April

It’s been a week and my memory isn’t getting any better. I’m frustrated, irritable, and just plain grumpy.

“Argh!” I yell, and toss the pan into the sink with a loud clank.

A moment later Matt comes walking through the front door, his gym bag over his shoulder. “What happened?”

“I wanted to do something nice for you, so I tried to make a pot roast, but…” I point to the sink. “I did something wrong. I mean, I followed all the directions. Why is it so hard?”

With a huge smile on his face—revealing those gorgeous dimples that leave me all googly-eyed—he looks in the sink, then grabs a fork and pokes the meat, but the fork won’t go through; it’s that tough. He throws his head back and starts laughing, the kind of laugh that’s totally infectious, and suddenly we’re both bent over, tears in our eyes, unable to catch our breath. “I’m sorry,” he says between snorts. “I don’t mean to laugh. It was very sweet of you to make dinner, but you should probably know that you can’t cook.”

“I can’t cook?”

“Nope. And you hate doing it too.”

“No wonder I was so pissed off while trying to make it,” I say, and he starts laughing again.

He takes a few steps to me and gives me a quick hug. “Let me shower and we’ll go grab some burgers.”

Damn—now I’m thinking of him showering. What is wrong with me? This sweet man takes me in, and all I can think about is how delicious he probably looks naked. I need to get a grip on my out-of-control emotions.

We walk over to a little burger place he says I used to love. It feels good to get out of the house. I still have the fading bruises on my face and a few dried-up cuts and scrapes, plus the cast is still on my arm, so I’m definitely not looking my best, but overall I’m feeling better.

We sit down at the table and when the server comes to take our order Matt asks for a double cheeseburger for himself and then for me a single fully loaded with bacon, two baskets of fries, a water for me, and a beer for him. I’m practically salivating at the sound of that burger.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have ordered for you. Old habit.”

“No, it’s fine. It’s exactly what I would have ordered.”

He’s ripping apart a napkin as he speaks. “Good. I’m glad.” The guy is always moving around, always full of energy. Sometimes I wonder if it’s just his disposition, or if it’s because he’s nervous or uncomfortable around me.

I put my hand over his to stop him, but he pulls away so quickly I feel like I’ve been slapped across the face. “Sorry. Sorry,” I say, bringing my hands down to my lap.

He’s so warm, and I just want to touch him again. But I don’t dare.

“No, I’m sorry. That was a bad reaction.” He looks so torn, and I don’t know what to do to make it better. I want to soothe him, to apologize for the person I can’t remember I was. Clearly I hurt this man, and I wish—God, do I wish—I could remember why. The awkwardness between us right now is so thick it’s practically another entity in the booth.

I spot a jukebox in a corner of the bar. “I’m going to go see what they have,” I say, making an excuse, and he nods, looking lost in his thoughts.

Sliding out of the booth, I go over and start to read all the names of the songs, taking my time so Matt can gather himself—and maybe even so I can get my feelings in order.

I’m so focused that I don’t notice Matt coming up behind me. “Come on. Let’s dance,” he says.

I furrow my brow. Two minutes ago he flinched when I touched him, and now he wants to dance?

“You like to dance and I feel like a jerk. So please put me out of my misery and give me this dance, April.” He smiles, and I see his dimples appear. God, he’s so beautiful.

“Okay.”

He presses the button for an old eighties ballad, one I remember, and it comes on. He takes my hand and spins me once around before pulling me tightly against him, causing me to yelp and giggle. It feels so good to laugh. There’s no one else dancing, but I don’t care because it feels so good to be held by Matt.

“We came here a few times and you’d blindly pick a song and then force me to dance with you. Sometimes they were nice, like this one, but sometimes they weren’t. Like when ‘The Macarena’ came on,” he says with a distracted smile, remembering.

“Sounds fun.”

“It was.” He spins me around again and we both move to the beat. I can’t help but tuck my head into the crook of his neck. I feel so safe and at peace with him. Plus the song has a sexy vibe to it, and the way our hips sway together…God, I wonder how long it’s been since I was with a man. Was he the last one I was with? Am I that desperate that a little gyration turns me on?

As the song is finishing, he twirls me one more time and finally dips me playfully, careful with my arm. We’re so close I can smell the beer on his breath, and I so badly want him to kiss my lips. But he stands me up and gives me a peck on the cheek.

He tucks my hair behind my ear, his thumb grazing my cheek. “Go sit. Food should be out soon. I have to go to the restroom first.” He’s looking at me funny. But he’s not upset anymore, and he doesn’t look uncomfortable. Something has shifted between us, and I wish I could read him better to understand what it is.