19. Finding Normal
Chapter 19
Finding Normal
T he afternoon sun cast long shadows across the ranch, turning everything golden as I watched Ethan and Gary walk away from the cow pen. Their body language screamed tension even from a distance.
“Well, that's not ominous at all,” I muttered to my coffee cup, having retreated to the kitchen for moral support in liquid form.
“Ethan and your father having a private chat?” Liam appeared beside me, eyeing the pair through the window. “Should we be worried?”
“Probably.” I watched them disappear around the back pasture. “Though I'm more concerned about Martha the Attack Chicken following them. Her surveillance techniques need work.”
Sure enough, our most aggressive chicken was attempting to casually trail Ethan and Gary while pretending to be fascinated by completely empty grass patches.
“She's learning from Mrs. Henderson,” Liam observed. “Though her stealth skills could use some polish.”
“At least she's branching out socially.” I nodded toward where Martha had actually let Gary pet her earlier. “First time I've seen her not immediately choose violence as a greeting.”
“Maybe she's finally mellowing in her old age?”
As if on cue, Martha launched herself at a completely innocent butterfly, her war cry echoing across the yard.
“Or not,” Liam amended. “Some things never change.”
I stared into my coffee, wondering why that simple truth felt so complicated right now.
“Also,” Liam shifted uncomfortably beside me, “I should probably mention something.”
“That look usually means Melody's eaten someone's expensive shoes again.”
“No, but speaking of expensive things...” He set another coffee cup beside mine like a peace offering. “Your dad showed up really early this morning. Said you'd talked, so I let him stick around.”
I raised my eyebrows at his guilty expression. “Is that why you're stress-baking? I can smell muffins.”
“They're apology muffins,” he admitted. “In case I overstepped.”
Through the window, I could still see Gary and Ethan's tense figures in the distance. Martha had given up all pretense of stealth and was now openly stalking them, her surveillance technique about as subtle as Mrs. Henderson's opera glasses.
“It's fine,” I said, surprising myself with how much I meant it. “This might actually be... good?”
The word felt strange in my mouth, like trying to describe a color I couldn't quite remember. Earlier, Gary had shown me old photos on his phone – my mother teaching piano, me attempting to help her garden, moments that felt both foreign and achingly familiar.
“Good?” Liam's skepticism was clear. “The same Gary Reed who?—“
“Who I can't actually remember being angry at,” I finished quietly. “Everyone keeps telling me about all these reasons I should hate him, but right now? All I see is someone trying really hard to connect.”
The admission hung between us, heavy with implications neither of us was ready to explore. Liam knew the whole story – or at least, more of it than I did. But he also knew me well enough to recognize when I needed space to figure things out myself.
“So,” Liam said carefully, sliding onto one of the kitchen stools. “Since we're having a moment of honesty here... anything else new? Memory-wise?”
I stared into my coffee, watching the steam curl up like the fragments of memory that had been teasing me lately. “Maybe? It's... weird. Like trying to remember a dream, but the dream belongs to someone else.”
“But you are remembering?” The hope in his voice made my chest tight.
“Flashes. Nothing solid.” I traced the rim of my mug, searching for words.
Liam leaned forward, abandoning all pretense of casual conversation. “Like what?”
“Like knowing you take your coffee with exactly two sugars, no cream. Or that the third step on the back porch creaks unless you step on the left side. Little things that feel familiar without actually being memories.”
“That's progress though, right?” His smile was genuine, warm. “Better than last week when you tried to feed Martha strawberries and nearly lost a finger.”
“In my defense, how was I supposed to know she had a vendetta against red fruits?”
“Because I told you. Three times.” But his teasing held no heat. “You're starting to trust your instincts again. That's huge, Jimmy.”
I watched Gary and Ethan through the window, their figures now distant dots on the horizon. “Yeah, but whose instincts am I trusting? Past Jimmy's or Current Jimmy's?”
“Maybe they're not as different as you think.” Liam's voice turned serious. “The way you still automatically save the chocolate muffins for Nina because they're her favorite. How you knew exactly which horse blanket Melody prefers without anyone telling you. Those aren't memories – they're just... you.”
The observation hit something deep. “It's scary sometimes,” I admitted quietly. “Finding pieces of myself I didn't know were missing until they click back into place.”
“Scary good or scary bad?”
“Both? Neither?” I shrugged. “It's like... imagine walking through a familiar room in the dark. You know where everything should be, but you still have to feel your way around. Sometimes you bump into things you forgot were there, and sometimes the furniture's been rearranged but your body remembers the old layout.”
“That's... actually a pretty good metaphor.” Liam grinned. “Look at you, being all poetic. Though Past Jimmy would have probably made it about music somehow.”
“Current Jimmy needs more coffee before attempting musical metaphors.”
His laugh was warm, familiar in a way that transcended memory. This – this easy friendship, this understanding – felt more real than any recovered memory could be.
“You know,” Liam said after a moment, “you might not remember how we met or why we're friends, but you still trust me enough to tell me all this. That's not memory – that's just us.”
“Yeah, well, you make good apology muffins. I'm easily bribed with baked goods.”
“Some things really don't change.” He stood, heading for the oven. “Though if you tell anyone I stress-bake, I'll deny everything.”
“Your secret's safe with me.” I paused. “I think. Unless I forget again, in which case all bets are off.”
His answering laugh carried years of friendship I couldn't quite remember but somehow felt in my bones. Maybe that was the real gift – not recovering what was lost, but discovering what had been there all along.
“I never told you how we actually met.”
“Didn't we meet here?” I gestured vaguely at the ranch. “Something about music management?”
His grin turned mischievous. “Not even close. Picture this: New York City, some dive bar in the East Village. I'm three whiskeys deep, trying to convince the bartender I should definitely perform an impromptu concert on their very sticky bar top.”
“Oh no.” I could already see where this was heading.
“Oh yes. And in walks this guy in a wrinkled suit, looking like he'd just escaped a corporate prison. Takes one look at me about to embarrass myself spectacularly, and you know what he does?”
“Calls security?”
“Walks right up and says, 'Your pitch is sharp, but your business sense is definitely flat. Want an agent?'” Liam's impression of what was apparently Past Me was terrible. “Just like that. No fear, no hesitation. Just straight-up approached a drunk stranger and offered to manage his career.”
“Did it work?”
“Are you kidding? I thought you were crazy.” He laughed, distributing muffins onto a plate. “But then you started talking about music industry statistics and venue networking strategies, all while helping me down from the bar without falling on my face. By the time you got me into a cab, you'd somehow convinced me to sign a preliminary contract.”
“I did not.”
“On a cocktail napkin. I still have it framed somewhere.” His smile softened. “After that, we were pretty much inseparable. You saw something in my music that I couldn't even see myself yet.”
I stared into my coffee, wishing I could remember that night clearly instead of just feeling its echoes. “Sounds like Past Jimmy was pretty brave.”
“Past Jimmy was exactly who you still are – someone who fights for what he believes in.” Liam pushed a muffin toward me. “Even if you don't remember all the battles yet.”
“Think I'll ever get it all back?” The question came out smaller than I intended.
“Maybe. Maybe not.” He shrugged. “But you're still here, still fighting. Still saving drunk musicians from themselves, just with a slight memory upgrade.”
The kitchen screen door creaked open, announcing Jake and Elliot's arrival. They moved into the space with practiced synchronicity – Jake heading straight for the coffee maker while Elliot automatically reached for their usual mugs. No words needed, just the kind of comfort that came from knowing someone's rhythms by heart.
“Afternoon,” Jake said, pouring two cups with the precision of someone who'd memorized exactly how his boyfriend took his coffee.
Elliot accepted his mug with a soft thanks, absently fixing Jake's collar where it had folded wrong. The gesture was so casual, so naturally intimate that it made my chest ache with something between envy and hope.
“Your Martha's taking this neighborhood watch thing seriously,” Elliot said, leaning against the counter with the easy grace of someone used to much faster movements. “Though her tactical approach needs work.”
“She's determined,” I defended. “Even if her stealth skills are... questionable.”
“Like owner, like chicken?” Jake suggested, earning a snort from Liam.
“I'll have you know my stealth skills are excellent,” I protested. “Just ask Mrs. Henderson's surveillance team.”
“You mean the one currently trying to hide behind a clearly insufficient shrub?” Elliot nodded toward the window where, sure enough, opera glasses glinted in the afternoon sun.
“At least they brought snacks this time,” Liam observed. “Those stakeouts must work up an appetite.”
Jake tried to maintain his serious sheriff expression but failed when Elliot bumped his shoulder playfully. “Focus, babe. We're here on official business.”
“Right, because nothing says official business like watching a chicken spy on a billionaire,” Elliot grinned, then caught my confused look. “What?”
“Just...” I gestured vaguely between them. “Sometimes I forget you're actually a famous racing champion and not just the guy who keeps stealing Jake's coffee.”
“He does make the best coffee in town,” Elliot admitted, earning an eye roll from his boyfriend.
“Only because Sarah banned him from the diner after The Coffee Incident,” Liam stage-whispered.
“We don't talk about The Coffee Incident,” Jake and Elliot said in unison, then shared the kind of look that made my chest tight with its easy intimacy.
Jake's expression shifted then to what I was starting to recognize as his sheriff face. “Jimmy, got a minute?”
Something in his tone made me straighten. “Sure. Garden?”
They walked towards the back garden and Jake didn’t waste any time asking questions.
“What's he really doing here, Jimmy?” Jake asked. His sheriff voice carried the same protective edge I'd heard him use when warning tourists about dangerous hiking trails.
I watched Gary and Ethan by the cow pen, their body language telling two very different stories. Ethan looked like he was conducting a particularly tense board meeting, while Gary maintained the relaxed pose of someone at a casual lunch date.
“He's trying,” I said finally, the words feeling inadequate even as I spoke them. “And I think... I think I want to let him.”
Jake's expression softened, concern replacing his professional distance. “You're sure about that?”
“I'm not sure about anything lately,” I admitted, watching Ethan's hands move in sharp gestures while Gary remained frustratingly calm. “But he hasn't done anything wrong. Not since he's been here, anyway.”
“That you remember,” Jake pointed out gently.
“That anyone can prove,” I countered. “Everyone keeps telling me about his history, about all these reasons I should be angry. But right now? All I see is someone trying to connect with a son who can't even remember why he should hate him.”
Gary chose that moment to wave in our direction, his smile perfect and practiced. Jake's jaw tightened visibly.
“You don't trust him,” I said, watching Jake's reaction.
“Let's just say I've seen enough con men to recognize certain patterns.” He shifted his weight, sheriff mode fully engaged now.
“You think he's running a game?”
“I think,” Jake said carefully, “that people with his kind of history don't usually change without a reason.”
“You sound like Ethan,” I said, watching Gary's too-perfect posture. “He gets this look every time my father's around – like he's analyzing a particularly dangerous business deal.”
“Maybe he has reason to be concerned.” Jake's voice stayed carefully neutral. “Have you wondered why Gary showed up now? Right when you're finally building something solid here?”
I had wondered, more than I wanted to admit. “He says he wants to make things right.”
“And the timing don’t seem suspicious to you?”
Something clicked. “You've been investigating him.”
Jake didn't deny it. “It's my job to protect this town. And you're part of it now.”
The simple declaration made my throat tight. Through the trees, I could see Elliot in the kitchen with Liam, their easy laughter floating out to us. The sight of their casual friendship, of Jake's protective concern, of this whole town that had somehow become home – it hit something deep.
“You know what's weird?” I turned back to Jake. “Everyone keeps trying to protect me from my past, but right now? I'm more worried about losing what I have here than remembering what I lost there.”
Jake's expression shifted, understanding dawning. “You're not just talking about Gary, are you?”
“I see the way Ethan looks at me sometimes,” I admitted. “Like he's waiting for me to remember something specific. Something important. And I'm terrified that when I do, it'll change everything we're building now.”
“Or maybe,” Jake suggested quietly, “remembering will just help you understand why he looks at you like you're something worth protecting.”
The observation landed like a punch to the chest. Before I could respond, Martha's distinctive war cry split the air – she'd apparently given up on stealth altogether and was now openly chasing Gary away from her territory.
“At least someone's not confused about their feelings,” I muttered, watching my father execute a surprisingly dignified retreat from an angry chicken.
Jake's laugh broke some of the tension. “Sometimes the simplest approaches are the best. Though maybe don't take relationship advice from Martha.”
“Why not? Her surveillance techniques are top-notch.”
“I'm going to trust him,” I said finally. “Not because I don't see the red flags, but because... I need to know. For myself. Even if it ends badly.”
Jake studied me for a long moment. “Okay,” he said simply.
“Okay? That's it? No more warnings about his history?”
“You're not the same person he could manipulate before,” Jake said. “Memory or not, you've built something stronger here. Just... promise you'll listen if those instincts of yours start sending warning signals?”
I watched Gary dust himself off, maintaining his dignity despite having just fled from poultry. “Deal. Though if Martha's reaction is anything to go by, I might not be the only one with trust issues.”
“Smart chicken,” Jake grinned. “Maybe we should put her in charge of the investigation.”
“Don't let Mrs. Henderson hear you say that. She takes her surveillance duties very seriously.”
I watched Gary attempt to make peace with Martha, his shirt completely at odds with the chicken coop backdrop. Something about the sight – this man who clearly didn't belong here trying so hard to fit in – struck a chord.
“Maybe it's not about forgetting,” I said quietly, surprising both Jake and myself. “Maybe it's about seeing if he's still that guy from everyone's warnings – or if he's trying to become someone better.”
“Jimmy—“ Jake started, but Gary's voice cut through the afternoon air.
“Hey kid, want to help me make amends with your guard chicken?” Gary called, looking only slightly concerned as Martha puffed up to twice her size. “I think we got off on the wrong foot. Or wrong claw, as the case may be.”
The pull to join him felt sudden and impossible to ignore. Something about seeing him there, trying to navigate both Martha's territorial nature and his own obvious discomfort with farm life, made me want to bridge the gap between who he was and who he might be trying to become.
I left Jake in the garden without another word, drawn toward this strange tableau of redemption by chicken coop. Maybe everyone was right to be suspicious. Maybe this would end badly.
But right now, watching my father attempt to charm the most judgmental chicken in Oakwood Grove, I wanted to believe in the possibility of change.
The familiar scent of straw and earth hit me as we approached the coop. Martha maintained her position by the door like a tiny feathered security guard, her glare suggesting we'd better have proper clearance.
“She's quite the character,” Gary observed, looking more amused than intimidated by our avian overlord. “Reminds me of that landlady we had on 82nd Street. Mrs. Kopecki?”
“Did she also terrorize innocent people?” I found myself asking, curious about these fragments of my past.
“Worse. She used to stand guard in the lobby like that, making sure no one tracked snow into her building.” His laugh held genuine warmth. “Your mother used to say she was just lonely, needed someone to fuss over. Started bringing her coffee every morning.”
We fell into an oddly comfortable rhythm – me showing Gary how to distribute feed while avoiding Martha's danger zone. For someone used to New York high rises, he adapted surprisingly well to farm life.
“Your mother would love this,” he said softly, watching Martha's suspicious inspection of his offering. “You, finding your place somewhere so different from where we started.”
Then his voice changed, grew quieter. “You used to call me about Ethan, you know. Back in college.”
My hands stilled on the feed bucket. “What did I say?”
“You said he was the one.” Gary's words carried a weight that made my chest tight. “First time I'd ever heard you so sure about anything. Not even music got that tone in your voice.”
Through the coop window, I caught sight of Ethan by his car, phone pressed to his ear.
“Did I call you often?” I asked, trying to picture myself sharing relationship details with the man everyone kept warning me about. “About Ethan, I mean.”
“More than you probably meant to.” Gary's smile turned wistful. “Late nights, usually. You'd call about music theory or venue bookings, but somehow the conversation always circled back to him. How he was helping you arrange pieces, teaching you about chord progressions.”
Martha clucked suspiciously at Gary's feed offering, her beady eyes somehow conveying both judgment and reluctant interest.
“The first time you mentioned him,” Gary continued, carefully maintaining his distance from our feathered supervisor, “you were so excited about this piano duet you'd been working on. Said you'd finally found someone who understood music the way you did.”
Something flickered in my mind – the feel of piano keys under my fingers, someone's shoulder pressed warm against mine, laughter over missed notes. Not quite a memory, but an echo of one.
“What happened?” I asked, though part of me wasn't sure I wanted to know.
Gary's expression shifted, guilt crossing his features. “Things got complicated. My debts, his family's expectations... you both had dreams that seemed to pull in different directions.”
Through the window, I watched Ethan pace by his car. Even from here, I could see the tension in his shoulders, the careful way he held himself apart from everything.
Martha chose that moment to finally accept Gary's peace offering, pecking delicately at the feed while maintaining her air of superiority.
“Well, would you look at that,” Gary chuckled. “Guess even chicken dictators can be won over.”
“Don't get too confident. She's probably just lulling you into a false sense of security.”
“Like father, like chicken?”
The joke should have felt forced, uncomfortable. Instead, I found myself laughing, the sound echoing off the coop walls and making Martha look up in disapproval.
“He loves you, you know,” Gary said suddenly, his voice soft but certain. “The way he looks at you – it's exactly the same as it was back then. Like you're the most fascinating puzzle he's ever encountered.”
We finished up in comfortable silence, Martha maintaining her suspicious supervision of Gary's every movement. As we stepped out into the afternoon sun, Gary's hand landed on my shoulder – the gesture feeling both foreign and familiar.
“Life doesn't always give you second chances, Jimmy,” he said, his tone gentler than I'd heard before. “Maybe this memory loss isn't just about what you've lost. Maybe it's an opportunity to build something new, without the weight of old hurts holding you back.”
The words settled somewhere deep in my chest. I watched Ethan by his car, his phone now forgotten in his hand as he stared off into the distance. The late afternoon light caught his profile, and something in my heart recognized him even if my mind couldn't quite catch up.
Through the window of the main house, I caught sight of Liam watching us, his expression a mix of concern and hope. Behind him, Jake and Elliot stood close together, their casual intimacy a reminder of what was possible when you chose love over fear.
Maybe Gary was right. Maybe it was time to stop trying to recover what was lost and start building something new. Something that belonged to Current Jimmy, not just echoes of who I used to be.
Martha's imperious cluck broke the moment – apparently we'd overstayed our welcome in her domain. But as we walked back toward the house, I felt lighter somehow. Like maybe the path forward didn't require remembering everything about the past.
Maybe it just required being brave enough to take the first step into something new.