14. Sweet and Sour
Chapter 14
Sweet and Sour
T urns out muscle memory only went so far. While Past Jimmy could apparently juggle complex music contracts, organize town events, and lead duck rebellions, Current Jimmy couldn't figure out what the hell went into a basic pasta sauce.
“How do you burn water?” I muttered, staring at the disaster that was supposed to be dinner. The kitchen looked like a crime scene where the victim was Italian cuisine. Even the smoke alarm seemed judgmental, chirping warnings at suspiciously regular intervals.
Nina had sworn I was good at this. “You make the best comfort food,” she'd said. “It's like watching a conductor in the kitchen.” Either she was being incredibly kind, or Past Jimmy's cooking skills had taken a vacation along with his memories.
The doorbell rang just as I was contemplating whether takeout menus counted as comfort food. Because of course Ethan would be early. And of course he'd look like that – casual sweater that probably cost more than my rent somehow making him even more attractive than his usual suits, and jeans that... well. Those jeans required their own warning label.
I, meanwhile, looked like I'd lost a fight with a flour bag. Which, technically, I had.
“Something smells...” Ethan paused diplomatically, taking in the kitchen chaos.
“Like regret and broken dreams?” I offered. “Pretty sure that's not what Past Jimmy meant by 'comfort food.'”
His laugh was warm and real. “I take it dinner prep isn't going as planned?”
“Apparently Current Jimmy and kitchen appliances have a complicated relationship.” I gestured at the mess helplessly. “I swear I had this whole plan. Nina said I used to be good at this.”
“Hey.” He stepped closer, and suddenly those jeans were very much in my personal space. “It's fine. Really.”
“I just... I wanted to do this right.” The admission felt more vulnerable than it should have.
“Who says this isn't right?” His smile was soft. “Besides, Liam recommended this little Italian place just in case. Tony's? Said it was your favorite.”
The relief of a backup plan mixed with embarrassment at my kitchen disaster. “I'm sorry. I'm the one who suggested cooking and now?—“
Before my brain could catch up with my body, I'd kissed his cheek in gratitude. We both froze, the gesture hanging between us like a question neither of us was ready to answer.
“I should...” I gestured vaguely at my flour-covered everything. “Shower. Changed. Words.”
“Take your time.” His voice had gone slightly rough. “I'll... deal with the smoke alarm.”
Twenty minutes and one minor hair crisis later, we walked into Tony's to find the entire town had apparently decided Italian food was the evening's theme. Mrs. Henderson sat in the corner, holding a newspaper upside down while peering over it with what appeared to be new opera glasses. The local Crocheting circle had claimed three tables, their yarn completely forgotten in favor of not-so-subtle observation.
Tony himself emerged from the kitchen like he was greeting visiting dignitaries rather than regular customers. “Jimmy! Ethan! Your usual table is ready.”
I didn't remember having a usual table, but apparently I did because Tony led us to a cozy corner booth with an excellent view of both the street and the kitchen. Maria, Tony's wife, kept peeking out with obvious approval, occasionally whispering rapid-fire Italian that made Tony beam.
“The whole town's here, aren't they?” Ethan asked quietly as we settled in.
“Pretty sure Mrs. Henderson has a group text going.” I watched Riley pretend to be fascinated by the menu while clearly taking notes. “Though I have to admire their commitment. The Crocheting circle usually meets on Thursdays.”
“Dedicated surveillance requires flexibility,” Ethan said solemnly, then ruined it by fighting back a smile.
“You'd think they'd have better things to do than watch us eat pasta.”
“Clearly you underestimate the entertainment value of watching me try not to embarrass myself in front of you.”
The casual honesty caught me off guard. Before I could respond, Tony reappeared with wine we definitely hadn't ordered, announcing it was “From Mrs. Henderson's private collection. For romance!”
Through the kitchen window, I could see Maria giving us a thumbs up. And Mrs. Henderson's newspaper was definitely getting damp from the tears she wasn't even trying to hide.
“So,” I said, raising my glass, “to failed cooking attempts?”
“To new recipes,” Ethan countered softly, and something in his voice made my chest tight.
The entire restaurant held its breath as our glasses clinked.
The initial awkwardness melted faster than Tony's famous garlic butter. Ethan launched into what I assume was meant to be an impressive wine order in Italian, complete with perfect pronunciation and probably several references to vintage years. Tony listened with polite attention before announcing, “We have red and white. Both good. You want?”
Instead of being embarrassed, Ethan laughed. “White, please. And maybe we don't mention this moment to my Italian sommelier.”
“Your secret safe with me,” Tony winked. “Though maybe not with Mrs. Henderson.”
Our observer squad had evolved into an art form of pretending not to watch us. Through the window, I could see Riley attempting to look professional while definitely taking photos with his phone.
But somehow, none of it mattered. We fell into easy conversation about everything and nothing.
When our hands brushed reaching for the bread basket, neither of us pulled away immediately. The contact sent warmth up my arm that had nothing to do with Tony's perfectly heated focaccia.
“This town,” Ethan said softly, “is something special.”
“It grows on you,” I agreed. “Like a very persistent, very nosy form of ivy.”
His laugh made me want to keep saying things to cause it. We traded stories through dinner - his dry observations about corporate absurdities matching my tales of small-town chaos. He had a way of seeing humor in everything, hidden under that polished exterior.
"You know," he said, his voice softening with memory, "you used to do this at Rosewood too. Find ways to make serious moments lighter."
“You keep telling me that. That must means it is true.” I leaned forward, eager for these glimpses of my past.
“Cause it is absolutely true. Like this one time during finals week - I was stressed about this massive performance piece, practically living in Practice Room C. You showed up at midnight with terrible coffee and started playing Disney songs in a classical style until I had to laugh." His eyes crinkled at the corners. "You said Mozart probably would have appreciated The Little Mermaid."
"Please tell me I wasn't always that ridiculous."
"Oh, you were worse," he grinned. "Once you convinced the entire music department to play 'Happy Birthday' in different keys simultaneously because you thought the chaos would be 'harmonically interesting.' It was not."
Something about the way he told these stories made them feel real - not like facts I should remember, but like moments I could almost touch. His expressions, the warmth in his voice when he talked about our shared past, made the memories feel closer somehow.
"Did it work?" I found myself asking. "Making you laugh during finals?"
His smile turned softer. "Every time. You had this gift for knowing exactly when people needed to stop taking themselves so seriously. Still do, apparently."
Somehow Ethan managed to thank our audience for their "enthusiastic support" while suggesting maybe we could use some privacy for our post-dinner walk. Even Mrs. Henderson couldn't argue with his diplomatic phrasing, though she definitely had Riley note down which direction we headed.
The evening wrapped around us like a perfect movie scene. Festival preparations had transformed the town square with string lights that turned everything magical. Our footsteps echoed on old brick pathways that had seen generations of stories like ours.
“I found my old business proposals today,” I said as we passed the gazebo. “Past Jimmy had some pretty big plans.”
Ethan's expression turned serious, thoughtful. “You were trying to save places like this,” he said, gesturing to the town square around us. “While I was building tech empires, you were protecting something real.”
The fairy lights caught his profile, making him look softer somehow. More like the boy from those yearbook photos and less like the CEO who first arrived in town.
“It's strange,” I admitted, watching shadows play across the gazebo's white paint. “Reading these plans, seeing this vision that I apparently had but can't quite feel anymore. Like watching a movie about someone else's dreams.”
“They're still your dreams.” His voice was gentle. “Maybe just waiting to be remembered differently.”
A breeze carried the scent of spring flowers and distant music – someone practicing for the festival in the community center. We'd stopped walking without realizing it, standing in a pool of light from the festival decorations.
Without really thinking about it, I reached for Ethan's hand. It felt natural, like my body remembering something my mind had forgotten. His fingers intertwined with mine automatically, like we'd done this a thousand times before.
We noticed the gazebo which glowed like something from a fairy tale, festival lights turning the simple white structure into something magical. Music drifted from the community center where someone was practicing for the upcoming festival – something slow and sweet that made the moment feel orchestrated by the universe itself.
“They went all out with the lighting this year,” I said, trying to sound casual while my heart did complicated things in my chest.
“The ambiance committee takes their job very seriously.” Ethan's smile was soft in the gentle light.
As if on cue, the music shifted to something more deliberate – definitely not practice anymore. Someone was choosing songs with purpose.
“Is that... Jazz?” I asked, recognizing the tune even if I couldn't remember learning it.
Ethan held out his hand with exaggerated formality. “May I?”
I should have felt awkward. Should have worried about looking silly or not remembering how to dance. Instead, I found myself taking his hand, letting him pull me into a gentle sway.
“I should warn you,” I said as we moved across the gazebo's wooden floor, “Current Jimmy has no idea if he can dance.”
“Good thing I do.” His hand was warm on my back, leading with subtle confidence. “Though Past Jimmy was terrible at following. Always trying to lead.”
“Some things don't change, I guess.”
We moved together like we'd done this before, finding a rhythm that felt familiar even if I couldn't remember learning it. The festival lights cast shifting patterns across his face, making him look younger, more carefree than I'd ever seen him.
“You're staring,” he murmured, spinning me gently.
“Just trying to figure out how many dance lessons it took to make a person move like this.”
His laugh was warm against my ear. “Family tradition. Every Cole child learns ballroom by age ten.”
“Of course they do.” I let him pull me closer as the music slowed.
“You'd be surprised how many corporate deals happen on dance floors.”
We were barely moving now, just swaying together while the music played. The moment felt suspended, magical – like we'd stepped out of time into somewhere that belonged just to us.
Somewhere nearby, I was pretty sure I heard muffled squealing that sounded suspiciously like Nina. But for once, I didn't care about our not-so-subtle audience. Let them watch. Let them see how sometimes muscle memory was better than actual memory – how sometimes your body knew exactly where it belonged, even if your mind couldn't remember how it got there.
“We had our first date in Practice Room C,” he said softly, his thumb tracing patterns on my palm. “You packed this ridiculous midnight picnic – sandwiches and fancy coffee that you definitely couldn't afford but bought anyway because you knew I liked it.”
“Let me guess – I burned the sandwiches then too?”
His laugh was warm. "No, they were perfect. Everything was perfect. We played piano until sunrise, just... creating something together."
The story should have felt distant, like watching someone else's home movies. But something about the way he described it resonated deeper than memory – like my heart recognized things my mind couldn't quite grasp.
We stood there in our circle of fairy lights, the moment suspended between us. Ethan's eyes caught mine, green and warm in the gentle darkness, and suddenly breathing felt like a complicated task. He moved closer, one hand coming up to cup my cheek with a gentleness that made my heart stutter.
When he kissed me, it felt like coming home to a place I couldn't remember but somehow knew by heart. Soft and sweet and perfect, like we'd done this a thousand times before. Maybe we had. His fingers tangled in my hair as I pressed closer, and something clicked into place – not a memory exactly, but a certainty. This was right. This was where I belonged.
"We should probably head back," he murmured against my lips, though he made no move to pull away.
"Probably," I agreed, stealing one more kiss. "Before Mrs. Henderson organizes a search party."
The drive to Rolling Hill Ranch was comfortable in a way I hadn't expected. Soft music played from his ridiculous car's equally ridiculous sound system, and the silence between us felt natural, punctuated by occasional glances that made my chest tight.
We pulled up in front of my house, and suddenly the air felt charged with possibility. When Ethan leaned in, I met him halfway. The kiss started gentle, questioning – like he was afraid I might disappear.
“Well, isn't this touching.”
The voice came from the shadows, making us both jump. A man stepped into the porch light – someone vaguely familiar in a way I couldn't place. His clothes were worn but he wore an expensive watch that seemed out of place.
“Jimmy,” he said, spreading his arms like he expected a welcome. “Is that any way to greet your father?”
Beside me, Ethan went completely still. The easy warmth from moments ago vanished, replaced by something sharp and protective. I felt him shift slightly, angling himself between me and the stranger claiming to be my father.
“Gary.” Ethan's voice had changed – gone cold in a way I hadn't heard before. This wasn't his corporate tone; this was something harder.
“Gary Reed,” the man introduced himself, ignoring Ethan's clear hostility. “Though most people just call me Dad.” He smiled at me, but something about it felt wrong. “Course, you might not remember that, given your... situation.”
My head started to hurt – not with memories exactly, but with something like instinct. Every part of me wanted to step back, to get away from this man who was supposedly family but felt like danger.
“What do you want?” I managed, hating how uncertain my voice sounded.
“Can't a father check on his son?” He gestured vaguely at Ethan's car. “Especially when he hears about such interesting developments.”
Ethan's hand found mine, squeezing gently. When he spoke, his voice was perfectly controlled but carried an edge I'd never heard before. “I think you should leave.”
“Now, is that any way to treat family?” Gary's smile didn't reach his eyes. “Especially when I came all this way to help with Jimmy's recovery.”
Something about the way he said it made my skin crawl. I might not remember him, but my body seemed to – every instinct screaming that this man meant trouble.
“I don't—“ I started, but Ethan cut me off.
“If you wanted to help,” he said quietly, dangerously, “you would have been here weeks ago. Not now. Not like this.”
When Gary took a step forward, something clicked into place inside me. Not a memory exactly, but an instinct – like muscle memory but for survival. I felt Ethan tense beside me, ready to move between us, but I was already stepping forward.
“I might not remember everything,” I said, surprised by the steadiness in my voice, “but my body remembers enough to know you're not safe.” My phone was already in my hand, Jake's number ready on the screen. Past Jimmy had him on speed dial – apparently some survival instincts transcended memory loss.
“Now, son—“ Gary started, but I cut him off.
“Leave now, or I call the Sheriff.” The authority in my tone surprised even me. Like maybe Past Jimmy had done this before, had learned how to handle this man who called himself father but felt like threat.
Something flickered across Gary's face – recognition maybe, or frustration. Like he'd seen this version of me before and hadn't expected to find it intact despite the memory loss.
“We need to talk, Jimmy.” His voice turned wheedling, practiced. “About what really happened that night. About why you can't remember.”
“No.” The word came out sharp, certain. “Whatever game you're playing, whatever angle you're working – I'm not interested.”
He actually backed up a step. Something in my voice must have triggered recognition – some echo of past confrontations, some version of me he hadn't expected to find behind the amnesia.
“You don't understand?—“
“I understand enough.” I lifted the phone slightly. “Ten seconds before I call Jake. Your choice.”
The mask slipped for just a moment – calculation replacing the fake concern. Then he melted back into the shadows, leaving behind only the echo of his final words: “This isn't over, son. Some memories need to stay buried.”
I didn't realize I was shaking until Ethan's hand squeezed mine. I was still holding onto him – or maybe he was holding onto me. Either way, his touch felt like an anchor in the storm of fractured memories and instinctive reactions.
“That was...” Ethan's voice held something like pride mixed with concern.
“Terrifying? Yeah.” I tried for a laugh but it came out shaky.
“Hey.” Ethan turned me to face him, his free hand coming up to cup my cheek. “That wasn't Past Jimmy. That was all you.”
The certainty in his voice made my chest tight. Here was someone who knew all my stories but saw me clearly in this moment – not as a collection of missing memories, but as someone whole and real and worth protecting.
Through the trees, I could still hear the expensive car idling. Gary wasn't alone, and something told me this wasn't over. But standing there in the porch light, Ethan's hand steady in mine, I felt stronger than my fractured memories might suggest.
Some things, it seemed, lived deeper than memory. Like the instinct to protect yourself from danger. Like the feeling of someone's hand fitting perfectly in yours, becoming shelter in the storm.
Like knowing, somehow, that this time you didn't have to face the shadows alone.