Revelation (33 page)

"This doesn't make any sense at all." I reach for my calculator and start adding expenses, eyes blurring halfway down the list, stinging from the glare of the laptop. I wipe sleep from them, check the time on my cell phone, groan.

If I leave now, I
might
get five hours of sleep.

"Genesis, honey, you've added those numbers a half a dozen times already. They're not changing."

My jaw tightens with frustration, teeth grinding together. "Ryan, if you call me 'honey' one more time I'm going to fire you."

He laughs, unfazed by what he knows is an idle threat. "How many times have you fired me this week?"

A heavy sigh. "One day I'll mean it."

Honey. Doll. Sweetheart. The blonde-haired, blue-eyed kitchen manager is more trouble than he's worth. But he knows what he's doing. And I need someone who knows what they're doing to balance the fact that I'm one hundred and ten percent clueless.

"It's late. Go
home
," he insists.

"Maybe I should take it to my spreadsheets professor," I continue, ignoring him. "Maybe I'm doing it wrong."

"It's not hard. You add the money you made this month, and subtract expenses."

"I did that. But the number I get tells me we're actually making a
profit
."

"Isn't that the idea?" he asks.

"Come on, Ryan! Most restaurants spend
years
in the red."

"This place isn't like most restaurants. Face it, Genesis. You're a hit. Now
go home
. I'll lock up." Ryan slides out of the booth, heads toward the kitchen.

"Genesis? I didn't get the napkins ready for dinner service tomorrow." Taylor, one of my waitresses, hovers nearby.

"God, don't even worry about it. We'll take care of it tomorrow." I stand, gather my receipts. Invoices. Notes scribbled on napkins.

"I just know how Fridays are
and
. . ."

"Seriously. It's late, and tonight was. . . ." I wrack my brain, searching for the perfect word to describe the chaos that is this business. "
Insane.
"

"Yeah," she replies, all flushed cheeks and tired smile. "I just cashed out my tips."

"A waitress after my own heart." I close the laptop's cover, scoop it off the table. "What did you hear about the special? The manicotti and Chianti?"  

"People seemed to like it. Lots of empty plates at the end of the night. No complaints."

"Good. And forget the napkins. Really. We'll take care of it tomorrow. Don't leave by yourself, though," I call over my shoulder. "Have one of the guys walk you to your car. If they say no, tell them I'm in the mood to fire someone."

The restaurant is spotless. Tables clean, chairs stacked on top. Old candles replaced with new. Hardwood floors swept. The dishwashers work in the back, cleaning the last of the plates and silverware and wine glasses. And tomorrow—well, later today, actually—it starts all over again.

We're making a profit.

I dump everything on the desk in my office. "You said you'll lock up?" I ask Ryan, pulling the door shut.

"Anything for you, Boss."

I'm too exhausted to force my eyes not to roll. "Stop kissing my ass."

He laughs, teasing. "Go home, Gee."

The name stops me mid-tracks.

When was the last time anyone called me Gee?

I open my mouth to respond, eyeing him curiously. But what would I even say?

How do you know that name? Where did you hear it? Who told you?

The words bunch together, so I choose to ignore it—writing it off as coincidence. "Good night," I manage, turning, heading for the exit.

Outside I breathe the balmy, summer air, letting ocean breeze rush my lungs, reviving me. My heels click against boardwalk, down weathered steps. I unhook the straps, kick them sideways, and let my bare feet sink in the cool, dry sand. I pull my cardigan tighter, step into the water, skin burning where there are blisters. I close my eyes, feel the calm wash over me—the fog lifting—peace returning.

I can't believe my restaurant is making a profit.

In a moment I feel someone behind me. A lingering shadow. A presence.

A chill rips through my spine, and, even after all these months, my hand instinctively reaches for the weapon secured at the inside of my thigh. My heart pounds above the roar of the ocean as I spin around to face him, gun pointed.

 His eyes are muted, dark hair falling across his forehead.

My breath hitches, catching in my throat. 

Oh my God.

"I'm sorry." He swallows hard, hands lifting in surrender.

My body goes rigid, cemented in place, refusing to cooperate. My mouth opens, but no sound surfaces. I'm afraid to speak. Afraid to move. To breathe. Afraid to think and to blink and afraid that this moment—whatever it is—doesn't exist. That this isn't happening.

"I'm sorry," he repeats. "I didn't mean to scare you. I was wondering. . . ." He hesitates. "Do you think you could maybe put the gun down?"

My arm falls to my side, finger releasing the trigger.

"I have something to show you. I'm just
gonna
reach. . . ." His hand disappears and resurfaces, holding two tiny pieces of paper. Two small photographs.

I take the photos from him, examining the two of us, fingers touching my lips without thinking, remembering that night at the boardwalk. "Where did you get these?" I whisper.

"I found them in my pocket."

I stare at the angel in the photographs, at the angel standing in front of me.

"Do you know this?" he finally asks.

"Yeah," I reply. "Don't you?"

His eyes tighten, as if trying to focus, but he shakes his head. "I was in an accident. I don't really know the details. When I woke up. . . ." He shrugs.

"An accident," I repeat, heart slowing.

"Everything before is kind of . . . hazy," he finishes.

Hazy.

"How hazy?"

"I don't really remember before," he confesses. A quiet laugh. "I don't remember anything, really."

He doesn't remember anything.

But I do. I remember
everything
. Everything he doesn't and more. The night of the accident. How his hand felt in mine. Pulling me out of traffic to safety. The first time we kissed. Racing through flames. The only time we ever. . . . A thousand memories that were ours. . . .

The
Diabols
.
The Guardians.
Someone
made him forget.

The moment collapses around me, smothering. I step back, eyes welling with tears that blur this midnight world. "You mean you don't. . . . You don't
know
me?"

His eyes—dark and troubled—answer for him.

After all of this—everything we've been through. . . .
This
is my happily ever after?

I shove the photos into his broad chest, watch as they flutter to sand, landing at his feet. I turn away, leaving him, arms crossed against the wind, hugging myself tightly.

"Wait!" he begs."Please?"

I spin on my heel to face him, struggling with the words: "If you don't remember anything, why are you here?"

"I'm here because I remember
this girl
," he says, waving the photographs, eyes roving, serious, searching mine in the darkness. "I
dreamed
of her.
Every night
. And when they gave me my things at the hospital, there was a note with a name and address on it, and the name matched the girl in the photographs. And something told me there was nowhere else for me to go—that everything I could ever want was right here. So I came looking for you, Genesis. Because something inside. . . ." He trails off, faltering. "Something inside me still
wants
you. I don't
know
you, but I know that . . . that I
want
to know you—more than anything in the world. And if these pictures are real, and I hope to God they are, then once upon a time you wanted me, too."

I watch him through silent tears, inhaling ragged breaths, the sound of waves crashing between us
.

"I'm freaking you out, aren't I." It's not a question.

"Yeah," I admit. "You were pretty good at that."

His shoulders fall, resigned. "I'm sorry. When I imagined this whole thing in my head I was much smoother. You weren't crying. And there wasn't a gun pointed at me." A lazy smile. "Can we just . . . I don't know. Start over?"

Start over.

At the beginning.

It's better this way, right? That he doesn't remember Viola. The
Diabols
. Wouldn't I want to forget, too, if I had a choice?

But something—something about this doesn't make sense. Doesn't seem
plausible
. My head spins, wrapping itself around his story, the details. An accident. The hospital. Coming here, to this beach.
My
beach.

The note.

"Who wrote the note?" I ask. "How did you know where to find me?"

"I don't know. It wasn't signed. It's . . .
weird
, actually. When I checked out of the hospital—after the accident—there wasn't even a bill. Someone brought me in, paid for everything, and left enough cash in my pocket and the directions to get me here."

A note that wasn't signed.

I glance around us, across deserted beach, searching, lips pulling into a slow, mystified grin.

It sounds like The Flemings.

Like Carter.

It sounds like the Guardians.

Like Mara.

The new Council.

It sounds like Luke
Castellani
.

Like God Himself, giving me another chance—giving
us
another chance to be together, to become . . .
something
.

I move closer, touching his skin, running fingers through his hair. And for the first time I let myself feel relief. Joy.

He's mine. They gave him back to me.

"I can't believe. . . ." I choke back the knot tying my throat. "I can't believe you're real," I whisper. He brushes thumbs beneath my eyes, smearing away tears. "I thought I lost you."

"I'm not lost that easily." He stops, pausing, poisoned with hesitation. "So . . . can I kiss you now?"

I laugh, and the sound—something like happiness, sweet exhilaration—surprises me. "You're asking permission?"

"Well, yeah. You know, considering. . . ." He clears his throat, frowns, and with all the composure he can manage: "This is complicated, isn't it?"

"You're not a stranger to me," I assure him. "You were
never
a stranger to me."