Six Months Later (9 page)

“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.”

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.

“So how are those applications coming?” he asks me.

“I didn’t do too much. I was pretty wiped last night after dinner,” I say.

“Slacker,” he teases. “Two of mine are already done.”

“Yeah? Which ones?”

“Brown and Notre Dame,” he says.

“Huh, those are two of my schools,” I say, wiping a little condensation off my water glass.

Blake laughs. “Uh, yeah. That was the point, remember? Getting into the same school.”

No, I don’t remember. I have no idea which colleges he’s applying to, and I sure the hell don’t remember planning out the next
four
years
of my life based on a guy I’ve been dating for what? Three months?

Okay, I’m freaking out. I don’t want to watch my carbs or go to Notre Dame. I don’t want to be here at all.

Our waitress sets down our plates, and I stare at the scrambled eggs and wheat toast I never would have ordered. I have a sweet tooth in the morning. Eggs or meat this early just gives me a stomachache.

Blake watches me closely as I pick up my fork, and it’s pretty clear he can tell something’s up. His look turns cool and detached, and I put my fork down, feeling like something in a petri dish. My stomach squirms, and I feel a cold sweat slick the palms of my hands.

I sit back in the booth. “Blake, I’m sorry, but I’m really not feeling well.”

“Maybe some hot tea will help. Chamomile is supposed to be soothing,” he says, looking around for our waitress.

“No.” The word comes out a little louder and harsher than I intend. I feel bad enough to bite my lip and look down.

“What is it, Chloe?” he asks, and there it is again. That almost clinical expression that makes me think he should be holding a clipboard. If this were biology class, I’d be the thing in the metal tray with the pins holding my skin apart. And I don’t want to be dissected.

“It’s my stomach,” I say, and for once it’s the God’s honest truth. “I think I need to head home.”

“Let me get the check. I’ll drive you.”

“I appreciate that, but I don’t want to puke in your car.”

For a minute I can tell he’s not a fan of that possibility either. But he covers it up fast with a worried frown. “Chloe, don’t be crazy. You can’t walk. It’s got to be two or three miles.”

“If you cut through the neighborhood, it’s nothing. I used to walk here with Maggie for pancakes every Saturday morning.”

Saying her name sends another kind of pain through my middle. I might cry if I stay here. I can feel it, and I don’t want to do it in front of him.

I stand up, pushing my plate away. “I’m sorry. I really am.”

“Well, feel better. Call me if you need me.”

I barely manage to nod before I rush out the door and into the too-bright morning. The air is crisp and dry, clearing my head and unknotting my nerves.

I should head straight home, but I don’t. I feel pulled back to Belmont Street. My feet know all the shortcuts by heart, so I follow without thinking. Across Mound Street, then through the newer development to Belmont. I follow the elm trees that line the street, proving just how long these houses have been here. Before I even understand why I’m here, I’m standing in front of Julien’s house.

I try to remember Mrs. Miller in the flower bed or Julien on the porch swing, but I don’t even know if she liked to sit out here. She was practically a stranger to me before. Now, she’s like a ghost in my mind, a hazy silhouette of girl I never really knew. And never will, because she’s gone.

I close my eyes and try to picture her. Maybe hear her voice. She is just a set of vague features. Blond hair, small nose. Shy smile. It could describe half the girls in my school.

“You’re sad that she’s not coming back, aren’t you?” a young voice says.

I look down at the girl in front of me, coat half-zipped and cheeks red from the cold. She can’t be more than eight or nine.

“What?” I ask, though I’m sure I heard her right.

“Julie,” she says. I’ve never heard anyone call her that, but I doubt she’s referring to someone else.

I bite my lip, realizing this little girl probably saw her like an idol, the beautiful princess from the biggest castle on the street. I smile down at her. “I’ll bet she misses you.”

“Yeah, maybe. She made snowmen with me sometimes. I don’t think you can do that in California,” the little girl reasons, wiping her nose with the sleeve of her coat. She looks up and must not like the pity she finds in my eyes. She crosses her arms and tries to look tough. “But it’s not like I stand here crying because she’s gone.”