We checked into a hotel before dinner with Everett’s parents. I thought it was a little odd to go to dinner with both of them, considering they were divorced, but Everett seemed like it wasn’t a big deal. But it made me curious of Everett’s father, about what Bridget had said.

I dressed in the pink dress I’d borrowed/stolen from Jasmine, the one I’d worn the night I met Everett. When I exited the bathroom, Everett was sitting in the chair by the bed, rubbing his head. I watched him from the doorway a minute, worrying about him. The range of emotions Everett brought out of me ranged from good things to things that hurt. The worrying hurt. I never wanted this, this pull of responsibility, to make another human happy.

His head lifted up and he stared at me, blinking. “You’re not Sarah.”

“No.” A smile ached to spread my lips.

He stood up and walked towards me. “You’re beautiful, you know. I’ve told you before, but you like to shake your head.” He put a hand on the side of my neck. “Stop shaking your head. Let me give you a compliment.”

His hand was warm around my neck and a second later, his other hand went to my waist. My eyes opened when his fingers rubbed there, right over the bandage.

“This is where your tattoo is,” he said, a smile playing on his lips.

I nodded. “Where’s yours?”

“You’ll see it later.”

I frowned, a little annoyed. His finger came to the space between my eyebrows and he rubbed. “Don’t frown. I’d rather see you smile.”

“You said I’d look weird with one,” I reminded him.

“Doesn’t mean I still don’t want to see it. Or be the reason for it.” He dropped a kiss on my lips. “Let’s go.”

When we arrived at the restaurant, Everett’s parents were already waiting. I watched them with interest before the hostess led us to them. His father had his arm over the back of his mom’s seat and was watching her as if she was the only thing in the world he could focus on. His hair was black, like Everett’s, speckled with black and white. Everett’s mom looked soft, youthful. She had pale blonde hair, curled softly around her face. Her eyes were the same blue as her children. When she saw Everett, it was as if something awakened in her. Her smile filled her face and she stood up to hug him. I watched her hold him tightly, as Bridget had, before I turned my attention to Everett’s father.

Where Everett’s mom was warm, Everett’s father was cold unless he was looking at his ex-wife. He didn’t glare daggers at me, but he seemed very impersonal, reaching a hand to me with a little reluctance. His eyes roamed my face without a smile. It was the first time in my life I was self-conscious about my scar.

Everett’s mother hugged me next. The hugging was weird. A comforting kind of weird. While she hugged me, I watched Everett and his father exchange handshakes. It seemed odd again. But I remembered Everett saying his father was distant.

After introductions, I sat down with Everett to my left, putting me directly across from Everett’s mom, Patricia.

Patricia propped her elbows on the table and set her chin on top of her hands while she gazed at her son. There was no doubt of her love for him. And by the way he’d hugged her, there was no doubt of his for her. It made me a little breathless, to be a part of this, to so closely witness a mother and a son who loved each other. Parental love was foreign to me. And this was my first experience, witnessing it so closely.

Everett’s father, who Everett had called by his first name, Robert, had yet to warm up. He drank whiskey in a short glass and when the waiter came by the table, I noticed he asked for another. “Everett will have one too, and-”

“No, actually water is fine,” Everett interrupted.

Robert looked over at him. “I’m buying,” he said, as if that would be the only reason Everett would turn down a drink.

“I’m not drinking,” Everett said, his voice firm. He looked over at me. “Water? With limes?”

I licked my lips and nodded. Maybe the acid from the limes burning my throat would keep my mouth shut from the acid that would want to spill out during this dinner. Judging by the way Robert looked at Everett, it was going to be a long dinner.

When the waiter left, Patricia looked between us. “Everett tells me you’ve been to the Grand Canyon,” she said, looking at me with excitement, her eyes sparkling.

Before I could open my mouth, Everett said, “Yeah, but it was just a big hole in the ground.”

“Oh bummer,” Patricia answered, her forehead creasing in disappointment. I kicked Everett as discreetly as possible from under the table. “We never made it there on our trip. Everett got too sick.”

“When you went to the Four Corners?” I asked, remembering what Bridget had said about visiting there with Everett once before.

“Yes,” she said, smiling wistfully. “It was his wish trip.”

“Waste of a trip too,” Robert butt in. I tried to suppress my shock, but Patricia merely tsked him.

“It was not a waste,” she admonished him.

“It kind of was,” Everett said. I turned to look at him. I wasn’t following the conversation and knew I’d missed out on something.

Patricia sighed but before she could say anything, I blurted out, “Why was it a waste?”

“Because he can’t remember it,” Robert said, gesturing towards Everett with his whiskey. “We spent a week touring the southwestern states and after the surgery, poof!” He gestured an explosion with his hands. “It was wiped from his memory.”

I let that sink in. And then I turned to Everett. “That six months you lost?”

He turned his head, nodded. Everything was starting to make sense. Everett had lost the memories from that trip. And he was experiencing it again, anew, with me. His eyes were concentrating on mine. My hand that was on my lap moved to his thigh and I squeezed and nodded my head once, indicating I understood.

Before I could move my hand from his lap, his hand laid on top of it. And then he squeezed, three times. Like he had outside the tattoo shop.

I turned my attention back to his parents. Robert was focused on his drink, but Patricia had clearly watched our exchange. “Tell me about yourself, Parker,” she said kindly.

“There’s not much,” I answered. And I bothered by that. Bothered by knowing there wasn’t much. I’d seen more of living in the last week since meeting Everett than I had in the last three years. I cleared my throat. “I’m a waitress. Or,” I frowned, “I was a waitress. I’m going to school for anthropology.” And that was it. That was all that I was.

Everett squeezed my hand under the table again. “She’s funny,” he said to his mother, but looking at me. “She’s really stubborn and smart.” He lifted his free hand to brush my hair from my face. I couldn’t breathe. His blue eyes penetrated mine. “She’s clumsy, but she’s strong.” His hand on mine squeezed again. My chest was tight, aching. “She’ll tell you she doesn’t care, but she does. It’s just deeper than the surface.” The hand that had brushed away my hair was resting on my shoulder. “That’s what’s so great about her. She’s not artificial. When she feels, it’s real. She’s real, down to the bone.” His eyes were soft, warm, and it hurt to keep looking into them. He squeezed my hand a third time. “She’s the warmest person I know.” Under his gaze, I was transparent.

Everett smiled, but it was a sad smile. I blinked rapidly, trying to chase away the liquid that had formed in my tear glands. And I looked away, over my right shoulder, inhaling a deep breath. When I turned back to the table, Patricia was staring at me with what I could only describe as elation. It felt like another obligation to me, however. Once you made someone happy, you were obligated to keep them that way. It was a responsibility I didn’t want. I didn’t want to own a piece of anyone’s happiness.

Nothing would come of me and Everett. He said I was stubborn, but he was more so. He’d rather die than live. And that realization caused me to excuse myself from the table.

I first went to the restroom, thrust my hand in the cool water from the sink, trying to cool any part of my body. But then I felt like I couldn’t breathe. My chest hurt, my head hurt. The dress was too tight, the air was too recycled. I was breathing in air that had been inhaled and exhaled repeatedly. I needed real, honest air.

I stumbled outside, into the dark parking lot. My ankle was still a little swollen from the fall at the canyon the day before, and walking on gravel that needed repair in heels was not exactly smooth sailing.

I walked all the way into the parking lot, out to Everett’s Jeep. It was parked near the back, so I hobbled my way to it, intending to change into the flip flops I’d left in the backseat. I peered in the windows of the Jeep, unable to see my flip flops through the darkness.

It was at that moment that I felt something, something in my brain that warned me to pay attention. I turned around, looking over my shoulder. There was a man watching me from about twenty feet away. I couldn’t make out his features because he was standing between two vehicles, shadowed, watching me. I braced a hand on the Jeep, feeling the warmth of it under my hand. And then a memory came through.

 

I was looking in my car windows while unlocking the door when he came up behind me. I couldn’t see his face. Only the reflection of his hooded head facing the window I was looking into. I spun around, hitting him with my purse. He moved away for a second and my eyes scanned the parking lot, looking for help anywhere.

 

My eyes focused from the nightmare to real life. The man standing between the two vehicles was staring at me. His features blurred. All I could see what a hoodie. I screamed and the memory came back to me in stunning clarity.

 

“Get away from me!” I screamed. My voice sounded unnatural, animalistic. I felt the heat of my car at my back as I held my purse up, ready to hit him again. My hand trembled, the surge of fear and adrenaline mating in my veins rendering my unstable.

“You won’t be doing that again.” His voice. Oh god, his voice. It sounded like he swallowed sandpaper. It was deep, and there was no mistaking the threat it promised. That’s when I saw the glint of what he had in his hand. He held it up, the one small light in the parking lot reflecting off of the knife. “Give me your keys. Get in the car. Shut up, or I will cut you open.”

A sob tore from my throat and my knees shook so hard I fell onto the concrete. His arm grasped mine and he took the keys from my fingertips. The next thing I knew, he’d hauled me to my feet and shoved me from the driver’s door to the passenger seat. It had to be a nightmare, I told myself. I willed myself to wake up. But this wasn’t a nightmare. This was reality. My entire body was shaking. I couldn’t process what was happening. Fear was prominent, it was keeping me from feeling anything else.

He pushed the knife to my neck. “Don’t try anything stupid,” he warned, pushing the tip of the knife into my flesh. I felt the prick from it slicing my skin. When he pulled the knife back, I saw my blood on its tip. “Just sit in that seat,” he spat. His saliva hit my face and I closed my eyes, swallowing back the vomit that climbed up my throat.

He put the car into gear while I shuddered a breath. I felt the shock sliding from my shoulders, felt it leaving my brain, and then my synapses started firing off. When the shock completely left my body, several minutes had passed, and we were well on our way out of town. He had plans for me, I knew. My brain was now in fight mode.

I didn’t think. I just grabbed the steering wheel and pulled it, swerving the car up onto a curb, jolting me against the door. My head hit the door window and I saw stars, but I forced myself to stay awake.

The man’s eyes bugged out of his head. I couldn’t make their color, but the whites of his eyes were so overwhelmingly dominant beneath the hoodie that fear choked my throat again, right before one of his hands clamped and squeezed that spot itself. He alternated his eyes from the road to me as he settled the car back onto the road and increased his speed. “Are you stupid?” he screamed. His eyes were bulging, like a cartoon nightmare.

I grinded my teeth. I would not die this way. I would not. Vomit threatened again and instead of swallowing it, I turned my head to him and let it go.

The next ten seconds were a blur. The knife cut my face first as he reached blindly for me, the car still speeding. I turned my head so he caught my cheek, felt the blood trickling down my face a second later. I reached for the handle of the door and heard the swish of the knife by my head. The sound it made as it cut the air, desperate to gain purchase on my skin, was terrifying itself.

I swung my arm to block a hit that was aimed for my face, felt the knife cut my arm. I could barely hear a word he yelled over my screaming. I reached blindly, touched skin that didn’t belong to me and dug my nails in. I felt the flesh ripping under my fingertips and vomited again. And then I reached for the door handle behind my back with one hand and pushed it out. Another sob, a sob of relief, fell from my lips as I fell out of the car, hitting the pavement and rolling.

I heard the slam of his breaks. Heard him swearing. And then I heard another noise. A gun shot. Steps running. Tires squealing. A shout. I smelled rubber burning, but my eyes were throbbing, coated in blood and tears; I couldn’t open them. I was in and out of consciousness when I smelled the smoke and coffee. “Fuck.” It was a woman’s voice. “Fuck fuck fuck.” I felt her going through my pockets. I made a noise, but everything hurt. Every movement ached. Breathing was exhausting me. I heard her clapping and the sound made me open one eye.

“Mouse.”

 

I came out of the memory screaming, my hands on my face.

“Shh,” a voice said. I pushed against it, screaming, my hands punching anything they could reach. “Parker,” the voice said.

Everett. I stopped fighting and clung to him. We were sitting on the ground, in the parking lot, so I climbed into his lap, my fingers searching for him. “Everett,” I breathed.

“You’re safe, Parker. You’re safe.” I clung to that while my breathing evened out. Terror still wracked my veins, but I knew what Everett said was true. I was with him. I was safe.

“Do you need us to call an ambulance?” I opened my eyes and looked around. We weren’t alone. There was a small crowd in the parking lot. The voice stepped forward and I recognized it as the hostess.

I buried my head into Everett’s shoulder. “No, we’re fine thank you,” he said.

Embarrassed, I held tighter to Everett, pulling his dress shirt to its breaking point. He lifted my head, forcing me to look at him. “Everyone is watching us,” I said, embarrassment overpowering the terror that was slowly leaving my veins.

“I’m watching you.” He held my face, running his fingers over my cheekbones and my lips. “I’m watching you, always.”

It reminded me of our first dance. He’d said the same thing then. So I concentrated completely on Everett, let the background drop off, out of my vision.

“Let’s go back to the hotel,” he said, dropping a kiss to my forehead. He walked me around to the passenger side of the car, out of view.

“Everett,” I said, my voice slipping. I wrapped my arms around his neck, squeezing him. His arms immediately wrapped around my waist, his lips touched the side of my face. “I remember,” I murmured against his neck.

“I know.” He kissed my temple. “You’re going to be okay.” He held me a minute longer before pulling back. He touched his lips to mine briefly. “Now, it’s time for you to heal,” he whispered against my lips. And then he helped me into the car.

It wasn’t until we were almost to the hotel that I realized I’d hugged him. I’d reached out, for comfort, from him.