Forgive and Forget (7 page)

“Tom, it’s me, it’s Joe. It’s okay. No one’s going to hurt you. You were having a nightmare. You remember me, right?”

Tom? Was that his name? He blinked down, his eyes meeting wide eyes the color of the ocean. The seaside…. “Joe?”

A shaky smile came onto the man’s face. “Yeah, that’s right. It’s Joe.”

Sweet, jittery, bashful Joe, who had taken him in and been so kind to him. Joe, whose handsome face was filled with such tenderness, flooding Tom’s entire being with a feeling he couldn’t describe but wanted to bask in. It had been so long since anyone looked at him that way. He couldn’t remember, but he could
feel
it. He found himself unable to move. Instead, he lowered himself, wrapping his hands around Joe’s head as he nuzzled his face in the crook of Joe’s neck. Just for a minute. He needed someone to hold on to. Someone he could trust. He didn’t know Joe, but for some strange reason, he felt he could trust him. He desperately wanted to.

“What’s happening to me, Joe? Why can’t I remember?”

Joe wrapped his arms tightly around Tom’s back, rubbing comfortingly with strong hands. It had been so long since he’d trusted someone or felt like he wasn’t alone. Was he alone? Why did the thought of trusting someone—anyone—leave him feeling cold?

“I don’t know what’s happening, but we’ll figure it out, okay?” Joe’s voice was almost a whisper, the sadness and pain subtly woven into his mellow baritone akin to Tom’s. For a moment it was almost as if Joe had read his thoughts. What would have happened to him if Joe hadn’t found him? Somehow he felt there was more than one answer to that question, none of which resulted in anything good. Was it just gratitude that had Tom feeling attached to Joe?

How could he not remember anything about himself, yet put his trust so completely in this man? He was practical, he knew that. Procedure, discipline, levelheadedness were words that came to mind when he thought of himself. His attraction to Joe might not have been foreign to him, but the depth of feelings swirling about his head was very new. Yet for every sensible rebuttal his head offered, his heart overruled each and every one.

Tom pulled back slightly, looking into Joe’s eyes, and he lowered his gaze down to Joe’s lips. What did Joe taste like? Sweet like his pies? Warm like his smile? It occurred to Tom that he was somewhat of a sappy romantic, which felt at odds with the source of his current predicament. It was hard to concentrate with Joe under him. Speaking of hard….

Something stirred down south, and Joe’s eyes widened, as did Tom’s. Tom scrambled up, and quickly deposited himself on the end of the couch, his hands clamped tightly on his lap while Joe sat himself on the other end, looking everywhere but at Tom. He turned on the small lamp, his gaze on the floor.

Good God, what the hell was wrong with him? How could just thinking about a kiss make him hard so quickly? Joe probably thought he was some kind of pervert, wrestling him to the ground and then getting hard like that.

“I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me. That’s never happened before.” The man had saved his life, and this was how he showed his gratitude? “At least I don’t think so. I, uh, maybe it’s been a while for me too.” Tom needed to calm down. This really wasn’t the time or place. When he glanced at Joe, he noticed how Joe’s cheeks were flushed, his legs crossed, and he darted his gaze around the room to avoid Tom. “Would you mind if I use your bathroom?”

“You don’t have to ask, Tom. This is your home while you’re here,” Joe replied somewhat unsteadily. He cleared his throat and motioned to the kitchen. “I’m going to, um, get some water.”

Tom nodded and sat there.

Joe didn’t budge.

“Should I…? Okay, I’ll go first.” Tom jumped to his feet and rushed down the hall to the bathroom. He closed the door and went to the sink, where he splashed his face with cold water. What the hell was wrong with him? He wiped the excess water from his face before studying himself in the mirror, willing himself to remember something—
anything
. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and tried to recall. It was all in there beyond the veil of blurred shapes and colors. Faceless people, muffled voices. What if his memory didn’t come back? He quickly shook himself. Whatever happened, he’d figure it out. He was a survivor. Holding up one of his hands, he flexed his fingers, his bruised and reddened skin stretching over his knuckles. Whoever had hurt him, he’d hurt them back. At least that was something.

With a sigh, he dried his face and turned off the light before heading into the living room. Joe was huddled in the armchair under his blanket. He was pretending to be asleep. Tom had no idea how he knew that, but he did. With a small smile, he went back to the couch. If Joe wanted to pretend whatever had happened hadn’t happened, then Tom would go along with it. He owed Joe that much.

Tom woke the next morning to the most amazing smells: the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and the mouthwatering whiff of baked pastries. His stomach growled, demanding to be introduced to the source of such decadence. Getting up, he stretched and noticed his jeans and T-shirt had been cleaned and carefully draped over Joe’s armchair, along with his leather jacket. The clock on the mantel said it was nine in the morning. Wow, had he really slept that late? Guessing by his reaction, sleeping in wasn’t something he did often, and considering he’d slept on a couch, he was even more surprised by it. How early had Joe gotten up to get Tom’s clothes washed
and
bake whatever smelled so good?

He padded down the hall to the bathroom, and after washing up, shaving, and running a comb through his disheveled hair, he got dressed, smiling at the feel of his own clothes—the only thing connecting him to the man he was. They fit perfectly, from his dark jeans and charcoal-gray long-sleeved T-shirt to his black socks and boots. He looked himself over in the mirror. Not much color in his wardrobe, but it felt right. The clothes were good quality, and his jacket a designer brand. Suddenly, a thought struck him. They’d taken his wallet but left a really expensive jacket behind.

With a frown, he looked down at his boots. They were worth a few hundred, easy. Why not take the boots? He couldn’t have had much in his wallet. Not more than what the boots and jacket were worth combined. What had he been doing in a garden, anyway? It was a strange place to end up, not to mention get mugged. Maybe he should check his jacket. Joe had mentioned there was no ID or anything on him, but maybe he missed something.

Tom found his jacket and sat down on the couch with it, carefully inspecting every pocket both outside and inside. He patted the sleeves and felt up the lining. He had no idea what he was looking for, but if he could just find
something
, he might have a lead. The motions seemed familiar to him.

With a renewed sense of purpose, he went over his jacket inch by inch, checking every stitch, every inch of fabric. His heart sank when all he found were traces of dirt and pink flower petals inside his right pocket. Dammit. With a heavy sigh, he threw his jacket on the couch cushion beside him. For a moment, he thought he might have found something, no matter how minimal.

Well, he wasn’t going to learn anything new moping around on the couch. He stood and walked to the kitchen when he heard the lovely melody of an old jazz song. He laid his head against the chipped wood of the door with a smile, letting the lyrics of some sweet love song wash over him. Just the thought of Joe made his insides go all warm again. Amazing. The man didn’t even have to be in the room and he managed to lift Tom’s spirit. Why?

This thing he had going on with Joe, it was strange. He shouldn’t feel this way about someone he’d known for such a small amount of time. Joe had every right to be cautious. Slowly, he pushed the swinging door open and peeked inside, biting his lip to keep himself from chuckling at the sight of Joe bouncing along to the tapping cymbals and vivacious brass, a tray of muffins in his mitted hands and a blue-and-white-striped apron tied around his waist, the color making his eyes seem more blue than green. Slipping inside, Tom watched Joe for a bit before speaking. “Morning, sunshine.”

“Jesus!” Muffins shot off the tray in a desperate attempt to escape, landing on the floor. Joe gazed down at the little scattered breads, lips pursed. “I dropped my muffins.”

“Man, I’m so sorry.” Tom quickly got to cleaning up the mess. “I’ll help you bake some more.” He tried not to laugh at the truly leery expression on Joe’s face. As if Tom had suggested they secretly use his baked goods as a means to smuggle illegal contraband out of the country.

After a quick shake of his head to snap himself out of it, Joe smacked Tom’s hand away. “Stop sneaking up on me like that, and
maybe
I’ll let you help. Hopefully, the extent of your culinary prowess is better than Donnie’s.”

Having collected what was left of the rogue baked goods, Joe stood and Tom followed him over to the large wooden table in the center of the kitchen where Joe replaced his food gloves with new ones.

“I take it the kid’s not the greatest cook,” Tom said. Not that he was any kind of expert himself. Or was he? Something told him he did okay, but wasn’t really any kind of chef. He loved food as much as the next guy, but the thought of sweating away over a hot stove didn’t appeal to him.

“Have you ever seen bread spontaneously combust?” Joe asked casually. Tom shook his head. “Well, I have. I tell you, it’s heartbreaking. I’m still trying to figure out how he did it.”

Tom laughed, leaning his elbows on the table only to get a light smack on the arm.

“I prepare food on here. Go wash up to your elbows. And stop with the face.”

Rubbing his arm as if it was sore, Tom’s brows rose inquisitively. “What face?”

“
That
face.” Joe pushed the tip of his index finger against the end of Tom’s nose, his eyes narrowed. “The puppy face.”

“I have a puppy face?” Somehow he was pretty sure puppy was not a term often associated with him. Tom tried not to let too much of his amusement show. Joe would probably whack him again. He cleared his throat and nodded very somberly. “I’ll uh, keep that in mind.”

Deciding it was best to let Joe get on with whatever he was doing, Tom did as Joe asked and washed. When he was done, he pulled a stool over to the end of the table, content to just watch until he was given something specific to do. He noticed the multitude of ingredients scattered about. He would never have guessed it took all that to make a pie. There was flour, brown sugar, lemon juice, a collection of little bottles that appeared to be extracts, smaller containers with powders of which Tom could distinctly smell cinnamon—a scent he was coming to associate with Joe and loving more every minute. There were scores of different sized ceramic bowls and wooden utensils. To one side of Joe was a piecrust he must have made while Tom was asleep, and in front of him a big bowl of red fruitiness.

“What’s that?” Tom asked curiously.

“This is the filling for my cherry pie.” Joe’s smile lit the room, and Tom smiled too. Though lately, he seemed to always find himself smiling. It felt… nice.

“Is that your favorite?”

Joe stared at him. “How’d you know that?”

“You have a big, sappy grin on your face.”

“As opposed to the big, sappy one on yours?” Joe snorted, mixing his cherry filling. “I offer three different pies a day. Today is Thursday, so it’s cherry, chocolate cream, and blackberry. Fridays is lemon, banana cream, and peanut butter. Saturdays it’s caramel with pecan, strawberry, and key lime. Sundays we’re closed. Mondays we have pecan, cranberry with apple, and blueberry. Tuesdays it’s apple, lemon meringue, and peach. Wednesdays we have apple and cinnamon, coconut cream, and pear. All the pies for today have already been made and are being eaten as we speak. This is for later. As soon as I’m done, we’ll go downstairs and have some breakfast.”

“Wow.” It was all Tom could think of to say. The man was amazing. “How long have you been up?”

“Since four thirty. I slept in a little,” Joe replied, his cheeks going a little rosy.

“Jesus, there’s a four thirty?” Tom asked, only half joking. “Wait,
that’s
sleeping in for you?”

Joe rolled his eyes. “Yes, there is a four thirty. If I woke up at nine every morning, I wouldn’t have any customers. It’s sleeping in for me Monday through Friday. Saturday we open up later. I’m usually up before five. Sundays I sleep in until seven or eight.”

“I don’t always sleep in until nine,” Tom stated, feeling somewhat affronted. He wasn’t quite sure how he knew that, but he was somehow sure. “Unless I’m out really late. I don’t really keep regular hours. Besides, it’s not as if my routine has been normal lately.”

“Tom, not everyone likes mornings. It’s nothing to get defensive about,” Joe went on, adding a pinch of something to the bowl of cherry filling and looking as calm as could be. Meanwhile, Tom frowned.

“I wouldn’t feel defensive even if I didn’t like mornings, but as it happens, I do like mornings, very much,” Tom huffed, crossing his arms over his chest.

“You seem a little cranky this morning. Why don’t you go back to sleep for a while. Maybe you’ll feel better when you wake up.”

“I’m not cranky! I don’t want to go back to sleep.” He pouted. Why was he pouting? Joe was right—he was being cranky. Dammit.

Joe gave him a pointed look. “There’s that face again.”

“What face!” After an exasperated sigh, Tom decided it best he take a deep breath and assess the situation. Somewhere, something went awry, and after backtracking a moment, he realized that something was him. “Okay, maybe I am a little cranky this morning. I’m sorry.” What the hell had gotten into him? He wasn’t normally prone to angry outbursts. Was he? No, he was sure he wasn’t. Aw, hell, he didn’t even know which way he was facing anymore, and that wasn’t good for either of them.

“What’s wrong?” Joe cleaned his hands on a paper towel and turned to him, all patience and understanding, making Tom feel like a jerk.

“It’s just so damn irritating,” he said. “Every time I feel I might be on the verge of remembering something, that cloud—that fuzzy image of colors, shapes, and sounds pulsing in my mind’s eye—just stops and stays there, floating and taunting me. Like a melody you can hear clearly in your head but can’t quite remember the lyrics or the voice that goes with it. I thought I’d find something in my jacket that would put me on the right track to remembering who I am. Maybe something we missed in the lining.” He shook his head. “Nothing but dirt.”