Drop the bait. Keep calm. Let it sink and do its job.

What I just said to Isabelle wasn’t an outright lie. I do have recurring dreams about making love to her. They may very well be just fantasies, given how much I lust after her. But there’s a chance they may be recollections.

My first memories of life Before Amnesia.

And there’s the vague sense Isabelle is hiding something from me just like Angie. My gut tells me it’s important. I need to know what it is. And I’m prepared to do what it takes to find out.

Isabelle’s breathing grows shallower by the second. Her cheeks are crimson. As for her big brown eyes, I have no words to describe the turmoil in them.

It worked. My bait worked!

She wouldn’t be reacting like this if what she’d told me was the full story.

“You and I, we were lovers,” I say gently.

Mustn’t scare her away.

She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even nod in response, but her eyes are expressive enough that she doesn’t have to do either.

I feel like singing. I’m a hairbreadth from pulling her to my chest and kissing the hell out of her. But not just yet.

“Talk to me, please,” I say. “I met with Angie last night, asked her lots of questions, but she kept her answers so short they were useless.”

She sets her beer on the table. “I’ll tell you everything, Lucas. Keeping the ending of our friendship from you didn’t sit well with me anyway.”

“Did we have a relationship?”

She shakes her head. “We had a night.”

“Just one night?”

“Yep, just one. Whatever you remembered can only be from that night three months before you were attacked.”

Three months before—

I was dating Angie.

“Go on,” I say, suddenly a lot less elated.

She looks down. “In the morning, you told me you were dating Angie. And you told me you had no intention of dumping her. Quite the contrary, you were planning to propose.”

“Jeez.”

“I was mad at you.”

“You had every reason to be.”

Isabelle nods. “So, I decided to get away.”

“Is that why you quit water polo, too? So we’d never cross paths?”

She smiles faintly and nods once more.

Happy now, Lucas? The bait worked.

Isabelle totally bit it and spilled the beans. Now I know what she’s been hiding from me. I’ve read the missing page of our story.

Hallelujah.

Except I was probably better off living in ignorance. It would have been easier to deny all the other clues I’d gleaned here and there about my less than stellar behavior. It was easier to cast myself as a decent human being.

I drop my head to my chest. “I was a douchebag.”

She sighs.

“I two-timed Angie, and I got you into my bed without telling you I was seeing someone.” I stare into her eyes. “I was a royal douchebag.”

She gives me a feeble smile. “You were young, stupid and self-centered. So yeah, you were a douchebag. But you weren’t hopeless.”

“You’re too kind,” I say with a sneer.

She shakes her head. “No, no, I mean it, Lucas! The night you were attacked, Eric and I saw you at Le Poivre, and you said you were sorry.”

“Did I?”

“Yes!”

“What exactly did I say?”

“We made some small talk, and when Eric went to the restroom, you said you were sorry for how you’d treated me.”

I frown, unsure what to make of it. Now that I’ve established and owned what kind of guy I was, apologizing sounds out of character.

“You did,” Isabelle insists. “You have to believe me!”

“OK,” I say, “I’ll try.”

And then, hardly believing what I’m doing, I pull her to my chest.

She tips her head up, and I nearly drown in her eyes.

“How I wish I’d asked you who you were waiting for!” she says.

I stroke her hair. “Let it go, Izz.”

“If only Eric had seen him when he went back into the bar…”

“He went back in?”

“Yeah.” She tilts her head slightly. “I thought you knew.”

“No.”

“Weird.” She frowns. “We left the bar and got into his car. He was giving me a lift.”

She looks past me, recalling. “He started the car and realized he’d left his phone in the bar, so he rushed back inside, searched everywhere, but the phone was gone.”

“Eric never mentioned that detail,” I say. “Maybe he considered it unimportant… How long was he inside?”

“Five minutes, tops. I’m sure he would’ve told you if he’d seen you there with someone.”

I shut my eyes, willing myself to remember, but as usual, it’s the imagination and not memory that paints a picture of Eric, looking as he does these days, walk into the bar. I have no idea what he wore that day or if he saw me.

I pull my phone out and dial Eric’s number.

He picks up. “So, how did the girls do? Did they manage to score at all?”

“They actually did,” I say. “Once they adjusted their game and worked up the mojo, they netted twice.”

“So Leanne was right.”

“Yep. We’re definitely doing it again.”

“The night I was mugged,” I say not bothering with preambles, “you came back into the bar looking for your phone. Why didn’t you ever mention it?”

There’s a pause and a loud sigh. “Vanity, I guess.”

“Huh?”

“I didn’t act in a very dignified manner when looking for my stupid phone,” he says. “Besides, I didn’t see you. I thought you’d left by then.”

“What were you wearing that night?” I ask.

My doctors keep saying to hunt for sensory details. Colors, smells, sounds—any sensory input might trigger a memory.

“Honestly, I have no idea,” Eric says. “I’m sorry.”

“I know!” Isabelle cries out, bright-eyed. “He had on a sky-blue sweater, a V-neck. I wore a shirt of the same color, and you’d joked Eric and I were color coordinated.”

In a flash, I see Eric in his blue sweater, entering Le Poivre. He goes straight to the bartender and asks if someone found his phone. The bartender spreads his arms. Eric makes the group at his old table stand up, crawls under the table, and all but sniffs the floor. “It was an iPhone,” he whines. “The latest model!”

The image is too vivid, too detailed to be the product of my imagination.

It is a memory. I’ve actively retrieved my first memory!

With my heart pounding, I will my mind to replay the scene again. Eric walks in… Talks to the bartender… Ducks under the table… “What a schmuck,” the guy at my table says through his teeth. I turn to him. “Even you would try to recover your phone. All your info, your pictures…” I pause before adding, “photos of Angie.”

I truly can’t remember what he said in response, and I don’t care. What matters is that now I know the guy I’d been waiting for did show that night. I’m close… So close… It’s—

“Clément,” I say aloud.

The man at my table, the last man to have seen me before the attack was Clément.

He never came forward with that information.

Neither did Angie.

Does she know?

Could Clément—

Isabelle touches my face. “Lucas, are you OK? You’re pale as death. Talk to me!”

“What’s going on?” Eric’s voice sounds from my phone.

“I’ll explain later. Got to go,” I say before hanging up.

Isabelle’s eyes are wide with so many emotions I wouldn’t even know where to begin. “You… you remembered something.”

I nod. “The person I was waiting for was Angie’s bestie, now ex-boyfriend, Clément.”

She gasps.

“The meeting wasn’t a friendly one,” I say. “I remember my anger and… jealousy.”

“Over Angie.”

“Yes.”

“Can you remember the things you said to each other?”

I shut my eyes again, but nothing comes no matter how hard I try. Maybe the bit I’ve just retrieved is all I’m going to get. Or maybe I’m just too tired. Hopefully, more things will come later.

“You’ll try again later,” Isabelle says as if reading my mind. “What you’ve remembered is huge. Let your mind process it.”

“You’re right,” I say, and suddenly another chunk comes back.

I’m drunk. Clément—much less so. I ask him if he’s slept with Angie in the past, sleeping with her now or hoping to sleep with her in the future. He sneers and says it’s none of my business. I warn him to stay away from her. He tells me to go to hell.

My fists itch to meet with his smug face.

I suggest we continue our conversation outside. He says sure. We leave money on the table and head out the door. Too many people, too much light.

“Follow me,” I say and stride around the corner and behind the building. From what I can make out in the dark, it’s a courtyard or cul-de-sac.

We face each other, fists clenched.

“You piece of shit,” Clément spits out. “You don’t deserve a woman like Angela.”

I swing and miss. He punches me. I lose my balance and fall.

Skull cracking.

Searing pain.

Darkness.