“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Dad says.

I freeze and turn to him, waiting to hear more.

He shakes his head. “Catfish are far from stupid. They manage to hunt pigeons, after all. But they’re still fish, not cats. They have no clue what a hook might do to them, so there’s no need to hide it in your bait.”

I push the point of my hook up, so it’s exposed.

Dad nods. “That’s better. This way, your hook doesn’t need to make a hole in the bait before it makes a hole in the fish.”

Dad and I are fishing in his new favorite spot on the left bank of the Seine, across from Notre-Dame Cathedral.

He’s been an angler forever, but he’d never done it in Paris until about ten years ago.

We had never done it in Paris.

The sheer number of pics of the two of us fishing various lakes and rivers around the country leaves no room for doubt—I got my kicks from fishing, too.

Unless, of course, I was coerced or bribed into accompanying him. Which he denies.

In the earliest of those photos, I am smaller than the specimen he and I proudly hug to my chest. With every subsequent picture, I grow bigger than the largest fish we pulled out of the water. In later photos, I’m taller than Mom who sometimes joined our expeditions, out of solidarity.

And then suddenly, I’m bigger than Dad.

Like many Parisian anglers, Dad took to street fishing after the Seine became clean enough for dozens of species to return. Eel, catfish, perch, zander—you name it. Even the Atlantic salmon made a comeback. The catfish are the biggest and arguably easiest to catch, so they’re extremely popular among locals.

The whole thing has become somewhat of a fad in town. Hundreds, maybe thousands of amateurs show up rain or shine, knowing even if they draw a blank, at least they’ll spend their Sunday morning gazing at the Pont Neuf, Le Louvre, or the Eiffel Tower. Hipster anglers practice catch and release with plastic bait. Not my father, though. He and I have our permits, and we eat what we catch… once Mom cooks it.

No sushi for my parents, thank you very much.

“We don’t see you enough these days,” Dad says.

I give him an apologetic smile. “It’s just that time of year again—playoffs and all.”

“I know, I know.” He smiles back. “Don’t get me wrong, son. Your mother and I are happy and proud to see what you’ve achieved.”

His eyes water as he says this. And even though he means every word, it’s impossible not to sense the smothered “but” at the end of his comment.

“But?” I say.

“It’s just… Your mother almost regrets the days you were still recovering at our place.”

I bunch my brows.

There’s no way Mom would regret the “good old days” when I needed Dad’s help to use the bathroom and wash and her help for everything else.

I can only imagine how it feels for a parent to almost lose their only son and to “raise” him all over again, helping him progress from baby-like dependency to self-sufficiency in the space of two years. My capacity for speech was intact, but my motor skills were completely fucked up. Mom and Dad looked after me while I relearned to walk, feed myself, write, ride a bus, use a computer, and navigate the modern world with all its gizmos and complexities.

Except driving, which requires too much motor coordination, and is still out of my reach.

With endless patience, they showed me photos and told me everything they knew about every single person in my life. They did that repeatedly with as much detail as they could provide in the hopes I’d remember something and recover my lost sense of self.

Or, failing that, rebuild a new one.

“I’m sorry. That came out wrong,” Dad says. “Your mother is over the moon about how completely you’ve recovered and how well you’re doing without our assistance. She really is.”

I point at our fishing rods. “You and I will do this every Sunday as soon as the season is over, OK? And I’ll be sure to come by for dinner at least once a week.”

“Sounds good,” Dad says.

Suddenly, I’m ready to ask him the tough question that’s been bugging me for a while now. A long while.

“Was I a better son before?” I drop the bait and turn to Dad. “Are you guys worried I don’t love you as much as I used to, that I can’t love you for real because my memories have been erased?”

He knits his eyebrows. “They haven’t been erased. You know as well as I do amnesia is a problem of retrieval, not loss.”

“I do,” I say. “Of course.”

We stare at each other.

“I don’t think you love us less,” Dad says. “I think you love us differently.”

“Because I’ve changed?”

He nods.

I get this a lot from everyone who knew me before, and they all agree I’m different now. Whether it’s in a good or a bad way depends on who you ask. Some say I’m more responsible and reliable. Others regret that I’m less fun. All concur I’m a lot less interested in dating glamorous models.

Like, not interested at all.

Which reminds me to ask Dad another question that’s been gnawing at me. “Did I ever say anything about Isabelle that would suggest she and I were more than friends?”

“No.” There’s no hesitation in his voice. “Why?”

“No reason.”

“Your mother and I always liked her—much more than that Angela woman you were seeing. You and Isabelle were very close at one point. But as far as I know, you were never into her.”

“Was she ever into me?” I ask, my heart quickening.

He pulls his bait out of the water and casts farther upstream. “Here’s what I know. That girl called all the time to ask after you and visited often while you were in a coma… despite your falling-out.”

“It doesn’t mean she had feelings for me,” I say. “It just proves she’s a good person.”

“She certainly is,” Dad says.

I give him a theatrically smug smile. “I love it when I’m right.”

Except, this time I wish I wasn’t.

Not that I’d rather Isabelle was a bad person, but I wish she’d open up more, figuratively and literally. Last week I dreamed I’d made love to her, again. Twice. The disappointment when I awoke and realized I couldn’t pull her closer and enter her again was staggering.

Why don’t I get those kinds of dreams about Angie? Is it simply because I didn’t get a chance to see her in real life after the coma? Would I crave her like I crave Isabelle if I did?

Would her skin smell as yummy as Isabelle’s? Would touching her hand make my cock just as hard? Would her smile make my heart flip?

It should, right?

Given how beautiful she is, and that I was dating her and not Isabelle before the attack.

I stare at the south side of Notre-Dame’s ancient towers and spikes and refocus my attention on spending time with Dad. Trying to catch the biggest catfish in the Seine. Hoping to pull myself together enough so I can lead my team to European gold for France.

An hour and zero catfish later, Dad concludes they must be spawning. When catfish spawn, they aren’t interested in feeding, he explains. We may as well pack up and go home.

* * *

In the evening, a Google Alert arrives in my inbox. I set it up to ping me whenever Angie’s name pops up in relation to a fashion show in Europe.

A year ago, she did one in Milan and another in Vienna, but I couldn’t go to either place because of the game schedule. Last August, the quietest month for water polo, I almost bought my ticket to New York. Luckily, I called her first. She said she would love to see me, but she was spending the whole month sailing in some exotic sea with her boyfriend.

I didn’t bother asking who he was. I really don’t care.

What I do care about is Angie just might be the missing link, my best shot at remembering something from my past. I don’t expect to recall everything, or even a big chunk. But maybe she could help me retrieve the smallest thing, a tiny insignificant nugget. It could trigger a chain reaction of other nuggets, other memories coming back.

Anyway, that’s what my doctors say.

I click the link in the alert and discover Angie is in Paris right now for a Chanel show.

This is my chance.

I pick up my phone and dial her number.

She doesn’t pick up.

I text her.

Five minutes later, she texts back.

I look up the place. It’s on my métro line, which means if I leave straightaway, I can be there in thirty minutes. I message her back, grab my keys, phone, and wallet, and bolt out the door.

When I enter the trendy bar, Angie is already there. She greets me with an airy cheek kiss, visibly nervous. We sit down across from each other at a small table by the window, and I survey her discreetly.

Angie is every bit as gorgeous as she is in the photos of us six years ago.

“Looking good,” I say with a smile, hoping to establish a better rapport than we had during our first—and only—post-coma conversation.

She looks me over, appreciation in her eyes. “You, too.”

“Thanks.”

There’s an awkward silence.

“Do you like New York?” I ask.

“Yes, very much.”

“What about modeling? Still as fun as it was six years ago?”

As far as smooth transitions go, this one is as level as the Alps, but I don’t have time to do it better. She’ll be out of here in less than twenty minutes.

“Oh yes,” she says, “I still enjoy it.”

I smile, hoping she’ll add something, but she raises her cocktail to her mouth instead.

Her eyes dart to the door.

Great.

Clearly, Angie isn’t trying to help me. She isn’t even trying to pretend she’s trying to help me.

Fine.

I lean in. “What’s the one thing that stayed with you from our time together?”

“Um…” She taps her lips with her elegant finger and gives me a toothpaste-commercial-worthy smile. “You were good in bed.”

My lips curl. “Anything else?”

“Let me see…” More lip tapping. “You were all about water polo. I couldn’t understand your passion or the rules of that game to save my life.”

I peer into her eyes. “My parents tell me I was serious about you… as in thinking about proposing.”

“Oh.” Her perfect eyebrows go up. “I had no idea.”

“Is that why you never visited or called while I was recovering—because you had no idea?”

I hate how reproachful and resentful my question sounds. Then again, I guess that’s how I feel about Angie’s cutting me off. That’s how I’ve felt about her for the last six years.

“I’m so sorry,” she says. “You must think I’m an awful person.”

There’s genuine contrition and shame in her eyes.

Weird. For someone who feels so guilty about her lack of solicitude, why hasn’t she made the tiniest gesture in all these years? What kept her from calling, or emailing me? What… or who?

“Your boyfriend,” I say, surprising myself. “The one you mentioned last time, is it your bestie from when we dated?”

Color drains from her face. “You… you remember him?”

I smirk. “No Angie, I don’t remember Clément or anyone else. My friends told me about him. Besides, he’s in most of our pictures.”

She lets out a long, ragged breath.

Relief?

“So, is it him?” I ask again.

“No,” she says without hesitation. “I’m dating someone else now.”

The second those words are out, her eyes widen in panic, as if she just realized she’s said too much.

I cock my head. “So, you did date him at one point?”

“I…” She shifts in her seat. “Very briefly. We weren’t well suited as lovers.”

“When was it?”

“Um… Let me see…” She rubs her chin, her ear, and her chin again. “Maybe three years ago?”

Why do I have the feeling she’s lying?

Or, if she isn’t, there’s something she isn’t telling me.

I narrow my eyes. “So, you didn’t dump me while I was in a coma to be with him?”

She gives me a wounded-Bambi look. “Of course not!”

“OK,” I say, no longer bothering to smile. “So, you dumped me for another reason. I’m just trying to get my timeline straight.”

She reaches for her glass again, lifts it, and sets it back on the table. “I really have to go now. It was nice catching up, and… seeing how well you’ve recovered.”

I don’t try to stop her.

Even her physical flawlessness now seems cold and off-putting. For the life of me, I don’t understand why I was into this woman.