall. I drifted off for a second, and then it was winter and my entire universe was different.”
My words are tumbling out so fast, I can barely catch my breath. “Now, I’m this perfect person with these perfect grades and Blake and—and then you and me and I don’t know what any of it means and how any of it happened or how I lost Maggie—”
“Slow down,” he says, cutting me off midsentence.
“I can’t slow down, Adam! I’m six freaking months behind, okay? I can’t remember anything that happened to me! That night in the school? When you said I called you? I don’t remember calling you. I don’t ever remember speaking with you until that moment.”
“You don’t remember calling me,” he says, brow furrowed. “That night at the school—you don’t remember that?”
“I’m trying to tell you I don’t remember anything! I have pictures that I don’t even understand, and before you even ask me, yes, I’ve been to a doctor and my brain is just fine. Which means that the doctors and my family think I’m totally unhinged, and they don’t even know how—”
“Hell, Chloe,” he says, voice gruff.
His arms lock around me, and he hauls me into an embrace, burying my face in his T-shirt. I promptly burst into tears, my arms going around him like they were grown on my body for this purpose. I feel the press of his strong hands on my shoulder blades as he whispers soft, hushing noises into my hair. I inhale a shuddery breath, taking in his warmth and feeling right for the first time since I can remember.
And just like that, I know.
This is how it should be with Blake. Tingly and warm and bigger than any words I can think of.
“You’re not insane,” he says. Plain as day. Like it’s not even a possibility worth pursuing.
I nod against his chest and close my eyes. His hands are in my hair now, and every single part of my body is intensely aware of every part of his. It’s wrong to want him this much.
He seems to realize it too, and we separate. I don’t want to let go of him. The truth is harder, colder outside his arms.
I look up at him, and he thumbs my chin, narrowing his eyes at me. “You said you don’t remember anything before that night. But you remember everything up to May?”
“Yeah.”
He believes me. I thought it would be harder to convince him, but he doesn’t even look shocked. It’s like people tell him they’ve lost enormous chunks of their lives every day.
He palms my cheek with his hand, and I close my eyes, pretending to think. But I’m not thinking. I’m soaking in the feel of his skin against mine. The familiarity of his hug. The way he smells. I exhale slowly and a memory comes.
Pizza. A cheesy, gooey piece. And chemistry notes spread out all around my plate. I’m reciting something about sodium chloride, and Adam nods and flips to the next card in his stack.
I pull back, shaking myself from the past. Right now I need to be present.
“Okay, step me through it because I’m a little lost,” he says.
“I don’t remember anything that happened between May and that night. The whole summer and fall are just…missing.” I pause and swallow hard before I admit the rest of it. “Except for a few things about you. When you…touch me, I sometimes get flashes of things that happened between us.”
I open my eyes, knowing my cheeks are red. Adam doesn’t seem to notice. There’s a smile on his lips, like he loves hearing this. But there’s something else too. A shadow of sadness in his eyes.
“When I touch you?” he asks softly, stepping a little closer.
And then I take a little half step toward him. We’re going to run out of personal space quick if we keep this up, but I don’t care. No matter how much I should, I just don’t.
“You’ve touched my hands,” I say, and then I take his hand, sliding my palm against his.
I see flashes from before. Him looking up from a book. And then I hear his laughter. And then that pizza place. In my memory, he pushes a red, fizzy drink toward me with a smirk, and I scoot my chemistry notes out of the way.
“We ate at the Pizza Palace while we studied chemistry. You gave me something red to drink.”
“Red pop,” he says, nodding.
“It’s just little things.” I sigh, too embarrassed to admit the scene with the leaves in my yard. I release his fingers with
a laugh. “Pretty pathetic, right?”
He looks at me for a minute then. I wish I could read whatever’s going on behind those beautiful eyes.
“All right, lead the way.”
“Huh?” I can feel myself gaping at him, mouth moving open and closed goldfish-style. He finally nudges me with his shoulder.
“Your house, Einstein. Let’s go figure this out.”
Chapter Eleven
It is 10:38 on a school night, and a juvenile delinquent is preparing to sneak into my house. This is not my life.
“I am bushed,” I tell my parents as I hang up my coat.
Bushed? Seriously? I’m a much better liar than this. Haven’t I proved as much with Blake?
But Mom and Dad are engrossed in some World War II documentary they got from the library, so they don’t seem to notice my decades-old slang or my long sigh.
“We can turn it down if you want, honey,” Mom says, stealing popcorn from the bowl on my dad’s stomach.
“No, that’s okay.”
We exchange good-nights, and then I slink up my stairs feeling like a criminal. I close my door and lock it. Not convinced it’s safe enough, I move my desk chair over to the door, wedging it as quietly as I can under the door handle.
“Might want to look up paranoia while we’re at it,” Adam says, and I nearly jump out of my skin.
I clamp a hand over my mouth and spin to see him straddling my window frame, one denim-clad leg already inside my room.
I flip on the radio and cross the floor in two strides. “Are you insane? I was supposed to get the fire ladder. How did you even get up here?”
“I did use a ladder. Borrowed it from your shed out back.”
“Oh. Well.”
Adam slides the rest of the way in, and I stand there, crossing my arms over my chest as he moves quietly around my room.
Adam is tall. I mean, I’ve always known he’s tall. But seeing him here somehow makes my whole room look so small.
“Cute bear,” he says, picking up my rag teddy, Phillipe, from the dresser. I snatch him back and do everything short of wringing my hands while I watch Adam walk around my room, silently inspecting my posters and the miscellaneous earrings and perfume bottles on my dresser.
God, it’s like that awful moment at the end of a first date. You’re making painful small talk on the porch or in the car. Of course, you both know why you’re stalling, but it’s weird until someone moves—oh my God, this is not like that! We are not here to make out.
Are we?
I ignore the flutter in my belly and pull my laptop out of my nightstand. Research tools. Because we are here to research.
I tug two or three notebooks out of my backpack and dump at least ten pens and highlighters on top of them.
Adam laughs at me, cocking a brow. “How many people did you invite to help out tonight?”
I put some of the pens away and blush so fiercely my hair is probably turning red.
Adam turns to my bookshelf, running his long fingers over the spines. He pulls out three or four, and I turn my radio up a little louder.
He makes himself comfortable on my floor between the bed and the window. Back against the wall and knees against my box springs. It doesn’t look terribly comfortable, but it’s a smart spot. If, God forbid, my mom decides to pound her way through my reinforced bedroom door, he’ll have plenty of time to climb out the window. Or at least slide under the bed.
“You want these?” he asks softly, offering me two books.
Right. I should start researching now. Read things. Write things. Stop staring at Adam.
I walk over to the bed and sit down, taking the two he’s handing up to me. I’m familiar enough with the titles, but I haven’t read much of them. At least not that I can remember.
“Um, what exactly should we be looking for?” I ask, sitting down and feeling really awkward.
“Memory stuff,” he says, already nose-deep in a pretty dense-looking tome. “Something had to trigger this. Maybe if we can find it, it’ll help.”
“I don’t think I’m going to find a chapter titled ‘Recovering the Six Months You Lost,’ you know.”
Adam smirks but doesn’t look up from his book.
“You know, you could fill me in,” I say softly.
He does look up then, eyes catching mine above the pages.
I shrug halfheartedly. “You could give me a Reader’s Digest version.”
His smile is mischievous. “What makes you think I’d know? We’re strangers, remember?”
I’m tempted to ask more, but he turns a page and furrows his brow, the very picture of focus.
I open my book with a huff and thumb through the pages aimlessly. This is stupid. I mean, maybe there is a book that might explain some of this, but I doubt I own it. I only own the basics—and whatever the hell is wrong with me is as far from basic as it gets. And why won’t he tell me anything? Obviously we weren’t strangers. We studied together. Raked leaves together. Did things that feel precariously close to cheating on my boyfriend together.
Maybe it’s better if I don’t know all the details.
I frown, slouching down against my headboard. I scan a couple of chapters in my child psychology book. Unless I’m concerned about the impact of potty training on my future offspring, this is useless.
I flip forward, and my fingers catch on something between the pages. Wait a minute. I find a yellow slip of notebook paper tucked in the middle of the book.
The chapter it’s marking is titled “Memory: Safe Box and Minefield.” There are a few things underlined in the chapter, but nothing that seems very pertinent. No how-to sections on recovering repressed memories or the kinds of traumas that cause them.
I pull out the paper and unfold it, and the scrawl on the front is immediately recognizable. Because it’s mine. The three words seem innocuous enough, but they send a chill from the roots of my hair through the soles of my feet.
Maggie was right.
But right about what?
***
My clock reads 7:24 a.m., and I’m staring myself down in the mirror like I’m preparing for battle. My combat gear includes a white sweater, dark denim jeans, and just enough time on my hair and makeup to make it clear I’m actually excited to see Blake.
I’m not excited.
I don’t think there’s any thesaurus out there that lists dread and apprehension as synonyms of excitement.
I stayed in bed for ten minutes this morning trying to think of an excuse to call off. From breakfast with Blake. From school too, really. Or hell, from life in general. In the end, I decided to get on with it.
The truth is I’m being a lousy girlfriend. And it’s not because my memory’s wonky or my study group is suspicious. It’s because I’m completely hung up on another guy.
I sigh and tell myself for the thousandth time how Adam couldn’t be further than my type. Ridiculously gorgeous? Yes. Nice? Actually, yes. Smart choice? Um, no. I can just imagine me introducing him to my dad. Or even better, my mother. No. No times infinity.
But, God, I can’t get him out of my head.
I’m still sitting next to my front door resolving to get over it when I hear the Mustang pull up in front of my house.
Showtime.
I take a breath and pull on my coat, sliding out the door with a smile plastered on my face. Fake it till you make it, right?
I bound down the steps, tossing my hair because I will be happy today. I will force myself to share muffins and to talk about the weather. I will be the best girlfriend Blake’s ever had.
“You look just about perfect,” Blake says, opening my door and sliding me into the car.
“You don’t look too bad yourself,” I say.
And it’s no stretch. Button-down shirt, faded jeans, hair tousled in a way that probably took longer than mine. He should be in a Gap ad selling polo shirts with that million-dollar smile.
“How about Trixie’s?” he asks.
“Fine by
me.”
Trixie’s is five minutes from my house. Even I can come up with enough small talk to fill six minutes. And I don’t really have to because Blake turns up the radio and we listen until we pull into the parking lot.
The diner has seen better days, but it’s clean and familiar. The white counters are pristine, and the stainless steel trim around the chairs and tables gleams.
Conversation rises from the booths and tables as the blond, busty hostess seats us. She sends an extra smile to Blake, and he returns it but keeps his hand on my back. And then he waits to sit until I do because he’s chivalry personified and I’m an idiot to have strayed. Even mentally.
“I’m starving,” I say, picking up my menu. “I could eat ten pancakes.”
Blake chuckles. “You’ll definitely need to watch your carbs if you don’t want to pick up the freshman fifteen next fall.”
I laugh and look at him, but he doesn’t look like he’s joking. Seriously? I’m not a size 0 or anything, but I’m sure the heck not tipping the scales. I lower my menu to check his expression again, but Blake seems transfixed with the selection of eggs and bacon.
Okay, roll with it. He probably winked when I was blinking or something.
The waitress returns for our order, and I’m just opening my mouth to request a double Belgian waffle when Blake orders first.
“We’ll both have the number one, eggs scrambled, with turkey sausage and wheat toast.”
I blink so rapidly that someone walking past would probably think I’ve got something in my eye.
Apparently the time jump thing has happened again, but this time it sent me backward to the 1940s, or whatever year it was when boyfriends ordered food for you after commenting on your weight. Gee golly, maybe he’ll let me wear his letterman sweater at the soda shop after school.
I need to count to ten or something because this is supposed to be a nice breakfast and right now all I can think about is chucking a saltshaker at his head.