The Memory Thief (15 page)

I am officially drunk by the time we walk into the club, which is jumping. Citizen Cope comes over the speakers and Grace pulls me onto the crowded dance floor.

“I've always wondered what the lyrics to this song are,” she says into my ear. “‘Let the drama kid die'? ‘Let the drunk kid drive'?”

I smile. “I remember song lyrics, Grace. Would you like me to enlighten you?”

“How is that possible?” she asks me.

“I told you this before. If you need a pop culture reference, I'm your man. It's only my personal history that eludes me.”

“Awesome,” she says, total Valley Girl again.

“You want to know the lyrics, or not?”

“Please.”

“‘Let the drummer kick that,”“ I tell her. “It's the name of the song. Well, the name of the song is ‘Let the Drummer Kick,' but you get the idea.”

“Aren't you useful,” she says. “Let's see if you move as well as you talk.” Then we are dancing, her arms around my neck. I spin her and she comes back to me laughing. She turns her back and presses against me; I put my arms around her from behind and we move to the music. Citizen Cope segues into Coldplay into old-school Kimball Collins. I shake my head and sweat flies everywhere, onto her arms, her face. Her hair is down now and it has a life of its own. It flies out behind her, it covers me.

I go to the bar for more whisky and when I come back, she is dancing by herself in the middle of the floor, eyes closed. All of the men and some of the women are staring. I thread my way to her and take her in my arms, dip her low to the ground. She doesn't open her eyes; she recognizes me, she trusts me, which is more than I can say for myself. My own eyes sting with sweat. We dance until the club closes for the night.

Grace drives us home afterward, lets us inside. Nevada is waiting by the door. He greets us with abandon and receives the pats that are his due. I let him out to pee and he obliges, then gallops off to get a bone from the stash in his basket. Back in the living room, I lean against the living room wall, willing the furniture to stop spinning.

Grace is taking off her boots. I look at her through half-lidded eyes. “Were those comfortable to dance in?”

“Kind of,” she says. “More or less.” Then she smiles. “No.”

“Well, I couldn't tell. You were like a superstar tonight. Like Wonder Woman, for real. All you needed was the Lasso of Truth, the indestructible bracelets, and the plane, and the illusion would have been complete.” I grin at her from where I'm holding up the wall.

“Maybe next time we go dancing, I'll wear the costume.”

“Is that a promise?”

She comes closer, so close I could reach out and touch her if I were so inclined—which, I reprimand myself, I am not. The dance floor was one thing. My living room at 3
A.M.
is another situation entirely. “Admit it. You think I'd be hot in a Wonder Woman suit,” she whispers into my ear.

“I think you're hot no matter what you wear,” I admit. Whew. No more whisky for me.

She steps back, giggles. “Really?”

“Really.” I hold her gaze. The tension from this afternoon is back. It fills the air between us. So much for needing the Lasso of Truth; in my case, all that's required is a substantial amount of alcohol, and I will say just about anything.

“Then why won't you make love to me?” Her eyes lock on mine now, uncompromising, and I know I need to tell her the truth—at least enough of it. She deserves that much.

I dig for the words. “Grace, I would be using you. Because you … you love me, or at least the version of me you remember. And I …” My voice trails off. What can I say? There is the obvious, the part she knows—that our time together is a blank, that as far as my memory goes, we met for the first time a month ago. And then there is the rest of it, the part she does not need to hear—that there is someone else, someone I have never met. Someone whose name I do not even know. Yeah, that would really brighten her day. Not to mention how crazy she'd think I am. “I'm not worth it,” is what I come up with. I look down at my Pumas, which is fast becoming my signature move.

She takes my hand, steps closer. “Why don't you let me decide that?”

Burying my face in her neck, I try to hold this moment still in my mind and see Grace, just her. No mountain, no small boy, no laughing sunlit woman. Just Grace.

She turns, twines her arms around my neck, and presses her lips to mine. For a moment I respond. Then, as clearly as if he is standing next to me, I hear his voice.
No,
he says.
You don't want to do this.

In that moment I don't know whether I do or whether I don't. What I do know is that I
can't.
I feel like I've been doused in ice water—shocked, and freezing. I've never heard that voice outside of my dreams before, but it is unmistakably his: low, musical, insistent. Maybe I am losing it now, for real—the last remnants of my life, absorbed into his. Either way, I don't feel like having Grace stick around to watch me fall apart.

“I
can't,
Grace.” I unwind her fingers from around my neck, step back. I am shaking.

Hurt flashes across her face, like I have slapped her. “You don't want me,” she says.

“That's not it. You must know that.”

“Then what?”

“I can't do this with you. It isn't right.”

She steps close again, touches my face. I can feel the hot imprint of each of her fingers on my cheekbone, a brand. Looking into the clear green of her eyes, I have a moment of doubt: Who would it hurt? I run my hands down her neck, over her breasts, daring him to interfere. She stands still for me, a statue under my fingers. I am so tired of being good. She is here. For some inexplicable reason, she wants to be with me. Where is the harm?

You know better.
I can hear his familiar voice now, not angry but patient, like a teacher addressing a student. It infuriates me. Who is he to tell me what to do? Who the hell is he anyway? I have been so fucking lonely.

I braid my hands into Grace's hair, press her into the wall, cover her mouth with mine. It would be so easy to be inside her, so simple. And it has been so long.

This is a mistake.
Not his voice but my own, more confident than I have heard it in a long time. It takes me a moment to realize I have spoken aloud; she freezes against me. Her eyes go wide.

“You need to go, Grace. I'm sorry.” I step back from her, sit down on the edge of the couch. Desire fills my body like an ache, twined with regret. I must be crazy. I am a goddamn lunatic.

She runs a hand through her hair, straightens her dress, before she speaks. “Fuck you, Nicholas,” is all she says.

I stare at the floor.

“Are you even going to look at me? Could you do me that courtesy?” Pure ice.

I look up. Her eyes are red-rimmed now, glassy with tears, but she glares at me as if she would like to bite. There is probably something I could say to make this better, but I have no idea what it is, and right now I am too tired to care.

I am prepared for her to do anything—throw something, swear at me some more, leave like I asked her to—except for what she does next, which is get on her knees, right there on my dirty hardwood floor. “What do you need me to do? Do you want me to beg?” Her hair falls all around her, cascades over the dress. It covers her breasts. She looks like a mermaid.

“Get up, Grace.” I am horrified.

“I don't care that you don't remember.” Now she has my hands in hers. She is pleading. “We can start over. Whatever you want. Just don't do this.”

“Grace, please get up.”

She doesn't move. She kneels there, between my legs, holding my hands in hers. She looks into my face like she can make my memory come back by sheer force of will. She is looking at me like she loves me.

But I am looking through her, to the other side. Whatever is waiting for me, it isn't here.

“Grace,” I say. She gazes up expectantly. In her face I can see her faith in me. It hits me like a sucker punch. A wave of envy breaks over me, for the man I was before all of this happened—a man with an unbroken chain of memories.
This,
and then
this,
and
this.
A past with Grace, and a future. A life like a line.

But then I think back to my dream, the feeling of surprise as I cupped air to my face under the crushing weight of the snow, and I wonder whether that man was so lucky after all. For the first time, I wonder if I have been given a gift.

Grace pulls one hand free, rests it on my thigh. She trails her nails along my skin and I shiver. Desire sparks deep in my body, spreads through my limbs, but I don't move. Instead, I study her face like a map: where I have been, where I am going. I close my eyes and imagine sliding the dress to the floor, disappearing into her heat. She wouldn't fight me.

It is the mountain all over again, that moment where I am suspended between
before
and
after.
I shake my head, the tiniest of movements. My eyes burn.

“Nick.” There is wonder in her tone. “Are you crying?”

I open my eyes, look at her. Sure enough, she is blurry, obscured by a thin veil of water. I take my hand out of hers, swipe the back of it across my face. It comes away wet.

“I'm sorry.” It is a plea, a prayer. “Grace, I am so sorry. Believe me. Please.”

“I've never seen you cry before,” she says.

This is proof, as if I needed any more. “I'm not the guy you want, Grace. I'm not him.”

With her free hand, she reaches up and traces my face, a pattern. It takes me a moment to realize she is following the trail of my tears. Her eyes on mine, she puts her fingers into her mouth, circles them with her tongue.

“This isn't a good idea,” I say to her—a reminder and a warning.

“St. Nicholas,” she spits at me. “When did you get so goddamn pious?”

But I am no saint.

In her eyes I see more than she means me to: her anger, sure, but beneath it the wreckage of broken promises and dreams destroyed. I see her pride and her stubbornness, her creeping sorrow. Beneath all of this runs a thin but steady stream of hope.

The hell with him. Let him try to stop me.

I lower myself off the couch, so I am kneeling with her, and place my hand on her face, feeling her pale skin heat beneath my palm. With my other hand, I lift the silken weight of her hair off her neck. I bring my mouth to the nape of her neck and graze it with my teeth, then bite, hard enough to break the skin. A thin line of blood wells up when I move my mouth away.

She inhales sharply but doesn't move, even when I look in her eyes, a dare. I pull her to her feet, unzip her dress with my teeth, peel it to her waist. She stands like a child while I push it to the ground. I realize with a start that she is naked beneath the dress. In the moonlight, she shines like a goddess.

She steps out of the dress and I kneel on it, run my lips down her belly. I probe her with my tongue, searching, until she gasps and grips my hair. “I love you, Nicholas,” she whispers.

“Grace,” I answer, just that. And I take off my shirt, unbutton my shorts, toss them and my boxers on the floor next to me. I stand with her, press my body against hers, bend my head to take her nipples in my mouth. I flick them with my tongue, I bite them lightly. She calls my name, and I pick her up, wrap her legs around me, slip inside as if I have done it many times before—which, of course, I have. My body knows her, even if I do not.

Against the wall I drive into her, again and again. The static in my mind recedes, and there is just Grace. Her hair is all over me, in my mouth, in my eyes. Her legs tighten against my back, she cries out. Now she is the one who is shaking. Good.

“Did he touch you like this?” I say to her. “Did he make you feel this way?”

We fall to the floor. Her heat is everywhere, enclosing me, gripping me. I find the arm of the dress, make a blindfold. I cover her eyes, pull out of her, rake her body with my tongue. “Who?” she says. She reaches down, grips me, slides her hand through the wetness that is hers. It is almost too much; I arch over her, into her. We move like we were made for it until I rip the blindfold free.

“Look at me, Gracie,” I say, and she obeys.

“Who am I?” I say to her.

But she has no answer.

“Be free,” I whisper against her neck, my voice too low for her to hear.

My eyes on hers, I finish what I started. We come together, but even as she calls my name and cries out, digging her nails into my back, I am already gone.

The sliding glass door to the patio clicks shut after J. C. gives it a good yank—I'd forgotten how stubborn it used to be—and Aidan and I are on our own. “I'm sorry I hit you,” he says again. He holds the bag of peas to his jaw, and winces.

“It was an accident,” I say. “I'm sorry that happened with J. C.”

“The fight? Or that you kissed him?”

“Both. And it may not be a distinction worth making, but he actually kissed me.”

Aidan shifts the peas to his temple. He is silent, which makes me nervous. After a moment he says, “I can't talk about this now. I can't think right.”

“Okay,” I say, in the absence of a better response.

“I need a drink,” he says. “And some space. I need to calm down.”

“Okay,” I say again. Swept with regret, I reach out to touch him, but he steps backward, out of my reach. His face is a careful blank.

“I have to get out of here,” he says.

And he walks out the door.

That just figures. It fits Aidan's MO: When in doubt, run away. Which leaves me … where? Standing in his kitchen, still on my first cup of coffee, alone with J. C. once again. Fabulous.

Speaking of the devil, I have some choice words for him. I right the two chairs that are lying on their side, just to give myself some time to think, and then walk out to the patio. It is still drizzling, but J. C. is sitting in a blue lawn chair as if he doesn't notice, the bag of frozen peas pressed up against his cheek. His long legs are stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. His feet are bare. It doesn't look like he's planning on going anywhere anytime soon.

He doesn't say anything when I come out. In fact, he's humming, a tune that I eventually identify as the Beatles' “Hard Day's Night.” After a while he says, “A. J. leave?” without looking at me.

“Yes,” I said, and he inclines his head.

“Figures,” he says.

“Anything broken?” I ask him, purely to be polite.

“Uh-uh. Just my pride, maybe.”

“Too bad.”

“You don't mean that,” he says.

“Try me.” Maybe we're just going to speak in monosyllables for the rest of the afternoon. That'll be fun.

“I didn't mean to cause that much drama. But it would've happened sooner or later. I wasn't just going to … not say anything.”

“Why the hell not? Or if you had to say something, fine. You didn't have to kiss me.”

“I'm sorry,” he says, and some of the bravado runs out of his tone. “I don't know what got into me.”

I don't, either. I hadn't pegged J. C. as the type of guy who would start a fight with anyone, much less the guy who'd been his closest friend since high school. “You're getting wet,” I tell him, to avoid saying anything with more import. It is only drizzling, but that's enough to mat his short brown hair and streak the blood on his cheeks—which, come to think of it, is probably Aidan's, not his. He looks bedraggled, and tired.

“So are you. At least, I assume.” Taking the bag of peas off his cheek, he turns around to give me the full benefit of his face. “But it kind of feels nice, all things considered.”

I gasp; I can't help myself. He looks awful. His jaw is bruised, and one of his eyes is turning black. As for his lip, it has stopped bleeding and started to swell.

“That good, huh?”

“You look terrible. I hope it was worth it.”

He uncrosses his ankles. “I'll let you know in a couple of years.”

“Can I ask you something?” Ignoring the rain—not to mention his comment—I pull up the chair next to his.

“Go ahead,” he says, putting the peas back, this time on his eye. He doesn't sound curious, just exhausted.

“What you said about Aidan and his dad—what did it mean?”

He shoots me a sharp look with the eye I can see. “He hasn't told you?”

I shake my head. “I mean, I knew there was—something. But he'd never get specific, so I just left it alone. I figured he'd say something when he felt like it.”

“Which will be never,” J. C. says.

“He told
you,
” I say, feeling just a tad bit whiny.

“Babe, I was there. He had no choice.”

Babe?
“It must be bad, then.”

J. C. doesn't say anything for a minute. He shifts the peas to his jaw, stares into the rain. Finally he says, “It's not pretty. And to be fair, it does explain a fair amount of why he's the way he is. But I shouldn't have said what I did. That was shitty of me.” He winds down then, looking uncomfortable. Talking so much, with his mouth the way it is, can't feel good.

“What happened?” I ask. I know it isn't right; I know I should wait for Aidan to tell me. But I've had enough of secret-keeping.

He gives me the eye again. “Nuh-uh. No way. I'm not getting in any more trouble. If A. J. wants you to know, he can tell you his damn self.”

“But—”

“But me no
buts,
little girl. My lips are sealed. Or they would be, if my jaw didn't hurt so much.”

“Fine,” I say after a moment. “I'll just go look for Aidan, then.”

“Be my guest,” he says, leaning back in the chair again.

With a sigh of annoyance, I get to my feet and walk back inside. I grab my purse from Aidan's room and head for the front door, with no good idea of where I'm going. As it turns out, I don't have to go very far. He is sitting on the front steps, smoking a cigarette. Between the fighting, the climbing, and Aidan's smoking, it will be a miracle if he and J. C. live to see thirty. “Hey,” he says when I open the front door. He doesn't turn.

“Hey,” I say in response, and sit down on the step next to him. All I can see is his profile, and it looks battered. He has a darkening bruise just below his left eye and another one high on his cheekbone. He's gotten most of the blood off his face, and miraculously, his nose doesn't seem to be broken; it looks just like normal. His arm, however, is another story. It bears a perfect set of J.C's teethmarks.

“Nice, right?” he says, swiveling to face me.

“You've looked better,” I say, shifting my weight in an effort to get comfortable. The rain has stopped, but the step is still damp.

“Thanks a lot,” he says. “I've felt better, too.”

Silence falls between us for a moment, while I try to figure out where to go from here. On the plus side of things, he isn't yelling. Then again, he doesn't look happy, either.

“I didn't expect—” I begin, just as he says, “The thing is—”

We pause, stymied. He says, “Go ahead.”

“I was just going to say that I didn't expect you to be out here.”

“I didn't expect myself to stick around, either. But I'm sick of running. It gets old.”

“So you're not mad?” I find that one pretty hard to swallow.

“I didn't say that. But I think maybe I overreacted, getting into that fight with J. C. I wouldn't have hit him if he hadn't started saying that shit about my father. Maybe I should have given you a chance to explain yourself before I went crazy, but I just snapped and that was the end of it.”

“Aidan,” I say. “You just walked in on me kissing your best friend. Well, he kissed me, but that's beside the point. I think you had a right to be angry.”

He smiles at me, that crooked smile that always tugs at my heart. “Honey, I'm the last one to be throwing a fit because someone I'm with kissed another person. And I'm the first one to know that things aren't always the way they seem.”

I gape at him. “Have you had a personality transplant?”

Still smiling, he shakes his head. “I'm trying to do better, Maddie. I want to be someone you're proud to be with, not someone you need to make excuses for.” He takes my hand, twining his fingers through mine. We watch people pass by: a mother and her daughter, clad in identical yoga outfits; a small boy learning to ride his bike without training wheels, followed by his father; an older couple, arm in arm, strolling on the sidewalk. After a bit he says, “So, you want to tell me what happened?”

“It was like I said, Aidan. We were just standing there, talking, and then he kissed me. I guess I should've stopped him right away, but he took me by surprise. And then you walked in, with spectacularly bad timing.”

“Or spectacularly good timing,” he says, staring straight ahead.

“How do you mean?”

“If I hadn't come in when I did, who knows what might have happened?”

“
I
know,” I say. “Nothing. I would've stepped away from him and told him to quit it.”

“And would you have told me what he did?”

That is a harder one. “Probably, just because I would've felt too guilty otherwise.”

“Hmmm,” he says, stroking my palm with his thumb. “Interesting. So he just kissed you, right out of nowhere?”

“Not out of nowhere,” I admit. Here comes the part I've been trying to avoid.

“Go on.”

“We were talking … about how he thought that you weren't good enough for me, basically. He said he would trust you with his life, that you were a great person to have in a crisis, but that you were … what did he call it? Flaky, over the long haul, and not husband material.” That about sums it up.

Aidan doesn't say anything, and I hazard a glance at his face to see how he is taking this. He looks thoughtful. “Was this the first time he'd said something like this to you?”

“After you … after Kate, he kind of hinted that if we weren't together, he'd be interested, but he never tried to kiss me or anything. I thought he was just being nice to me, to cheer me up, since I was so upset. I didn't realize that he was still thinking about it, until today. Maybe it was the whole marriage proposal thing that got him going.”

He says nothing.

“Are we okay, Aidan?”

“I think so.” His voice is calm. “I've been out here for a while, trying not to lose my shit. And what I came up with … well, I did mess around on you, Maddie. I'm not going to do it again, and it's not like the kind of thing you can make even, I know that. But it makes me feel better, somehow, that you're not … how can I say this? Perfect, pure as the driven snow, whereas I have this mammoth strike against me. Does that make sense? It makes us feel more equal, to me anyway.”

“So the fact that J. C. and I kissed makes you feel better about our relationship?” That is some twisted logic, right there.

“In a weird way, yes. Am I still mad? Yeah, at J. C. mostly. Do I wish it hadn't happened? Sure. Do I have some serious issues with him over it? You can put money on that, although he's right, I've done some shitty things to him over the years and this has been a long time coming. He and I will be okay, though. We understand each other.”

“I don't get it. If you kissed Jos or Lucy, I'd be furious with both of you.”

“Don't get me wrong. I'm not happy about it. But shit happens, honey. No one knows that better than I do. What kind of hypocrite would I be if I asked you to forgive me for having sex with Kate, but I couldn't handle you kissing someone else, even if it was J. C.?”

“You're being way too understanding about this,” I say warily.

“The shoe's usually on the other foot. I'm kind of enjoying being the wronged party for once.” He runs his hand through his hair. “Can I ask you something?”

“Me? Sure. What do you want to know?”

“What J. C. said before,” he begins, his tone guarded.

“Which thing he said?” But I am pretty sure I know what Aidan means.

“About how you haven't said yes to me because of …” He trails off, swallows hard. “Because of feelings you have for him. Is it true?”

“Aidan. You think I'd be dating you if I was in love with your best friend? That's kind of tacky, to say the least.”

“I didn't say you were in love with him,” he says. “Just that maybe you had some feelings for him that went beyond friendship. You kissed him back, Maddie. I was standing right there. I can tell the difference.”

I choose my words carefully. “I like J. C. very much. He's smart, he's kind, and he's interesting in some of the same ways that you are … the climbing, the traveling, all the experiences I haven't had. I enjoy talking with him. He's a good conversationalist, and he really came through for me that time when you got together with Kate. He's a great guy. I can see why you're such good friends. But you're the one I want to be with, not him.”

“Okay. I can buy that. And believe it or not, I'm not asking because I'm jealous—or not totally, anyway.”

Confused, I peer at him. “Why are you asking, then?”

He rubs his jaw. “Now it's my turn to ask you not to get mad at me.”

“Why would I get mad?” Truth be told, I am already more than a little on edge. For one thing, talking about J. C. wasn't all that comfortable for me. And for another, anytime someone tells you not to get mad, you can be pretty sure that something you don't want to hear is coming next.

“This is a strange thing to say, I guess. But I just … how can I put this? If something happens to me, I want you to know … You could do worse than J. C., is what I'm saying. He would be good to you.”

For a second I say nothing, as the implications of what he said settle in. Then I say, “Have you gone
crazy
?” so emphatically my voice squeaks on the last two syllables.

“Don't get all freaked out, Maddie. I'm just trying to be realistic.”

“Realistic? By passing me on to your best friend? Chauvinistic, more likely!” My voice rises in pitch and decibel level with each successive sentence.

“Maddie. Calm down. I'm not passing you on to anyone. I've just lost too many friends. I want to know you're … that there's someone who loves you, if something happens to me.” He sounds absolutely composed, and absolutely serious.