Forgetting August (Lost & Found) (10 page)

“Nothing about that money is mine. We were never married. I don’t want a single penny of it.”

“Look, I’m just trying to get a hold on my life—or at least what’s left of it. I will never need that much money. Ever. I thought you might enjoy starting over with your future husband. But if I’ve overstepped my bounds, please let me know.”

Gritting my teeth, my words barely audible, I said, “You overstepped, August.”

His eyes rounded as he leaned forward. “What did he do to you?”

It was the first time he’d referred to his former self as someone else. For a moment, I almost fell for it. Had it not been for the new haircut and the fancy clothes I guessed he’d pulled out of his old closet, I probably would have broken down right then and there, allowing him to hold me as I told my story through tears and sniffles.

But I couldn’t. Not with those eyes looking at me.

“Thank you for your generosity, Mr. Kincaid, but I will have to decline.”

Rising to my feet, I walked briskly to the door and turned to see if he’d followed me.

“Have a nice day,” I managed to say before turning the handle and stepping out into the fresh air. I took a deep breath, closing the door behind me, and found myself face to face with the brass knocker.

A&E

I fled before the tears found their way to the pavement.

I
tried to give away several million dollars to a woman the other day,” I blurted out, severing the tense silence we’d been sitting in for over half an hour. This was my third visit with the mute counselor and barely a word had been said since the first day. It was getting damn frustrating, and I think he knew this.

He knew that eventually I’d crack.

And crack I had. Like a damned nut.

One dark grey eyebrow rose slightly in amusement…intrigue, maybe…as he chose his words.

“Well, that was generous.”

A sort of snorted laugh escaped my throat. “You would think. But, she turned me down. Cold. Basically threw the damned check back in my face.”

Now I was pacing the room like a caged tiger.

When had I gotten up?

“And this makes you feel agitated?” he asked.

I turned to him in shock.

“Ah ha! I knew you were one of those!” I pointed my finger accusingly.

“One of those?” he questioned, looking mildly entertained.

“You play it all cool, with your passive–aggressive attitude and the crazy sound machine, but I knew deep down there was a normal, predictable psycho-therapist in there just waiting to get out.”

He sighed in what I assumed was defeat, and I waited in silence for his confession. Everything he’d done to this point had been just a hoax—a thin veil to make me feel comfortable. And I’d almost fallen for it, but he was no different from Dr. HappyFeelGood at the hospital. They all wrote in their little notebooks, judging their clients on all their faults, only to go home to their own little fucked up world.

We were all head cases—some of us just a little more so than others.

“You want to go out for a beer?” he finally said, as my eyes flew up to his.

“What?”

“Well, I figured we’re probably done here, and I could really use a beer and a big plate of nachos. There’s a place down the street that has the best nachos in town. You in?”

This guy was nutters.

“You paying?” I asked.

“Nope, you are. Seems you’re loaded.”

I burst into laughter, agreeing to his lunatic proposal.

Maybe a crazy loon was what I needed after all.

“So what’s your story, Dr. Abrams?” I asked the shrink as we settled into a quiet booth in the corner of what could only be considered the smallest restaurant I’d ever seen.

At least as far as I knew.

God, my life sucked. Every thought, every comment that ran through my mind, I was constantly second-guessing.
Was
this the smallest restaurant I’d ever been in?

Fuck if I knew.

Had I ever been out of the country? I had no idea. Did I like chocolate or vanilla better? No idea.

“Brick—call me Brick,” he replied, avoiding my vague question altogether.

“Okay—Brick, what’s your story?” I asked again.

“Not much to tell,” Dr. Abrams fired back, taking a long gulp of the microbrew he’d ordered. “Midwestern boy who fell in love with old surfing movies.”

“Like
Gidget
and
Beach Party
?”

His eyebrow rose in surprise.

“I’ve had problems sleeping,” I admitted, before he let out a laugh. “So I’ve been watching a lot of bad old movies.”

“More like
Endless Summer
and
Morning of the Earth
,” he replied. “Seeing films like that changed me—made me see something far greater than our tiny farm. I begged my dad for a surfboard when I was ten, not caring that the closest ocean was fifteen hundred miles away. He wasn’t so keen on the idea. When it came to applying to college, I picked schools in Florida and California, although I ended up taking a slight detour before I actually got to classes.”

“The waves were calling you,” I interrupted, grinning.

“Yeah, something like that. An unbridled hatred for snow didn’t hurt either.”

We both chuckled as we continued to nurse our beers.

“So, how did psychology play into all that?” I finally asked after a long lull in conversation.

He shrugged. “Nosy, I guess.”

I shook my head in amusement as I studied him. Dark brown eyes the color of milk chocolate stood out against tanned skin that had aged through years under the sun. His jet black hair and laid back attitude gave him the appearance of man with not a care in the world, rather than someone who carried the secrets of so many.

“Come on. There’s got to be more to it than that.” I pushed harder, hoping he’d hand over an answer.

“Oh there is, I’m just not ready to share it yet.”

And you’re not ready to hear it.
He didn’t say it, but I could feel the afterthought clinging to the air like unsettled dirt making its way back to the earth.

We sat in awkward silence after that, waiting for our food to arrive. As I fiddled with my drink coaster and wiped away the condensation that had formed around my glass, I suddenly wondered what secrets Dr. Abrams—Brick—had of his own.

You couldn’t carry around the baggage of so many without a little of your own.

And somehow, the more I got to know him, the more I thought he would agree with me.

Thankfully, our food arrived just a few minutes later, delivered by a perky young woman who had long red braids and a million bracelets jingling on her wrists. They reminded me of one of those bells attached to house cats.
Jingle, jingle, jingle
…all the time. Day or night.

Maddening.

Well, at least she couldn’t sneak up on us.

“Can I get you two anything else?” she asked, eying me affectionately.

“No, I think we’re all set for now, Meg,” Brick replied politely. She nodded, her eyes finally tearing away from my direction as she scurried back to the kitchen.

As we dug into our plates of nachos, the conversation resumed. This time Brick started it: Mr.-I-Don’t-Talk-Until-You-Do apparently broke his own rules occasionally.

Or at least he seemed to when it involved food. And beer.

“So what went through your head—what exactly was your thought process when deciding to give away—how did you say it? Oh yes; several million dollars.”

Smart ass.

“Was it a random choice? Or did you have a specific woman picked out? How does one choose such a recipient?”

“My, you’re chatty tonight.”

“Just making conversation.” He shrugged again, taking a swig of beer before diving back into his dinner.

“It wasn’t random,” I answered. “She’s my ex—from before, when I…”

“Had your memories—yes, go on,” he said very matter-of-factly, between bites.

“And, I just wanted to give her something.”

“Why?” he pressed. I sat back in the booth and just watched him as he continued to eat as if nothing was amiss. As if we were just talking about football or the weather.

Not something as sensitive as my life—or Everly. Just the mention of her name made my stomach twist in knots, and I had no idea why.

“Because I—I don’t know.”

“Yes you do. Otherwise you wouldn’t have done it. How many million?”

“What?” I asked.

“You said several millions. I’m asking for clarification.”

“Three. Three million,” I answered.

He paused, taking a moment to drink from his nearly empty bottle. “Sane people don’t give away three million dollars without a reason.”

“But I thought that was the point to all this. I thought I wasn’t sane.”

“I’ve worked with a lot of crazy people over the years, August, and I’m pretty damn good at spotting the signs and symptoms of mental illness.”

“And?”

“And…you’re not insane. You’re unhappy.”

“And how do I fix that?” I asked, looking at him from across the table.

“That’s for you to decide.”

“So, you don’t find all of this insane? Not even a little?” I asked, motioning to what had once been my pristine living room, but now was cluttered with large brown grocery bags, sacks of clothes, and stacks and stacks of DVDs, books, and magazines.

“Not if it gets you where you want to be,” Brick answered, sitting in the only seat that was free of clutter. The seat that Everly had occupied only days earlier.

She’d barely been able to look at me that day, her hands shaking as she slid the check in my direction.

It had been as if she were seeing a ghost.

Is that all I’d ever be to her? A reflection of her past?

It hurt to know that every time she looked at me she suffered, and yet I fought back the urge to comfort her from the pain she must feel—to protect her from…me.

Could someone really change? Or would I always be him, deep down?

I guess it was time to find out.

“Okay, let’s do this,” I said, rubbing my hands together in anticipation. “You got the notebook?” I asked Brick. He held up the leather journal I’d bought to track everything, and after I’d birthed this brilliant plan—after several Coronas in that tiny Mexican restaurant—I’d naturally put him in charge of writing everything down.

He was a counselor. He should be good at keeping notes.

“Where do you want to start?” he asked, glancing at me as he bobbed the pen up and down between his fingertips. I still couldn’t quite figure him out. Like why, on a Tuesday night, he was hanging out with me, rather than at home with his family.

Did he have a family?

Other than his first name and the fact that he liked surfing, there wasn’t much I knew about the good doctor’s personal details. Hell, I wasn’t even exactly sure he was a doctor. I just kept calling him that. His title on his office door said “therapist,” but I wasn’t sure what that meant. However, for the first time since checking out of the hospital, I felt like I’d found someone I could call a friend.

Or something as close to a friend as possible, since I wasn’t entirely sure what this relationship was, and whether I was being charged for it. Honestly, I didn’t care.

Scanning the sacks and large stacks of books and movies, my eyes settled on the brown paper bag in front of me. “Here. I think ice cream sounds good right about now.” I pulled out pint-sized containers of Ben and Jerry’s, gallon-sized tubs of Dryers, and various other brands and flavors.

When we’d checked out at the grocery store, walking away with enough candy, ice cream, and booze to supply a small frat party, the girl at the counter had taken one look at us and asked, “Pregnant wife?” I glanced down at the tequila and rum, shaking my head, and she just laughed.

“I see this combo at least twice a week, but it’s usually from tired, worn out dads-to-be.”

We shared a chuckle, then thanked her as we gathered our bags and headed for the car. As we made several other stops along the way, I thought about her assumption—that I could be a father, or at least a husband preparing to be a father. When I looked in the mirror, I just saw a man—an empty shell of a man staring back at me. He had no past, and for the most part, no future.

But that checker had seen something else. Maybe she didn’t know me at all, but when she looked at me, she’d seen possibilities.

Maybe I should, too.

Setting all the different types of ice cream in front of me in a neat little row, I looked at them. Each container looked as if it was awaiting its turn.

Tonight, I was going to decide once and for all what type of ice cream August Kincaid liked best.

This was my brilliant plan; the one I’d concocted and managed to involve my therapist and now pseudo friend in. Slowly, I was going to create a life for myself. It might be different. It might be new. But the point was that it was mine. I was done mourning a life I might never get back, and frankly wasn’t sure I wanted.

I’d been told this was a gift, and I was going to start treating it that way.

Starting with ice cream. Other guys might start with the booze, but I was still damned hungry, and I was pretty sure if I started with the booze I was going to be like most guys and just like whatever got me buzzed first.

Lifting the lid of the first ice cream carton, I took a spoonful and brought it to my mouth, only to grimace a second later.

“That’s fucking horrible,” I managed to say, glancing down at the label.

“So apparently mint chip is off your list,” Brick laughed, scribbling in the journal.

“Do you want it?” I asked, putting the lid back on and offering it to him.

“Sure; my wife loves it.”

So he
was
married. I stuffed detail that away in the small box of information I knew about Dr. Abrams and continued. Strawberry, Cherry Garcia, and chocolate were all okay but vanilla topped the list as my absolute favorite.

“Of all the flavors in the world, you picked the most boring one of all,” Brick commented, setting the notebook down to help me clean up.

I shrugged. “Can’t help it. Maybe I just like the classics.”

“You want to try anything else or are you done for the night?”

Looking back over the piles, part of me just wanted to race through it all—fill that notebook to the brim with all of my new likes and dislikes, but I knew now that that was part of the adventure.

“Nah, I think I’m good for now. I’m going to grab one of those movies, make myself a giant bowl of vanilla ice cream and spend some time relaxing.”

He nodded, a genuine smile painting his weathered face. “Well, pick a good one. Sounds like you’ve been watching shit lately.”

I thought back and remembered my
Gidget
comment and laughed. “Will do. But how will I know if it’s any good?” I questioned with a smirk.

“Guess that’s half the fun, huh? But word to the wise, August.”

“Yeah?”

“Stay away from musicals. No one likes those. No one.”

My laughter followed him all the way out the front door. If he only knew. The lyrics from
Grease
still haunted me.