Chapter Eight

 

Micah

 

 

I watched Charlotte exploring the display of my high school football days with tightness in my chest. I felt like my breath was caught in my throat, but I didn't know what I was supposed to do. The way that she was standing there, her eyes locked on my jersey, it seemed that she was starting to remember something, or at least was feeling a connection to what she was seeing. I didn't know what to do. I couldn't decide if I should go ahead and tell her who she was, or if I should continue to allow her to explore and see if she could figure it out on her own. My knowledge of concussions and the consequences that they could have for the person suffering one didn't go so far as to tell me what could happen to a person who had lost their memory if someone else forced them to confront who they were and what they had gone through. While I had heard of people being coached about their memories and encouraged to remember or accept what was told to them about their pasts, I didn't personally know what kind of affect that could have on a person. I didn't want to think that I could cause her any damage, but more than that, I knew that there was truly nothing that I could do for her if she thought that she was starting to remember.

As much as I still felt the intense draw to Charlotte and had an attraction to her that felt as deep and real as anything that I could have felt for someone I had known closely for years, the reality was that Charlotte and I didn't know each other. The moments that we had exchanged glances or existed just on the perimeter of each other's lives were barely tangible. They weren't enough to give me any real insight into her as a person, and they certainly didn't tell me anything that she had gone through, especially in the years that followed high school graduation. It shouldn't be my responsibility to try to reintroduce her to herself, and if she asked me, there was nothing that I would be able to tell her. I felt if I gave her even the smallest hint of who she was that she might want more and there was nothing more that I could offer her.

Before I could say anything to her, Charlotte reached up and took a framed document off of one of the shelves. I remembered the day that my mother had put that piece of paper in the frame. It was one of the most amazing moments of both of our lives, something that I don't think either of us thought would ever happen just a year before. Charlotte held the frame out to me and I took it, looking down at the letter.

"You got a scholarship," she said.

I nodded. The statement had been as much an inquiry, an invitation for me to tell her more about that time in my life and this letter if I wanted to. There was a part of me that didn't. This was why I kept this room locked. Though no one else came to the lodge, I still wanted all that was in this room to be protected and kept away from anyone else. Talking about the letter was just the beginning and I knew that it would lead down the path of a story that was a critical part of me, but one that I had tried with everything that I had to keep from anyone. Now I felt like there was nothing that I could do. She had asked me and in that moment, it was clear that there was nothing that I could deny Charlotte. Just looking at her made my stomach muscles tighten and my cock twitch, but I also felt the deep, filling need in my chest to protect and take care of her.

"I went into the college with the intention of playing professional football. Scouts had been watching me for two seasons and I had my choice of six different colleges. I got a full ride to play."

"Scout…" Charlotte said. "Maybe that's why you liked him. Scouts had found you and now you found your own. That's why his name stuck."

I gave a short laugh and nodded.

"Maybe. I never really thought about it that way."

"What happened? I mean, I see that there's memorabilia around here for you playing in college, but you said that you went with the intention of playing professionally and you told me earlier that you went to school for technology."

There was something in her voice that sounded like it was bordering on suspicion, as though she didn't know what to trust, but I couldn't blame her.

"I went for football," I said. "I was an undeclared major and, to be totally honest, I didn't have any concept of anything that I might do in life other than play football."

"Even after you retired?" she asked. "You couldn't think that you were going to be able to play forever."

I knew that she didn't mean the words as judgmentally as they seemed. They sounded more as though she were stunned at the idea of anyone thinking that way about their future. I wondered if that was part of who she was and how life had impacted her that was so deeply ingrained in her that even without the memories to define it, it influenced all of her perceptions.

"No, but I did think that I would be able to be involved with football for the rest of my life. I figured that I would play in college, then get into the pros. During my years playing, I'd save and invest. After I retired, I could go into coaching and consulting. After that I could keep doing appearances. My life would be set because of football. I didn't think that I needed to plan for anything else. Being undeclared meant that I could take just general classes and focus entirely on playing. I'd think of some sort of major whenever it became necessary. It turned out that it became necessary a lot sooner than I thought it would."

I could feel the emotions building inside of me and I fought to lock them up like I had done for years. As I did, the familiar anger started to creep through me, making its way up the back of my neck and tightening my throat until it was painful. But this was a feeling that I preferred. It was easier to be bitter and angry than it was to allow myself to feel the pain, sadness, and disappointment.

"Were you injured?" she asked.

I wondered if she had seen me favoring my aching leg.

"I was in a crash. A drunk driver. It destroyed my leg. I tried to recover enough to get back into shape. I did everything that I could to come back from it, but the injury was just too severe. I had to stop playing. That one moment literally changed the entire direction of my life. In one instant everything about my future disappeared and I had to try to piece it back together. When I realized that I couldn't play anymore, I was forced to come up with a new version of myself and what I was going to do. That injury changed my direction in college, but also everything that I hoped and dreamed for. To be honest, I didn't really hope and dream for much for a long time after that. I had lost too much. It wasn't just my ability to play football. It was...everything."

The image of Helen's face appeared in my mind again, but I didn't feel like talking about her. Charlotte was looking at me with softened eyes.

"I know that it must have been really hard for you to go through that, but you did get through it and everything turned out well for you. You might not have gotten to play football professionally, but you are still extremely successful. You're so young and you were able to retire and be up here in this gorgeous home. You have everything together and it seems like you really enjoy your life."

I didn't know how to respond to her. I felt my jaw set, the anger that had begun to build in me still in control.

"I have more work that I need to do," I said.

It was the end of the conversation and the announcement that her time in the room was finished. She seemed to understand that and walked past me and out of the room with Scout close at her heels. I flipped the switch on the wall, cloaking the vault of my memories in darkness. Locking the door, I put the key back on my keychain and secured it in the pocket of my coat before heading back through the house without another word. As I walked away, Charlotte's words repeated through my mind. She had said that it seemed that I had my life together, but I didn't entirely believe her. The life I was living was Plan B. An admittedly good Plan B, but Plan B nonetheless. I tugged my hat low over my ears and covered my mouth and nose with my scarf as I stepped out into the snow. The wind bit into my skin and I thought about what my life would have been like if I had been able to go all the way and play in the professional league. Would I have still chosen to devote my entire existence to football? I wondered if Helen and I would still be together. Would we have gotten married? How long would our marriage have lasted?

Charlotte's face appeared in my mind and the sound of her laugh played in my ears, and I questioned whether I would even still want to be with her. An uncomfortable realization was forming in my mind, something that I didn't want to even admit to myself because it didn't fit in with the narrative that I had used to define myself for so long, the motivation that had contributed heavily to my decision to come up here. I knew deep inside me, though, that Helen never would have been the type of woman who I would want as a wife. Other than gorgeous and available, there was little about her that actually made her appealing to me and even less appealing was the world that she inhabited. My family was decidedly lower class when I was younger, but football had acted as a stopgap measure, ensuring that I was able to move comfortably in the popular crowds. That had only increased when I got into college and the money that people's families had didn't seem to matter as much as it had in high school. By merit of my place on the football team alone I immediately made friends and started doing the weekly tour of parties and gatherings. That was how I met Helen. She quickly introduced me to a different type of party, ones that were thrown by the members of society and attended by only the wealthiest and most powerful people.

Those parties were where I learned that there was far more to having money than I had ever realized. There were many things that had appealed to me about their lifestyle, but one that didn't was the often vacant look in the eyes of the couples when they looked at each other. There were so many marriages that seemed to be built on little more than the power that their unions created and the fact that they looked good together. In the moments when I was really honest with myself, I knew that if Helen and I had actually stayed together and gotten married, we would have been one of those couples.

 

Charlotte was in the guest room when I finished working and turned down my offer for dinner, telling me that she had already made a sandwich and was just going to stay in and read. I thought about our interaction in the memorabilia room, knowing that I had pushed her away. The next morning, however, she was standing in the kitchen when I woke up. Her thick hair was coiled on top of her head again and I longed to release it from the clip and see it tumble down. I wanted to dig my fingers in it and feel it wrapped around my hand as I pulled it, tugging her head back to expose her soft neck as I took her.

She smiled at me from the stove as she babied an omelet and I craved her even more. I imagined grasping her ass and picking her up to set her on the counter, spreading her thighs and feasting on her rather than on the breakfast she was cooking. I barely tasted the food or felt the hot coffee that I drank. I was so wrapped up in my thoughts about her and when I finished I went directly to the door.

"I'll see you later," I said, wanting to get out into the snow and let the cold get my brain and my cock back under control.

"You have more work to do?" she asked, sounding almost disappointed, but also curious.

"There are some smaller buildings on the property that I'm planning on repairing in the spring. The wind isn't so intense today, so I want to go check on them to make sure that they weren't damaged in the storm. Then I need to tend to the smokehouses and I wanted to bring some more supplies into the emergency shelter. If this first storm is any indication, this winter is going to be rough and I might need to use it."

I was pulling my gloves on when I saw Charlotte coming toward me.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"What?"

"I mean...could you use any help?"

"You want to help me?"

She looked around.

"I don't really want to just stay around here alone all day again," she said. "I think it might do me good to get outside."

I looked at her for a few seconds, as much surprised by her enthusiasm as I was by the offer.

"I don't know how much you're going to be able to help me. It's not exactly easy work. But if you really don't want to be here, you're welcome to come along."

Charlotte wasn't deterred, and she held up a finger.

"Just give me a minute to get dressed."

She rushed out of the kitchen and disappeared into the back of the house. A few minutes later she came back zipping her coat. She wasn't wearing a hat or gloves, and I knew that she couldn't go out in this weather that unprotected. I opened a cabinet in the mudroom and pulled out a pair of extra gloves and a thick hat. I held them out to Charlotte and she put them on, smiling gratefully.

"You look adorable," I told her. I turned and opened the door to a blast of wintry air studded with icy snowflakes. "Absolutely useless, but fucking adorable."

"Hey!" she protested as she followed me. "How do you know I'm useless?"

"I don't," I admitted. "You don't, either. And let's be honest, you're don't exactly look like you're cut out to be much assistance out here."

Charlotte took two defiant steps toward me and promptly sank down in the snow. She tried to adjust her position but only managed to knock herself over backwards, so she landed in the drift.

"Son of a bitch," she said up into the falling snowflakes.

"Perfect."

I walked back to her and reached down for her hand. She grasped mine and I yanked her up to her feet. The pull made her stumble toward me and I felt her body hit my chest. My arms wrapped around her waist and for a moment we stood pressed together. My heart was pounding in my chest and I felt my desire for Charlotte spike higher. My mouth was watering as I started to duck my head, but she took a step back from me. I shook my head to get myself back into the moment and we started across the property toward the cluster of small buildings that stood several hundred yards from the original house. When I had first come up on the mountain and saw that house, I had considered moving into it just as it was, but that felt too much like I was running away. I had already spent too much of my life dealing with things because I had no other choice. I dealt with the cruelty of my father and the disdain of his family. I dealt with the lack of money and struggle when he was finally gone but my mother was left to raise me on her own. I dealt with the agony of recovery and trying to regain what had been taken from me when that driver smashed into me. I dealt with the dreams I had carried for so long being taken away from me. I dealt with Helen's betrayal. The one thing that I would never say that I dealt with was my mother's death.

In all of those situations, I had no choice. There was nothing that I could do but figure out ways to deal with what I was going through, even if I didn't accept it. But when I moved onto the mountain, I had a choice. I was in absolute control and I was going to exert it. I designed the lodge and ensured the contractors were compensated handsomely for making sure that it was completed at breakneck speed so that I could move into my new home and start a life that was truly my own.

I was happy to see that these buildings, which I intended to have fully repaired and preserved come spring, had weathered the storm well. Since they were currently employed as storage sheds, the materials needed to mend the few small patches of damage were close at hand and I went to work. Charlotte took the initiative of watching what I was doing and then repeating it on another section of the home to repair a section of wood that had been torn loose. I followed behind her to finish the job, but was impressed by her willingness to dive into the project and to learn so quickly.

"Maybe you're a carpenter in real life," I said with a laugh.

"I don't think so," she said.

"Why not?"

"Not enough blisters on my hands. Besides, I think that if I did this with any frequency, I would be a lot more ripped."

I laughed again, and we continued working. Though I had always valued the solitude of the mountain, that afternoon I found myself enjoying having Charlotte with me. The snow had lessened until it was barely falling and together we crossed off every item on the list of work that I knew I needed to do. There were other things that I could have done, but I knew that I had come up with those tasks purely as a way to keep myself busy and away from the temptation that was Charlotte. When she shivered and looked longingly toward the house, however, I knew that I wanted to be back inside with her. She was shaking when we got back in and I felt guilty for keeping her outside as long as I did. I doubted that she was wearing enough layers to really protect her from the cold and I should have made sure that she was more ready before tromping her through drifts that sometimes hit her hips.

"Go take a hot shower," I told her. "I'll make some cocoa and have it ready for you when you get out."

"Cocoa?" she asked, one eyebrow raised. "That's manly."

"It's dark cocoa."

Charlotte let out one of her intoxicating giggles and headed toward the room that I had begun to think of as hers. I went into the kitchen and took out a pot. Setting it on the stove, I went to the refrigerator for the milk and cream. I didn't need a recipe. The process of making the cocoa that I had gulped by what felt like the gallon when I was younger was deeply ingrained in me. I could probably have done it in the dark. There was a sudden scream of wind from outside and I glanced up at the light fixture, wondering if there was a possibility that I would be doing it in the dark. As the milk and cream heated, I crossed the kitchen to pantry and took out the rest of the ingredients. Soon the room filled with the heady smell of chocolate, a smell that always managed to make me feel comforted. Yet in that moment all I could think about was how that chocolate would taste if I licked it from Charlotte's skin.

I was so lost in the thought of my tongue sweeping a drop of the hot chocolate from the valley between Charlotte's hips that I wasn't thinking when I reached for the handle of the cast iron pot. The heated metal seared into my skin and I snatched my hand back, hissing as I shook it, trying to cool it in the air.

"Mother fucker!" I shouted.

Scout rushed to my side as I grabbed my wrist and gritted my teeth against the pain of the burn. I walked over to the sink and turned on the cold water, putting my hand beneath it.

"What happened?"

I turned around and saw Charlotte standing in the doorway to the kitchen. I had to turn my hips back toward the sink to hide my quickly hardening cock as it strained against the front of my pants at the sight of her. She wore only a towel wrapped around her, the top low enough to see the upper swells of her breasts and the bottom revealing a few inches of her thigh. Her wet hair hung around her face and down her shoulders, but she hadn't yet washed away her makeup. The effect was intensely sexy, and I could barely contain myself.

"I burned myself," I told her, trying now to concentrate on the pain rather than my arousal.

"Let me look at it."

She rushed up to my side and took my hand from under the water. She cradled it in one of her palms and I felt the warmth of her skin against mine.

"It's fine," I told her.

"You should still put something on it," she said. "Where's your first aid kit?"

I directed her to it and she guided me back toward the kitchen table. I sat in the same chair where she had sat her first morning in the lodge while I remedied the cut on her forehead and allowed her to gently dry my hand. She dipped her fingers into burn salve and rubbed it into my skin. Her breath seemed to become deeper as she touched me, and I noticed a slight flush cross the swells of her breasts. The pads of her fingers swirled over my hand for several seconds longer that was needed to coat the burn, but I didn't want her to stop. She was leaning close to me and I could see the beads of water from her shower slip over her collarbone and down between her breasts. My hunger for her swelled in my belly and I couldn't resist it any longer. I leaned forward and swept my tongue between her breasts, collecting the drops of water and bringing them into my mouth with the taste of her skin. Charlotte drew in a shuddering breath and I reached forward to take hold of her hips. My fingers pressed into her skin through the towel and I pulled her forward toward me, drawing my tongue up between her breasts again.

I felt Charlotte's hands rest onto my shoulders and for a moment her fingers pressed into me just as mine were into her hips, but then I felt her push away and take a step back. She didn't look at me, but tightened the top of her towel and started toward the door.

"I should go finish my shower," she said. "It's getting cold."

She rushed out of the room and I resisted the urge to let out a growl. I wasn't used to feeling this way. I didn't think that I ever would again. After Helen, I shut down that part of myself, not wanting to deal with the frustration and anger that came from trying to maintain a relationship. But now I couldn't get my mind off of this woman, a woman who had first caught my attention, so many years before and now didn't know who she was. I wanted her like I had never wanted anyone before, but I didn't know how to reach her, or if she would have ever given me the time of day if she did remember.

 

Charlotte again spent the rest of the evening in her room. I couldn't sleep that night and found myself walking quietly into her room to check on her, ensuring that she was sleeping peacefully. I felt a strange, cold tension in the air when I woke up the next morning. I decided to pretend that the night before hadn't happened. As much as it was killing me not to touch her, I didn't want to scare her. It was more important to make her feel safe and secure. I was in the kitchen when she walked in. It seemed that this was becoming our customary meeting point and she crossed the room with familiarity to fill a mug with coffee. I liked that she was starting to feel comfortable, but I had to remind myself that this wasn't the way that it was going to be soon. When the storm was over and the mountain was less dangerous, she would be gone. The radio sitting on the counter crackled slightly as another warning came over the waves. I tensed just as I had every time that happened since finding Charlotte. I was waiting for them to announce that she was missing or that her family was looking for her. When I talked to the rangers they hadn't had anyone report a woman missing on the mountain and even after I directed them to her car, they made no mention that anyone had requested the car be recovered. I couldn't understand why no one would have reported that she was up on the mountain and hadn't returned, or that her car hadn't been seen. Was it possible that no one had noticed that Charlotte was missing? Or did someone know that she hadn't returned, but not think it was important to let anyone know? Neither option was particularly encouraging. It meant that if I hadn't found her, it was likely that no one would have. In this weather, she wouldn't have lasted for long.

The thought of the announcement eventually coming through the radio, though, wasn't something that I looked forward to. I knew that when it did, I would have to tell her that it was for her and I didn't know how she would react.

"Happy Thanksgiving," I said as she took her first sip of coffee.

"It's Thanksgiving?" she asked, looking surprised by the revelation.

I nodded.

"I don't really do the whole feast, but I'm going to roast a chicken and warm up some vegetables."

"That sounds delicious."

She was looking at me now and I didn't see the hesitation from the night before. Instead, there was curiosity and hunger in her eyes.

"I watch football on Thanksgiving," I said.

Charlotte shrugged.

"I don't know what I do on Thanksgiving, so watching football sounds fine to me. You'll have to explain the game to me. I don't think that I know anything about it."

I smiled at her and nodded.

"I can do that."

Her tongue slipped out and glazed across her bottom lip.

"I'm going to go back to the library for a while and finish that book." She walked to the door and glanced back at me. "Call me if you need me."

It took all of the control I had not to follow her, but I let her disappear into the hallway and then went to work putting together our makeshift Thanksgiving dinner. Two hours later she walked back in, a smile on her face as she smelled the air.

"Are you hungry?" I asked.

She nodded.

"It smells wonderful in here. Thank you for doing this."

"Not a big deal," he said. "I'm not into the whole idea of the pathetic bachelor subsisting on nothing but frozen meals and boxes of meal helpers so I learned to cook."

I held a plate out to her and then filled mine with the food I had made. I picked up a napkin and carried the plate and a beer into the living room. Charlotte followed and settled onto the opposite end of the couch.

"Is the game on?" she asked.

"Yeah. I hope you don't mind eating in here."

She shook her head.

"Not at all."

I turned the game on and within minutes it was clear that she really didn't know anything about the game. Whether this was another layer of her memory loss or a hint at her interests in life before the crash, she seemed completely lost. I eased closer to her on the couch and gestured at the TV.

"I'm rooting for the ones in blue," I said.

"Alright," she said with a nod. "I will, too."

I laughed and started to explain each step of the game with her. It was the first time that I had talked about football with anyone in years and I found myself enjoying it much more than I thought that I would. Rather than the sadness that I had become accustomed to feeling every time that I turned football on, this game felt different. Suddenly it didn't feel as though I was watching something that I had lost, but rather like I was helping her to discover something new. I delighted in watching her as she stared intently at the TV screen, trying to reconcile what I was telling her with what she was seeing. There were several times when she glanced over at me, her beautiful face contorted with a look of confusion, and I had to remember that she didn't understand some of the terms that I was using. I would go back and explain it to her in better terms, and Charlotte would nod. I didn't know if she was actually interested in what she was watching, or if this was just something that she was doing because she really didn't have much else choice, but I enjoyed having her there with me.

We were in the second quarter of the second game of the day when it became clear that the novelty of watching football head worn off and Charlotte was beginning to get bored. She had stopped asking questions and instead was just curled in the corner of the sofa staring out of the window and occasionally glancing over at me.

"We don't have to watch this anymore if you don't want to," I said.

"It's alright," she said. "I know that this is your Thanksgiving tradition and that you love football.  I wouldn't want you to stop on my account. We can keep watching."

"It's fine," I told her. "My team is losing pretty badly anyway.  I don't particularly want to devote the next couple of hours of my life to watching them get stomped. We can do something else."

"What did you have in mind?"

Her eyes slid over to me and I saw a smirk on her lips.

"Do you want to play a game?"

My stomach clenched, and I felt my lips curl up into a smile.

"Sure."

 

Well, shit. She actually meant a fucking game.

"How is it that you have no memory, but somehow you're able to play a board game?" I asked.

Charlotte shook her head, shrugging as she looked over the game board she had set up on the table in front of us. I had barely even remembered that I had a stack of old games in the library, but she had emerged carrying the Clue game with a delighted, excited expression on her face and I knew that I couldn't turn her down. This was nothing like the game that I wanted to play with her. I wasn't much interested in finding out who had murdered the mysterious Mr. Body in any of the rooms of his nonsensically designed Mansion. I would much rather be exploring Charlotte's body in every room of my lodge.

"I don't know," she said. "It's just kind of there. Maybe I didn't lose all of my memory. My brain just decided what it wanted to hold on to."

"So, you think that you have selective memory loss and your brain decided to keep cooking eggs and how to play Clue."

"Apparently."

I laughed and reached for the die. I rolled, landing on one for the third turn in a row. Charlotte laughed as I picked up my game piece and set it down sharply on the next square. She rolled and ended just beside me.

"Hi," I said.

"Hi."

I picked up the die and rolled again, finally creeping into the room in front of me.

“I suggest that it was Colonel Mustard in the drawing room with the revolver.”

Charlotte checked the cards in her hand and held out the drawing room card.

“What is a drawing room, anyway?” she asked.

“I thought you would know something like that,” I said, jotting the clue down on my paper.

"Why would you say that?"

I realized what I had said, and my mind went blank. I didn't know what to say. Now didn't seem to be the best time to just slip 'because you come from one of the wealthiest new money families in the town where I used to live' into the conversation. Finally, I shook my head.

"Just something about you," I said.

Charlotte looked at me strangely, then looked at the door to the hallway.

"I'm getting hungry again," she said. "Is there any dessert?"

"There's a pumpkin pie," I told her. "It's just one of those frozen ones. I might be able to pull together a halfway decent dinner, but my skills draw the line at baking."

"That sounds amazing. I'm going to go get a piece." She walked to the door and then looked back at me. "Do you want some pie?"

Dear lord, you have no idea how much I want pie right now. I'll make sure yours has plenty of cream.