Chantel drives like a maniac.

I’m trying not to be obvious about clinging to the passenger side door as she weaves in and out of Boston traffic, ignoring the loud honks and middle fingers of the people she’s nearly killing. We finally, blissfully, stop outside a trendy-looking bar, and she deftly parallel parks before shutting off the engine.

“Finally! I’ve been waiting to have brunch with you forever!” she chirps.

I fake a smile, my teeth slick against my lips. I have yet to brush my teeth, and I’m wearing yesterday’s clothes… not to mention Isaac’s scent lingering on my skin. I feel gross but there’s nothing for it. I had to get out of that hallway. I don’t know how to balance my two worlds – the present and the time before. Until I can figure that out, I don’t like them to mix.

It makes my head spin.

I open my door and step out onto the red brick sidewalk, staring up at the white-washed stucco exterior of the building. I hate places like this. I much prefer cozy little pubs, the kind that make you feel the age of the city. This place’s existence looks forced and out of place, and the feeling absorbs into me as Chantel breezes by, opening the door. When I don’t follow, she turns to look at me with one lifted penciled-in eyebrow.

“Well? You’ve wanted to try this place out for a month. Are you seriously going to just stand there? We need mimosas!”

I blink, processing that statement. “I never drink during the day,” I say, and it’s true. I’ve always been the kind of woman who likes a clear head, and day drinking just makes me tired and out of sorts. Any good friend of mine would know that.

Why doesn’t Chantel?

She falters, her eyes blinking rapidly before she collects herself. “I meant for me, dummy. Now come in before we both freeze and lose our reservation.”

I follow her inside, the warmth embracing us, though the place is anything but cozy. It’s sterile and white inside, what some might call minimalist. I just think it looks barren. Even with the tables filled with chatting patrons.

Chantel approaches the hostess and gives her name. I notice her slide a bill into the woman’s hand. This gesture has the woman reaching for a pair of menus as she guides us toward a table near the kitchens, where we take a seat, and Chantel instantly asks for a pitcher of mimosa.

“You sure you want to do that? You did drive us here.”

She leans on her elbows, taking me in with her sharp green eyes, not answering my question. I’m uncomfortable, and I can’t fathom why I would feel this way in the presence of a close friend. My mind darts to Isaac, how content and relaxed I am when I’m with him. He is the only thing in this world that seems right to me, and yet somehow, I feel wrong for feeling that way. Everything is so ass backward I could just scream.

“Do you have any idea who did this to you?” she asks, dragging me out of my reverie.

I inhale, holding the breath in my lungs, sucking all the oxygen from the air through my body before releasing it. “No. But I’m sure as hell going to find out who did.”

Chantel is about to say something when the waiter plops a crystal pitcher of sparkly orange drink on our glass table, and she pours herself a flute of mimosa before offering me some, again.

“Seriously, you have to try this.”

“No means no, Chantel.”

My response is bit out between my clenched teeth. I wish that I hadn’t opted to make this choice, that I had decided to stay in bed with Isaac, perhaps having another delectable fuck session this morning instead of sitting in a place I don’t belong with a woman who says she’s my friend while knowing nothing about me.

And why don’t I remember her? If we’re lifelong friends, surely I’d have some memory of her from before the accident.

Chantel shrugs, bringing the flute to her lips and downing another sip. “Suit yourself. Someday you’re going to have to learn the joys of drinking at brunch.”

“Someday,” I say, not wanting to argue.

We sit in awkward silence as she takes drink after drink, the waiter arriving to take our order. Once we tell him what we want, he is gone in a flash, and Chantel leans in again, ready to make another attempt at friendly conversation.

“So what’s the deal with the muscleman this morning? He was acting weirdly possessive of you.”

I swallow, considering a swig of the bubbly drink in that pitcher. Instead, I take a pull from my water glass, the ice brushing against my lip as I swallow, slickening my throat. I don’t answer right away, and this clearly annoys her.

“Scarlett, are you going to be weird now that you’ve been hospitalized?”

I stare at her, considering her story. I have found it strange that I had no visitors in the hospital, save for one. How did Isaac manage to get in, when no one else could? Was it because he rescued me? Or is Chantel lying? Could be either. Or both.

“I’m fine. Isaac was there for me. He took the weirdness away,” I say, instantly regretting it.

Chantel’s eyes flare with interest, and she crosses her leg as she continues to lean in, ready to extract gossip whether I want to give it freely or not. “You’re sleeping with him, aren’t you?”

My blush gives me away.

Chantel knows that she’s hit the mark. She hoots and leans back in her chair, staring at me with a twinkle in her eye. “You dog! When did this start?”

I look up at her, and while I’m not quite sure if I trust her completely, it feels nice to have a friend to confide in. After all, this part has nothing to do with my own crime.

“Last night,” I say after a heavy pause.

She laughs, clapping her hands together. “I mean, don’t take this the wrong way, the man is hot, obviously, but he’s kind of a douchebag. You sure you want to be involved in that? Also, weren’t you with Gareth like two weeks ago?”

I hold my expression steady. I haven’t revealed to Chantel the extent of my memory loss, and I’m not sure I want to. There has to be a way to get information without giving too much away.

“Oh, I don’t know. Gareth and I were more like friends anyway, right? He just had a big crush on me.”

Chantel scoffs at that, crossing her arms. “Please. Everyone within a mile could see that Gareth loved you more than anything, even work or money.”

Guilt seeps beneath my skin at that comment. What happened between us that’s missing?

“Well, we don’t make that much money anyway, do we? So there’s that.”

Chantel lifts an eyebrow but says nothing.

The truth is that I won’t be able to figure that out without getting some answers from Gareth. I don’t know if I owe him an apology or not but he knows I’m having memory issues. The least he can do is help me piece this part of my life back together.

“I’m going to talk to Gareth,” I declare, reaching for my purse and pulling out a few bills.

“We haven’t even eaten yet. You’re not going to miss out on this meal!”

I flag our waiter and ask him to bag up my food, dropping a few bills on the table.

“This should cover it. I’m sorry, Chantel, but I need answers, and I’m afraid I simply don’t have time for brunch. Can we raincheck the rest of this catch-up session?”

Chantel releases a disappointed sigh but I can tell she’s not going to stop me. “Do what you want,” she says, tipping her glass until its contents are empty. “I’m drinking this anyway.”

“Thanks, Chantel, really. I appreciate your understanding.”

“Just go fix your little love triangle problem, then tell me all the juicy details. I expect a full report once you’re done.”

“Deal,” I tell her, grabbing my boxed food from the waiter as I make my way out.

I don’t need to hail a cab. I’ve been to Gareth’s house many times, working on cases and pulling some late nights. What else happened there, that I don’t remember?