Logan shut his eyes and turned on his side, ignoring the musty smell of the boat and the old sleeping bag he’d opened and climbed into last night. Trying to ignore his new life, his attention shifted to the pain in his head, which wasn’t as bad today, back to a dull ache.

“Logan?” she said, disbelieving.

Part of him wondered why she acted like him being here was such an unbelievable thing. “Pear, I mean it, please just shut the door. My head hurts. I could probably use the sleep.” He willed himself to go back to sleep.

He heard her curse under her breath, then slam the boathouse door shut.

Grateful, he tried to get comfortable on the cushions of the boat that he’d neatly built a bed out of. It’d been cozy. Granted, when he’d last slept out here, it’d been the tentative compromise her grandfather had given to allow Logan to stay with them in the summers.

“He’s not staying under the same roof,” her grandfather had growled at the both of them. So, this was it. Sometimes Shane had come too for a long weekend, and they’d both sleep out here. They’d water-ski and have fun all weekend. Of course, her grandfather always got work out of them. In fact, he’d helped build this boathouse one of those weekends.

No matter how much he tried to find that magic place of dreams, he couldn’t relax back into it. The birds’ chirping sounded louder. Paris’s feet crunched on the gravel on the way back to the house. He heard every one of her footsteps as she crossed the deck and pulled the sliding glass door open.

His mind went to the kiss last night, sparking a flame of anger. How had this life come about? This new life he’d so rudely woken up to ticked him off. His mind started to dissect everything he’d learned about his life. Just as important as losing Paris and having to seek her out for answers, he’d been thrown off by seeing her, too.

Kissing her, feeling her kiss him back for a couple of glorious seconds, had been—his heart raced—beautiful. It was the only thing he could hold on to at the moment. Maybe, somehow, he could fix things with her.

Irrespective of fixing things, he needed answers. Sitting up, he realized he was starving and needed water, too. He got out of the boat and rushed to the front of the boathouse, throwing back the door.

So many questions rushed through his mind. Some of them he had partial details about, but he needed help to fill in the gaps. He thought of the painting class he’d been in last week with Paris. Their instructor, Mrs. Cameron, had been from India, wore a jewel in the middle of her forehead, and always spoke about things a bit too artsy for him, like touching the outer layers of your mind to fill in the gaps in a painting. To reach, search, and pull in your imagination. That’s what he needed: someone to fill in the gaps.

This time he didn’t go to the front door, no. He went to the deck and rushed to the sliding glass door. Without knocking, he opened it and went in, going to the sink and getting himself three large glasses of water. The pain in his head lessened substantially.

She stood there with her arms crossed, wearing a long nightgown-looking T-shirt and flip-flops on her feet. Her hair was messy, a bit ratty. “What are you doing, Logan? You can’t be here.”

In the light of morning, she looked radiant. Still different than she had in high school, but still incredibly stunning. He couldn’t stop himself. “Pear, how did I wake up eight years later and not have you in my life?”

At his words, she paused, but there weren’t tears in her eyes. No, her eyeliner was a bit blurred, but she wasn’t crying, not like last night. She let out a breath. “Do you really not remember, Logan?”

He put the glass down and held up his hands, like a criminal turning himself in. “Pear, I … the last thing I honestly remember …” He choked up. “The last thing I remember about us is kissing you next to the gym doors right before the state championship game.” Then he couldn’t stop himself from breaking into a smile. “Do you remember? You gave me that bracelet with the blue fuzzy string, I can’t remember what you called it. It had some beads on it that said Logan and Paris.”

Her face was unflappable. He didn’t know what she was thinking.

Frustrated, he sighed. “Fine. Remember when I passed out in the huddle during the game? That’s the last thing I remember.”

Her scowl deepened.

“Pear.” He searched her face. “Do you really not want me?” The sting of the question made the pain flare up again right behind his left eye.

She didn’t answer, only kept the same skeptical look on her face.

Biting back on his questions, he turned to the fridge. “Well, you can believe me or not, but I’m starving. Like, this intense hunger.” Flinging open the fridge, he saw the carton of eggs and milk, then pulled them out. “Do you want some scrambled eggs and toast?” he asked, already pulling a bowl out of the cupboard, fishing a fork out of the silverware drawer, and tugging the trash out for the eggshells. Things were pretty much in the same spot as he remembered.

“Logan? What are you doing?”

He cracked an egg into the bowl, throwing away the shell. “Look, I’ll pay you for the food, okay? I have a couple of hundreds in my wallet. Like, a lot of hundreds.” He let out a short laugh, because it still felt weird to think he had all that money. Yesterday, as he’d traveled to Jackson and stopped to get gas, it’d been unreal to pull a hundred-dollar bill out to the clerk. He snorted and kept cracking eggs. What with his sudden appetite, maybe he should just use the whole carton if Paris wanted any. “According to the internet, I’m like a multimillionaire.” He gave her a sly look. “I invest,” he said, and let out a laugh. Wow, okay, some things about this future sucked, like not being with Paris, but other things were pretty cool. Like the fact he had money.

“So you did go to the library?”

He smiled. “You were stalking me?”

“No. If you didn’t notice, you’re kind of an international incident, it seems. They reported it on the news. Someone saw you.”

Logan digested this. “Yeah, I guess that’s how it is now.” He tried to focus on what he was doing and not pay attention to this intense confusion inside of him.

Paris threw up her hands and turned toward the bedroom. “I’m showering.”

Logan went about the task of cooking the eggs. He toasted four pieces of bread, then went ahead and did another two in case Paris changed her mind.

He evaluated the cabin. The kitchen was the same; he remembered exactly where everything was. The living room, with the high vaulted ceiling and the loft room above it, with various stuffed animals on the walls, was still the same. Logan couldn’t help thinking about Paris’s grandfather and all the pride he’d had in this cabin. If Grandpa wasn’t here … was he dead too?

Sure, he’d been in his eighties, but he’d been in great shape. He’d been sturdy as a rock. He and Logan had been tight.

When Paris came out, Logan was still scarfing down his food. He had set aside a plate of eggs and two pieces of toast for her.

“Sorry,” he said between mouthfuls. “I’ll have to buy you some more eggs and bread. I think I ate a protein bar yesterday when Shane found me and took me to his office, but I didn’t eat anything else.” He shoved in a couple more forkfuls and then prodded the tender spot of his head. The pain had all but disappeared.

He pointed his fork at Paris. “At least my head is doing better, so that’s good.” He thought about how he might get his memory back at any moment, and he wasn’t sure if that would be good. The new him, waking up in the old place … Would the new him be upset at the old him? It was all turning into some Star Trek time continuum impossibility in his mind.

Tentatively, Paris took the seat next to him and reached for her fork. “Thanks. I guess.” She cleared her throat. “Even though you shouldn’t be here.” She took a bite of eggs and then a bite of toast.

“Where’s Grandpa?” he asked, ignoring her desire for him to leave.

“Oh.” She jerked her gaze to her plate and pushed the food around. “He passed away right after we left for college.” She shrugged. “Just fell asleep out on the deck one night. Ms. Pixley found him in the morning; she called my father.”

A pang of sadness filled him. “I’m sorry.”

Her eyes glazed with emotion, and she nibbled at her toast. “Thank you.”

“In the last eight years Grandpa died, my dad died, and your mom died.” He put his fork down, then let out a breath. “Man.”

She glanced at him, studying his movements.

“What?” he asked, after putting down his water.

“Nothing. You’re different.”

“No, actually I’m the same.” Which led into the main question he wanted answered. “Why, Pear? You still haven’t told me why it didn’t work out with us.”

She shook her head and pointed her fork in the air at him. “No, no, no. I am not doing this with you. You have amnesia and you need to leave.”

“Why?” He picked up his fourth piece of toast and held it in the air like some kind of flimsy shield.

She hesitated. “Because everyone is looking for you. Your fiancée is looking for you. You should go to her, talk to her. I’m sure it would be more comfortable for you. Being with her.” She averted her eyes and focused on her eggs.

“She’s not my fiancée.” He took another bite and the toast was gone. Maybe they were large bites. “Have you met her? She’s … annoying.”

Paris, caught mid-sip, sprayed water across her plate.

He looked at her and they exchanged grins. “I guess you have met her.”

“No, but I can imagine.”

Their eyes held and Logan felt hope that somewhere, somehow, everything was still there between them. He picked up his water and took a sip. “Man, I’m finally feeling better. More like myself. I think I just needed food.” He gestured to her plate with his next piece of toast. “How’s yours?”

Pausing, she eyed him again. “You really remember nothing?”

Deciding he was tired of acting weird around her because she was acting weird, he leaned back, turning and using a chair to prop his feet up. “Oh, I remember.”

Her eyes flashed like she’d caught him in a lie. “I knew it. This is all some publicity stunt.” She dropped her fork and stood.

Logan reached out and took her wrist. “I remember our very first kiss, ninth grade, after school. You were waiting for your dad to pick you up and I walked you to the front of the school. I had football practice, but I wanted to ask you to the Back to School dance, the next day. Do you remember?”

She froze.

He let go of her wrist. “I remember I was so nervous. I’d been planning on kissing you all summer, but couldn’t get my nerve up, you know. Or it was never the right moment.” He chuckled. “Man, I think that’s the summer we built that boathouse, and man, if your grandfather didn’t make good on making me sleep out there.”

Paris laughed. “He did. He was stern about it.”

Both of them shook their fingers like her grandfather used to. “You ain’t gonna tell me nothing,” they said at the same time, falling into laughter at the memory.

At this moment, he knew he still loved her. More importantly, he knew she still loved him. Time did one of those slow-motion things, and their eyes held.

Paris returned to her chair and a smile played at her lips. “I still remember our first kiss, too. I was the one who initiated it.”

“No!” He grabbed her hand and squeezing it. “No way.” They had argued about who initiated it after the fact.

She untangled her hand from his. “Logan, stop. We can’t do this. This isn’t how life is with us.”

“Why?” he demanded, crossing his arms. “Why? I deserve to know why it didn’t work out with us. Because I’m in love with you, Paris.” He felt emotion well in his throat, and his voice cracked. “I love you so much.”

Looking flustered, she pulled away before he could take her hand again. “Stop! You are marrying another woman. You are going to get your memories back and then you’ll understand.” She gave him a stern look.

His heart raced. Would he understand? Would he? Because in his mind, there would be nothing that could ever get between them. Nothing.

Deciding to chill out a bit, he approached this new life the way he would approach the younger version of Paris. He reached out and tickled her beneath her chin, where he’d always tickled her.

“Logan!” she cried out, trying to cover up her reflexive laughter.

He stood and grabbed his dishes. “You were not the one who initiated it. I knew I would kiss you when we were in third grade.”

“Don’t do that, I mean it.” Following him to the kitchen, she pointed at him with her fork and threw open the dishwasher. “You … we’re not … this can’t happen.”

He placed the silverware in the sink, brushing his shoulder against hers and breathing in her new scent. Tropical. Light. “I remember we had walked to the front of the school and we were holding hands. You were wearing that new shirt you’d bought that summer for school. It was pink.” He sniffed again, deeply. Her hair was still wet and it didn’t smell minty anymore.

She stared up at him. “What are you doing, Logan?”

“You smell different now, but I like it.” With a grin, he methodically moved across the counter, picking up the butter and putting it away, then taking the egg carton and putting it in the trash. “I mean it, I’ll buy you more eggs.” He fixed the toaster into place, picked up the trash, and then used his hand to gather all the crumbs, shoving them into the trash.

“Logan,” she said again.

Stopping, he turned to her. “Y-es?”

This time, she did look vulnerable. “Logan … I …”

The center of his chest was pierced, as it always had been when it came to Paris. He never, ever wanted to hurt her.

“I can’t do this, Logan. I’m sorry you don’t remember.” She put the rest of the dishes into the dishwasher and closed it. “But I can’t get hurt again. I just can’t.”

Clenching his hand into a fist, he let out a deep breath. “What did I do to you?”

She glanced at his fist, looking resigned. “There was so much, Logan. It’s been eight years and a lot of crap. Too much. I know you don’t remember, but you would be better off getting back to your old life.” She pointed to a cell phone on the counter. “Use my phone, call your agent. Call your fiancée. Let them know you’re okay. Then go back. I promise you, when you realize, when you wake up … you won’t want me anymore.”

And he would have believed her if she hadn’t looked like she would cry.

She blinked and turned away, staring out the window. “Please, just go.”

Standing there, he thought of this new version of Paris. Of the things he did know about her. She had married and divorced Shane. They had a son. She planned events for companies. For his company, whatever that was. His brain raced to figure out how to get through to her. “Mrs. Cameron.”

“What?” She turned back to him in confusion, and he caught sight of a scar on her upper lip. He hadn’t noticed it last night, but now, in the light of day, he saw it. She looked different from the Paris he knew.

He frowned. “What happened there?” Stepping closer to her, he gently touched the scar.

She reared back at his touch, then swiped his hand away. “It’s nothing. I got a cut.”

“How?” he demanded, feeling like he wanted to beat up whoever hurt her.

Backing up, she stumbled and then tripped over the trash.

He reached out and held her, pulling her back to standing.

They stared at each other again, their breath mixing.

He didn’t kiss her. “Mrs. Cameron told us we need to paint to fill in the gaps for people. Right?”

She stilled in his arms. “Why are you thinking about her?”

Logan realized he had to convince Paris to help him remember the past. He had to. If he was to go about fixing this alternative timeline, he needed her help to understand what had gone wrong between them. He needed her. He had to fix things. “Because we were in her class last week.”

She studied his eyes and shook her head. “How is this possible?”

“Will you please help me fill in the gaps?” Everything inside of him wanted to kiss her, but he realized it wasn’t fair to her. So he pulled her to her feet and steadied her, then pulled his arms back. “Pear, you were my friend before that first kiss.” He managed a soft smile, hating to think that’s all they were. “Please.”

She frowned and turned away from him, going to the sink.

“Please, Pear. I mean, Shane told me stuff yesterday. I looked myself up and I have to know: how did I get to this place in my life? How did I get so far away from you?”