Chapter 21
The end of the workweek arrives, but it hardly feels that way as, when I get home, Graham and Hunter are on the couch making out. Not that they make out at work, but I’m still getting used to Graham’s presence, and it’s hard not to think about work when I see him. Even if it’s while his tongue is shoved down my little brother’s throat. Shaking it off, I grab a bottle of water and some food from the fridge and go hide in my room.
I make a few phone calls to let my mother and Allie know about my vacation plans and to catch up. And then I do something I haven’t done in ages — I read. I find a trashy romance novel to download and sink deeply into my soft bed, losing myself in the kind of action I haven’t had in a long time.
It seems to be the theme of the night, though, as around eleven I hear Hunter and Graham giggling as they make their way upstairs. And I thank the stars I won’t be able to hear them from my room. Nonetheless, I take the opportunity to go downstairs and get a drink. After a short consideration, I opt for a glass of wine, hoping it will knock me out long enough to chase away the bulk of the nightmares.
Taking my glass, I turn off the lights and settle into my favorite chair in the dark, gazing contemplatively out the window wall. The dark sky is a solid mass of grey, the lights of the city reflecting off the low, late summer cloud cover. The humidity has been high lately, and I wouldn’t be surprised if a thunderstorm rolled through soon.
I sip the wine slowly, enjoying the warmth that spreads through my face and chest as it does its work. By the time I’m done, it’s definitely taken the edge off and I’m more than ready for bed. Alone. I heave a sigh and push myself out of the chair, arming the security system before I head back to bed. If I’m really lucky, I might even manage to sleep in.
I’m woken by an all-too-familiar cacophony of sound. The alarm blares obnoxiously through the condo. I sit bolt upright in bed, realizing the sky is already lightening, so it must be close to sunrise. I grab the bat under my bed and approach the alarm panel at the top of the stairs. It tells me the front door has been breached. I stand on the landing at the top of the stairs, peering around the wall down into the foyer.
Graham and Hunter are at the alarm panel nearest the front door, with the door itself cracked open behind them while they desperately punch codes into the system. Realizing there’s no danger, I fly down the stairs as the alarm continues to blare obnoxiously.
“What happened?!” I yell over the noise.
“Graham was leaving and set it off. He panicked and tried to turn it off, but we’re locked out now!” Hunter yells back. He points at me and then at the alarm panel. I shake my head. If we’re locked out, only building security can fix it.
The alarm continues to blare overhead, likely waking everyone within a few floors. I prop the bat against the wall and grab my cellphone, heading into the hallway so I can hear.
But I find a security guard already rushing toward me.
“Everything okay, ma’am?” he asks.
“Yes,” I assure him. “My brother’s boyfriend accidentally set it off. He tried to turn it off, but it locked him out. Can you stop it?”
The guard’s eyes go wide. “I’m afraid I don’t have those codes. I’m not usually on this post. I’ll have to call in for another guard. It might take a few minutes.” I throw up my hands in frustration. But he continues to stare at me.
“Well, do it!” I snap at him. He jumps, pulling a cellphone from his pocket and heading to the other end of the floor where it will be easier to hear. I feel slightly bad for snapping at him.
And unfortunately, he wasn’t kidding. It takes nearly ten minutes for someone to come turn off the alarm. I make the mistake of waiting in the hall, nervously willing someone competent to come save me from the murderous looks my neighbors are now throwing me as they peep out of their doors. I can’t say I blame them. If one of them had woken me up before six a.m. on a Saturday, I’d be pretty pissed off too.
Finally, a guard with the proper access comes and has the alarm off in moments. Graham and Hunter have the good grace to look horribly ashamed. The guard slips out and Graham makes to follow him.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” I caution. Graham leaves the door where it is, sulking back in to stand by Hunter.
“Sorry, Sera,” he says glumly. “I was just trying to head out, like I always do.” I glare at Hunter.
“Have you been leaving the alarm off?” I accuse him. Hunter shrugs guiltily.
“Maybe,” he admits. “It’s just easier.” I squeeze the bridge of my nose.
“Hunter, you know what I’ve been through. We can adjust the settings if you need, but …” I trail off as Hunter’s stares past me, his eyes widening to the point where it’s almost comical. I turn around and follow his gaze to the half-open door.
“I got a call.” Bryce steps into the room. And I realize I’d never taken him off as my emergency contact, so he must have automatically been notified when the alarm went off.
Graham takes the opportunity to slip by Bryce and out the door, pulling it closed behind him. Hunter conveniently disappears upstairs. I’m left standing there, in leggings and an oversized T-shirt, staring dumbly at Bryce.
“I’m sorry you were disturbed, but everything is fine,” I reply, finally finding my voice again. “I forgot to take you off as emergency contact. I’ll fix that as soon as I can.” I’m suddenly extremely conscious of the fact that I’m not wearing a bra, and my hair is probably a tangled mess. I tug my fingers through it, trying to tame the worst of it.
“Since I’m here, do you mind if we talk?” he asks, taking a step forward. I subconsciously take a step back.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I reply, folding my arms over my chest protectively. He runs a hand through his hair, and I note it looks damp — he’s probably fresh from his post-workout shower. Same old Bryce. Except not. My insides twinge.
“Fine, I’ll talk, you listen,” he replies. “I can’t stop thinking about you. I know you said you can’t be friends, but I don’t know if I can stay away, Sera. It’s like you’re a magnet, and I’m being pulled toward you whether I want to or not.”
A derisive laugh escapes me. “It’s too early for this,” I mumble, shaking my head and heading for the kitchen. I’m going to need coffee if I’m going to deal with this shit.
Bryce stands awkwardly between the front door and the dining room, unsure of where to go as I knock around in the kitchen, getting a pot of coffee on. After a few silent and uncomfortable minutes, I emerge with a tray carrying two mugs and set it on the dining room table. He takes the hint and sits down across from me.
“Thanks,” he says softly, grabbing the cup I made for him. He takes a sip. “Looks like you remember how I take my coffee too.” I close my eyes briefly and drink deeply, letting the beverage’s warmth imbue me with strength.
“So this magnet thing,” I say. “Let’s demagnetize it.” Bryce arches an eyebrow.
“And how exactly do we do that?” he asks.
I can’t help cracking a small smile. “Well, the traditional ways are heat, electric current, or banging on it real hard …” I trail off, my eyes going wide when I consider what I’ve suggested.
Bryce laughs. “Sounds kinky.” There’s a sparkle in his beautiful blue eyes that I haven’t seen in a long time. But then, I’ve purposed not to see him, despite how he manages to keep popping up.
I blush furiously. “It was supposed to be a metaphor, but I didn’t it through. Gimme a break. It’s early,” I reply.
“Look, I know I should take no for an answer …”
“It’s okay,” I interrupt him. “I wouldn’t either if I were in your shoes.”
“I’m just asking that we be friends, Sera,” he replies softly. “Spend some time together. See if it shakes anything loose.”
I set my mug down in front of me. “It’s not that I don’t want to on some level,” I allow. “But you don’t remember, Bryce, so you don’t know how hard it was for me. To get where we were. It was a long and winding path. And it was worth it. But it’s not something I can do again, not knowing whether it will be worth it in the end this time.”
He stares at me intently. “You’re scared,” he observes. A small sound of agreement escapes my lips.
“Yes,” I admit. “I’m scared.” I pause. “You once accused me of avoiding a relationship with you because I was terrified of having to really trust someone enough to be close to them.” I meet his eyes. “I keep talking about you like I know you out of habit, I think. But I really don’t. You’re not the person I was in love with. Yet you are. Sort of. You’re a new version of you. And I’d have to learn to trust you all over again. I don’t know if that’s something I can do.”
Bryce knocks his knuckles against the side of his head. “That guy is in here somewhere,” he assures me. “I think that’s where this is coming from.”
“Maybe,” I allow. “But then again, maybe not. I’m not a risk-taker. It took me a long time and a lot of pain to admit that I loved you, Bryce. You don’t know what you’re asking of me. I’m not like you.”
“Oh? And what am I like?” His question is sincere.
“Just like this,” I supply. “Always wanting to keep trying.”
“So I must have convinced you to do the same before,” he challenges. It makes me laugh, because he’s not wrong.
“Yes, but then we were in a place where we were both in love with each other,” I reply.
“And are you still in love with me?” he asks. It’s a question I wasn’t prepared for. And it requires a level of honesty I’m not sure I possess at the moment.
“I’m going to need more coffee before I can even think about unpacking that question,” I admit, grabbing my mug and rising from the table. “Need a refill?” I slip back into the kitchen and top off my mug.
“Sure,” Bryce replies, following me in. But he freezes by the fridge, his eyes fixed on something next to it. I take a step back, so I can see what he’s looking at and spot the frilly, white apron, still hanging from its hook on the wall. Bryce sets his mug on the counter behind him and reaches a hand out, letting the silky fabric of the apron run through his fingers before gripping the bottom, fingering the flowing edge of the fabric. I watch, frozen and fascinated, as he lifts it to his face, breathing in deeply.
“I remember this,” he says.
My throat constricts. I don’t want to ask. I don’t want to hope. But I can’t help myself. Ever the masochist, I reply. “Tell me what you remember.”
He turns in place to face the dining room. “I came home from work and you were there,” he points at the table. “Red heels. Sexy as sin.” I shudder as he describes the scene, remembering it all too well. “But I had you there,” he points at the couch. “And then there,” he points at the floor. “And then …” he stares intently at the window wall.
“Not there,” I say softly. He turns to look at me.
“I wanted to.” But looking into his eyes, I don’t see recognition and love. I see pain and confusion.
“Yes, you did,” I agree. He takes a tentative step toward me, his torment written all over his face. I instinctively pull back.
“Don’t,” he pleads. “Just hold still.” Something in his voice freezes me in place. But I can’t look, so I close my eyes.
I feel him stop in front of me, and he must be very close because I can feel the heat radiating off of him.
“Look at me, Sera,” he commands. And I’m powerless to resist his husky tone. I open my eyes and look up into his beautiful face. I let my mind go numb, surrendering to whatever it is he needs to get out of his system, hoping it doesn’t crush me too badly.
He raises his hand and runs it down the side of my face, along my chin. He tips my head up, lowering his face to my neck, inhaling deeply. His nose lightly grazes my ear, and a shudder ripples through me.
He pulls back abruptly, feeling the shaking of my body. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. He steps back, and then out of the kitchen into the living room. He strides to the window wall, looking out over the city. I follow, stopping a few paces behind him next to my chair.
He turns, leaning against the glass and facing me, surveying the room.
“You like to sit there,” he nods at the chair. I huff a dry laugh.
“That’s obvious. The cushion is shaped exactly like my ass,” I joke.
“And you drink too much when you’re upset,” he continues. “Wine, mostly, whiskey when things are really bad.” I swallow hard and nod, wondering if it’s really coming back to him, or if it’s just a reaction to familiar objects. Still not quite daring to hope.
His eyes rove the paintings that now cover the walls. “Those are new.”
“My brother taught me to paint,” I explain. “When we ran out of canvas we just … kept going.”
He walks to the wall and slides his long finger over a dark swirl. “The guerilla artist, confined,” he mutters.
“Yes,” I gasp. “Hunter. He was a guerilla artist. Though he’s gone traditional now. And he works for me.”
Bryce looks back at me curiously. “Doing what?” he asks.
“Trim work. Interior design. That sort of thing,” I admit. “He’s got quite an eye.”
Bryce pales and grabs back the back of the couch. “I feel a little lightheaded,” he admits. I rush to his side and let him lean on me.
“Lay down on the couch,” I insist. He allows me to help him onto the overstuffed cushions, sinking gratefully onto them, lying on his side. I grab a throw pillow and use it to prop up his head, then I fold myself onto the floor next to him. “Better?”
“Yes, thanks,” he replies quietly.
“You’re worrying me,” I admit. “Are you okay? Should I call someone?”
Bryce takes a deep breath through is nose. “No, I think I’ll be okay. My head just feels backwards,” he replies. I chuckle.
“It looks like it’s on straight to me,” I tease him. “I’m going to make some breakfast. You hungry?” He nods.
As I throw together a quick meal, I keep one eye on Bryce. After a few minutes he sits back up, looking considerably less pale and in shock. But I bring the plates out to him anyway, handing him a dish stacked with eggs, bacon, and toast.
“You used to feed me a lot,” he remarks. It’s not a question.
“You’re a hungry guy,” I reply with a shrug. “So are you really remembering, or are these all just reflexes?” Bryce stares at me as he polishes off his toast.
“Em told you about that, huh?” he asks.
“Yep,” I reply, avoiding his gaze. He doesn’t speak again until his plate is clean. Setting it down on the coffee table in front of him, he dusts his hands on his jeans.
“They’re not reflexes,” he finally replies. I set my plate aside, even though I’m not finished.
“How can you be sure?” I press.
Bryce smiles. “The reflexes are just that — I see something, I react. I don’t really understand why or feel much of anything. Well, except with the Italian,” he allows. “It was hard to tell the difference between those and the real memories until recently.”
“Why’s that?” I ask curiously.
He levels a look at me. “Because my first real, full memory didn’t come back until I saw you at the gym,” he admits. “And I haven’t had any more until today. Just small bits here and there.” Suddenly I’m questioning if I should’ve skipped eating as my stomach roils.
“Is that normal?” I probe.
“There’s not really a ‘normal’ when it comes to this kind of thing,” he hedges. “Some people get everything back quickly, some never get anything back.” He leans into the couch, crossing his legs, something in his manner changed. “And I don’t want to scare you, Sera, but I remember now. Well, enough anyway. More than I did.”
And I can’t handle it. I grab our plates and return them to the kitchen, eager to turn away from him so he can’t see the heat and panic rising on my face. “How much is enough?” I toss over my shoulder as nonchalantly as I can manage.
He laughs and follows me to the kitchen, leaning over the bar as I scrape off the plates. I look up into his eyes, noting they’re back to their clear, sparkling blue. And he looks coolly confident, and smug.
“I don’t think you’re going to believe anything I say,” he replies cryptically.
“You’re probably right,” I admit with a meager smile, wiping my hands on a towel. At least he’s finally catching on.
“So how about I prove it to you?” he challenges. I look at him, confused.
“Well, I guess you already proved you remember some things,” I allow. “I’m not sure what else you mean.”
“I mean, how about I prove that I remember the way I feel about you,” he clarifies.
Suddenly, I’m having trouble breathing. “You remember how you feel about me?” I ask incredulously. “After all this time? I find that hard to believe.”
Bryce smiles and shrugs. “Maybe I just needed the right environment. The right frame of mind,” he replies. “But I do remember. The important stuff anyway. I’ll admit I’m still a little fuzzy on the details, though.”
I don’t ask what the important stuff is. Because I know what he thinks it is, and I can’t bring myself to trust that it’s true.
“It sounds like you’ve made some good progress,” I reply, dodging the bait. “Maybe we should call it a day before you hurt yourself.”
He snorts, shaking his head. “You mean before I hurt you,” he replies. “Not gonna happen, Evans.” He suddenly seems very sure of himself, so I decide to call his bluff.
“Okay, prove it,” I reply. Smiling, he holds up a finger, then turns and bounds up the stairs. He’s not gone long, returning with something clutched in his fist. He sets it on the counter in front of me. It’s a small, black velvet box that I recognize all too well. It’s the engagement ring I found in his nightstand on my birthday.