26. Remember
Chapter 26
Remember
C onsciousness returned in fragments, like tuning an old radio. First static, then bits of sound - dripping water, creaking wood, my own ragged breathing. The back of my head throbbed where they'd hit me, each pulse a reminder that I was still alive. Still fighting.
Ethan's face flashed through my mind. The thought of him searching for me, probably terrorizing half of New York's corporate world in the process, made my chest ache. I couldn't give up. Not when he'd just found me again.
My eyes adjusted slowly to the dim light. Beside me, my father slumped against his restraints, blood matting his silver hair. The sight should have filled me with anger - this man who'd sold me out, who'd spent years running from his responsibilities. Instead, something complicated and painful twisted in my chest. He looked older like this, smaller. Broken.
I flexed my wrists experimentally, wincing at the bite of rope against raw skin. The knots were tight but not impossible - whoever tied them knew what they were doing, but they hadn't counted on a small-town bartender's stubborn streak. Nina would be proud of my determination, if she wasn't already plotting creative revenge against everyone involved.
My wrists were on fire. Funny how you never appreciate basic things like circulation until rope starts cutting it off. The barn's musty air felt thick in my lungs as I worked my fingers against the bindings for what had to be the thousandth time. Beside me, my father's head lolled forward at an angle that made my stomach clench.
“Hey,” I whispered, nudging him with my shoulder. “I know you're generally a fan of dramatic exits, but now's not the time for a nap.”
His eyelids fluttered, blood matting his silver hair to his forehead. The sight made something twist in my chest - a feeling I didn't want to examine too closely. He looked older like this, smaller somehow. Hard to believe this broken man was the same one who used to swing me onto his shoulders at Central Park.
“Jimmy...” His voice came out like sandpaper. “I'm so sorry, kid. Never meant... this wasn't supposed to...”
“To what?” The bitter laugh escaped before I could stop it. “To get caught? To have your latest scheme blow up in our faces? Or just to use your own son as collateral?”
He flinched like I'd hit him, which was impressive considering he was barely conscious. “You don't understand. I was trying to protect you.”
“Protect me?” The words tasted like copper in my mouth. “That's rich coming from someone who spent my college fund at the track. Though I guess selling me out to wannabe mobsters is a step up from your usual disappearing act.”
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows across his bruised face. A face I used to search for in every crowd, at every school event, hoping maybe this time he'd show up. This time he'd stay.
“Your mother...” he coughed, red staining his lips. “She'd be so disappointed in what I've become.”
“Don't.” My voice cracked embarrassingly. “Don't you dare bring her into this.”
“She used to call you Little Star,” he whispered, his eyes glazing slightly. “Remember? Every night before bed, she'd say 'Goodnight my Little Star, keep shining bright.'”
The nickname hit like a thunderbolt, electricity racing through my veins. The world tilted sideways as memories crashed through the walls in my mind - not in fragments this time, but in a tsunami of sound and color and feeling.
Mom's voice, clear as crystal: “My Little Star, always making music wherever you go.” Her hands guiding mine on piano keys, teaching me scales between kisses to my forehead. The scent of her perfume - vanilla and jasmine - mixing with coffee on Sunday mornings while she danced around our tiny kitchen.
“The blue pancakes,” I whispered, the memory so vivid it hurt. “She put food coloring in everything that summer. Said normal breakfast was an insult to creativity.”
“God, those pancakes.” His dad’s laugh turned into a wet cough. “Remember how she made them into music notes? Said breakfast should be symphonic.”
More memories cascaded through - but not just of her now. Rosewood Academy's practice rooms at midnight, Ethan's shoulder warm against mine as we composed together. His smile in the dim light, the way his fingers danced across piano keys, how he tasted like expensive coffee the first time we kissed.
“I remember,” I managed, my voice cracking. “Everything. Ethan. The showcase. When you left...”
The memories kept coming, relentless now. Meeting Liam in that dive bar in the East Village, both of us too drunk and too ambitious, making plans on cocktail napkins. Finding Oakwood Grove home. Nina's fierce protectiveness, Mrs. Henderson's opera glasses, Martha the Attack Chicken's vendetta against expensive footwear.
“Stop,” I pleaded, but I wasn't sure if I was talking to my father or my own mind anymore. The memories hurt like fresh wounds - every triumph, every heartbreak, every moment that had made me who I was.
“I kept everything,” Gary's words slurred at the edges. “Every drawing. Every school photo. The program from your first recital - you played Chopstick Blues, remember? Made it swing even though your teacher hated jazz.”
I saw myself at that recital, tiny legs barely reaching the pedals, mom filming while dad cheered too loud. Then later - Ethan watching from the back of Rosewood's auditorium, his eyes shining with something that looked like forever. The moment everything changed, when dreams and reality collided in Practice Room C.
“The night you left for college,” his dad continued, each word seeming to cost him. “You looked so much like her. Same determination. Same light inside.”
Another memory surfaced - packing my car while Gary watched from the porch, neither of us knowing how to say goodbye. How different would things have been if he'd stayed? If he hadn't let grief and addiction tear us apart?
“I remember Ethan finding me,” the words spilled out as more memories crystallized. “After you disappeared again. He held me while I cried, promised he'd never leave. Ironic, really.”
The full weight of my history with Ethan hit then - every stolen moment, every shared dream, every piano key that led us to each other and then apart. His letter in Practice Room C, the years of careful distance, finding each other again here in Oakwood Grove only to have my memory wiped clean.
“Your mother would be so proud,” his dad whispered. “Of who you've become. The life you've built. The way you love...”
“Don't,” I choked out. “You don't get to talk about her pride when you're the one who sold me out. When you're the reason I'm tied up in this barn instead of home with my cat and my town and...”
And Ethan. The thought of him made my chest ache with remembered love - not just the recent tentative connection we'd been rebuilding, but eight years of history. Every smile, every touch, every moment we'd shared and lost and found again.
“I know I failed you,” his dad’s voice was fading. “Failed her. But Jimmy... you never failed anyone. You just kept shining, kept loving, kept making music...”
“Like mother, like son,” I finished, the old family joke tasting like ashes now. More memories surfaced - mom teaching me harmony while dad accompanied on air guitar, the three of us making up silly songs about everyday things. Before the gambling, before the grief, before everything fell apart.
The sound of approaching footsteps broke through my memory spiral. Heavy boots on wooden floors, getting closer. Time was running out.
“Dad,” I said, the word feeling strange after everything. “I remember now. Everything. But we're not done. You don't get to check out before we figure this mess out.”
“S'okay.” His head drooped further. “Never was much of a father anyway. You should... you should go. Leave me. I deserve this.”
“Like hell.” The words came out fierce despite the tears I couldn't seem to stop. “You think you get to tap out now? After everything? No. You're going to live, and you're going to face what you've done, and you're going to explain to me why you thought any of this was okay.”
I reached for his restraints with trembling fingers, trying to focus on the knots instead of the way his breathing had gone shallow and uneven. “And then maybe, if you're really lucky, I'll let you try to earn back the right to call yourself my father. But first we have to get out of here, so for once in your life, could you please just stay with me?”
His only response was a weak cough that painted more red across his lips. Outside, footsteps approached the barn door - heavy and purposeful. Time was up.
I gritted my teeth and hoisted Gary onto my shoulder, channeling every ounce of strength I'd developed hauling boxes at The Watering Hole. Past Jimmy might have been terrible at cooking, but at least he'd built up some decent muscle tone.
“Almost there,” I muttered, though whether I was reassuring him or myself was debatable. My body screamed in protest with each step - apparently being knocked unconscious and tied up wasn't great for overall fitness. Who knew?
The barn's shadows danced across weathered wood, moonlight streaming through cracks like nature's spotlight. Great. Because this situation definitely needed more dramatic lighting. Mrs. Henderson would probably approve of the ambiance, though the décor left something to be desired.
We'd almost reached the door when pain exploded across my stomach, sending us both sprawling. Hid dad hit the ground with a groan that made my chest tight. I clutched my ribs, trying to remember how to breathe while a guard materialized from the shadows, looking way too pleased with himself.
“Well, well.” Moretti's voice dripped with theatrical menace as he sauntered into view, flanked by more muscle. His suit probably cost more than my annual rent, the open collar revealing what looked like some kind of snake tattoo. Because apparently we were going full cliché villain tonight. “Did you really think it'd be that easy?”
“Actually,” I managed between gasps, “I was hoping for a nice dramatic exit. Maybe some witty one-liners. You're really killing the vibe here.”
His laugh was all sharp edges. “Such spirit. Almost makes me understand what Cole sees in you. Almost.”
A distant sound cut through the tension - sirens, getting closer. Moretti's perfectly practiced smile slipped slightly. He crouched in front of me, gripping my chin with manicured fingers that felt like steel.
“Sounds like your boyfriend brought reinforcements.” His breath smelled like expensive scotch and bad decisions. “Shame he won't make it in time. I did warn you about choosing sides.”
Years of dealing with drunk customers and Martha the Attack Chicken's vendetta had taught me a thing or two about quick movements. I twisted free and landed a solid hit to his jaw, probably breaking at least three of his ridiculously white teeth.
“That's for ruining my evening plans,” I snarled, grabbing Gary's arm. “I had a very nice Netflix queue lined up.”
We made it exactly three steps toward freedom when the gunshot rang out. The sound echoed off barn walls, but it was nothing compared to the way my heart stopped when I saw who was stumbling through the door.
Ethan stood there in what had probably been an immaculate suit this morning, one hand pressed to his side where red bloomed between his fingers. His perfectly styled hair was a mess, his tie hanging loose, and somehow he still looked unfairly gorgeous even while bleeding.
“Ethan!” His name tore from my throat as I lunged toward him. Because of course he'd show up at the worst possible moment. Of course he'd try to play hero. Of course he'd get himself shot trying to save me.
Another shot cracked through the air, but before I could reach Ethan, a blur of movement caught my eye. Clark - friendly neighborhood cat cafe owner and apparently part-time superhero - materialized between Ethan and Moretti like he'd been waiting for his dramatic entrance cue.
The bullet hit him square in the chest. He didn't even flinch.
“Really?” Clark looked down at the hole in his cat-themed shirt with what could only be described as mild annoyance. “I just got this one in.” He pulled up the fabric to reveal a bulletproof vest. “Though I have to say, your aim needs work.”
The smirk he gave Moretti was decidedly un-Clark-like - less 'would you like whipped cream with that?' and more 'I bench press buildings for fun.' Something about the way he moved as he advanced on Moretti seemed almost... otherworldly. Like gravity had suddenly become more of a suggestion than a law.
What happened next was pure chaos - Clark taking down guards with moves that definitely weren't covered in basic self-defense classes, Jake and Dawn bursting in with backup like they'd been waiting for the perfect dramatic moment. Mrs. Henderson had probably coordinated the timing, complete with color-coded operation schedules.
I dropped to my knees beside Ethan, my hands shaking as I pressed against his wound. His perfectly tailored shirt was ruined - the dry cleaning bill alone would probably cost more than my monthly rent. “If you die on me,” I managed through tears I couldn't seem to stop, “I'm telling everyone you got taken out by Martha the Attack Chicken.”
His eyes fluttered open, that familiar green catching the light. Even bleeding and disheveled, he somehow looked unfairly gorgeous. “You're safe,” he murmured, reaching up to touch my face. “That's all that matters.”
“I remember,” I whispered, the words carrying eight years of history between us. “Everything. Practice Room C. The showcase. The letter...” My voice cracked. “Why you left. Why you came back.”
His tears matched mine as he pulled me closer, his grip surprisingly strong for someone losing designer-suit amounts of blood. “I thought... when you disappeared... I couldn't lose you again.”
“Hey.” I cupped his face, thumbs brushing away tears. “You're stuck with me now. Memory intact and everything. Though I have to say, getting shot is a bit dramatic, even for you. What happened to just sending expensive gifts?”
His laugh turned into a pained grimace. “Next time I'll stick to cat accessories.”
“There better not be a next time.” I pressed my forehead to his, breathing him in - expensive cologne mixed with hospital antiseptic, but underneath still perfectly Ethan. “I love you. All of you. The CEO who terrorizes board rooms and the guy who gets bullied by waterfowl. Past, present, future - all of it.”
“Even with the bullet wound?” His attempt at humor was somewhat undermined by how pale he'd gone.
“Especially with the bullet wound. Very heroic. Mrs. Henderson will probably write epic poems about it.”
“Already working on it!” Her voice carried from somewhere outside, because of course the town's surveillance squad was monitoring this moment.
“I love you too,” Ethan whispered, his fingers tangling in my shirt. “Every version of you. The one who couldn't remember me and the one who wrote music at midnight and the one who still can't cook without setting off smoke alarms.”
Around us, the chaos settled - Moretti being led away in handcuffs, Clark doing something suspiciously superhuman with the remaining guards, Jake coordinating with backup while definitely pretending not to cry. But in that moment, the world narrowed to just us.
“Though I have to say,” Ethan added weakly, “your dad's timing could use work.”
Speaking of which - I spun around, searching for my dad in the chaos. He lay a few feet away, paramedics working over him with the kind of urgency that made my stomach clench. Without letting go of Ethan's hand, I stretched toward him.
“Dad?” My voice cracked on the word. “Hey, no checking out on me now. We've still got way too much to fight about.”
His eyes fluttered open, finding mine with surprising clarity despite all the blood. “Little Star,” he whispered, that nickname hitting fresh now that I remembered everything it meant. “You did good, kid.”
“Yeah, well.” I squeezed Ethan's hand while reaching for my dad's. “I had a pretty good example of what not to do.”
His laugh turned into a wet cough, but his grip on my hand stayed strong. “Your mother would be proud. Of who you've become. Who you've chosen to love.”
“She'd also probably ground you for life,” I pointed out, trying to hide how my voice shook. “The whole 'getting our son kidnapped' thing might have been a deal-breaker.”
“Probably.” His smile was faint but real. “Always did say I had terrible judgment. Except about her. And you.”
The paramedics moved with practiced efficiency, prepping both Ethan and my dad for transport. I found myself stretched between them - one hand gripping my past, the other holding my future. Both refusing to let go.
“You know,” I told Gary as they lifted him onto the stretcher, “once you're not actively dying, we're going to have a very long talk about appropriate father-son bonding activities. Hint: kidnapping isn't on the list.”
“Fair enough.” His voice was weak but his eyes were clear as they found mine. “I've missed... so many chances. So many years.”
“Yeah, well.” I glanced at Ethan, then back to my father. “Seems like second chances are kind of my thing lately.”
“Third chances, technically,” Ethan mumbled from his stretcher. “If you count Rosewood.”
“Not helping your case here, CEO.” But I couldn't help smiling, keeping one hand linked with each of them as the paramedics worked. “Though I guess we're all getting pretty good at the whole 'trying again' thing.”
Gary's fingers tightened weakly around mine. “I don't deserve it.”
“Probably not,” I agreed. “But here's the thing about family - sometimes it's not about deserving. Sometimes it's about choosing to show up anyway. Even when it's hard. Even when it hurts.”
“Even when it involves bullets?” Ethan quipped.
“Says the man who got himself shot trying to play hero.” I squeezed both their hands. “But yes, apparently even then. Though maybe we could try something less dramatic next time? Like a normal family dinner?”
“With your cooking?” Gary actually managed a weak laugh. “Might be more dangerous than the bullets.”
“Oh great, now you're both ganging up on me.” But I was laughing too, even as tears slid down my face. “Just... stay alive, okay? Both of you. We've got a lot of lost time to make up for.”
As the paramedics loaded my personal collection of wounded heroes into ambulances, I caught sight of Jake and Dawn doing what they did best - bringing law and order to chaos, small-town style.
“You have the right to remain silent,” Jake announced, cuffing Moretti with perhaps a bit more force than strictly necessary. “Though given your flair for dramatic monologues, I doubt you'll take that option.”
Moretti's perfect suit was significantly less perfect now, streaked with dirt and what looked suspiciously like Martha's special brand of chicken-based revenge. His designer shoes would definitely never recover.
“This isn't over,” he snarled, trying for menacing but achieving something closer to 'disgruntled accountant'. “You have no idea what you're dealing with.”
“Actually,” Dawn said, looking far too pleased as she secured his goons, “I think it's you who didn't know what you were dealing with. Rule one of small towns - we protect our own.”
I had to admire their efficiency - each member of Moretti's wannabe mobster squad was systematically disarmed, cuffed, and treated to Dawn's impressively comprehensive knowledge of criminal codes. All while Clark watched from the shadows, his normally cheerful cafe-owner demeanor replaced by something ancient and decidedly otherworldly.
“Your father's files,” Moretti called out as they led him away. “They're worth more than you know.”
“Yeah?” I couldn't resist one last jab. “Well, they're about to be worth about twenty-five to life, so I'd say that's pretty valuable.”
Jake caught my eye as they loaded the last of Moretti's men into patrol cars. His nod said everything - they had this handled. I could go be where I needed to be.
That's when the adrenaline finally decided to clock out for the night. The world tilted sideways as my knees buckled, reminding me that getting knocked unconscious and playing hostage wasn't exactly great for overall health.
“Whoa there.” Dawn appeared at my side, catching me before I could face-plant in a very undignified manner. “We need another medic over here!”
“I'm fine,” I protested, though the words came out embarrassingly slurred. “Just need a minute. And maybe an ice pack. Or ten.”
A paramedic materialized - probably summoned by Mrs. Henderson's highly efficient emergency response network. She took one look at my probably-concussed self and shook her head.
“Yeah, you're coming with us,” she said, already guiding me toward a waiting ambulance. “Head trauma, possible internal injuries, and what looks like enough rope burns to qualify as modern art.”
“But my cat-“
“Is being pampered by half the town,” Dawn assured me. “Pretty sure Mrs. Henderson's already organized a rotating schedule of cat-sitters, complete with color-coded feeding charts.”
The paramedic helped me onto a gurney, which was way less dignified than action movies made it look. “At least I get to make a dramatic exit,” I mumbled as darkness started creeping in at the edges. “Very on-brand for tonight.”
The last thing I heard was Dawn's laugh. “Only you would worry about style points while passing out.”
Then everything went black, but this time I wasn't afraid. I knew exactly who I was, who loved me, and most importantly - who would be there when I woke up.
Even if one of them did have a bullet hole in his designer suit.