Chapter 7 Natalia
NATALIA
Johnny’s arm tightens around my waist, and I stop thinking.
Like someone reached into my skull and flipped a breaker.
His mouth is warm and certain against mine.
The taste of him makes my head swim and I don’t care.
His fingers are in my hair, gentle, the faintest pull at my scalp sending heat down my spine.
I press closer because I can. Because I want to.
Because for once in my miserable life something feels good and I’m not going to ruin it by thinking.
A sound slips out of me. Barely anything. Just a catch in my throat when he pulls me tighter, fitting me between his knees, and his grip changes. Goes hungrier. Like that tiny noise snapped something loose in him.
I’ve been kissed before. Clumsy, stolen things behind the pool house when I was sixteen. Quick and forgettable.
This is neither.
His thumb traces a slow circle on my hip through my shirt. My whole body narrows to that single point of pressure. I want more of it. More of him. More of this wild, reckless feeling burning through me like a lit fuse. Nobody has ever kissed me like they were trying to learn me by heart.
So for one blazing moment, I let myself have it.
All of it. The warmth of him, the solidness of his chest, the scratch of stubble against my chin, the way his fingers curl at my waist like he’s afraid I’ll disappear.
I sink into it the way you sink into hot water after being cold for too long, and something inside me that’s been clenched since I was old enough to understand my cage finally, finally unclenches.
His mouth moves to my jaw. The corner of it, then lower, just below my ear, and the sound I make this time isn’t small.
His breath is hot against my skin and I feel it everywhere.
I pull him closer, not thinking about it, just needing less space between us.
He makes a satisfied sound against my throat that vibrates through my whole body, and I realize with a kind of dazed clarity that I would let this man take me apart right here in this kitchen and thank him for it.
My hand drifts up the side of his face, fingertips tracing stubble along his jaw—and find the butterfly strips.
He’s hurt. He doesn’t know who he is.
And I just had my tongue in his mouth.
Fantastic work, Natalia. Really top-notch judgment.
I wrench backward so fast I nearly knock the stool over. The kitchen air rushes cold between us. My hand flies to my lips. His taste is still there.
You’ll get him killed.
“This is wrong.” My voice comes out raw. “Your memory. You could be in a relationship. You could be married, for all we know.”
Johnny stands from the stool slowly. Like I’m something that might bolt.
“I could also be completely single.” A muscle tics near his eye. “We’ve been over this.”
“That was before we kissed.”
Heat flickers across his face, like the reminder of what just happened is doing the opposite of what I intended.
My pulse pounds in my throat. I take another step back, and the edge of the counter presses into my spine. “Neither of us is in a position to start something. I need to go home soon. You need to focus on getting your memories back.”
“Nat.” The way he says it, low and raw and careful, almost undoes the entire speech I just gave. He takes one step closer. “Whatever you’re afraid of, it’s not me.”
For a fraction of a second, I waver. I want to close the gap and put my mouth back on his and stop being the responsible one for five more minutes. He’s near enough that I can feel the warmth radiating off his body, and my body is a traitor leaning toward it.
But he’s right, he’s not what I’m afraid of. And that’s exactly why I can’t.
Because this isn’t about his mystery life or his busted head. I’m engaged. I’m a peace treaty in a white dress, and if my father finds out some stranger on a beach is jeopardizing that deal, Johnny won’t live long enough to get his memories back.
He tries again. “Natalia, I—”
“No.” The word lands flat, and I don’t soften it. He needs to hear it with all its edges intact.
He watches me for a long moment. Something shifts behind his eyes, the heat giving way into something resigned, and he nods once. He moves past me toward the hallway with enough distance that we don’t touch but close enough that I catch the warmth coming off his skin.
The guest room door shuts, and the house goes still around me.
Two plates of breakfast sit on the island, untouched and going cold. I stand there for a minute, maybe longer, then pick up a fork and stab at the eggs. They’re rubbery now. I chew without tasting and stare at Johnny’s full plate across the counter.
I kissed him. I wanted to kiss him. I’d do it again right now if I thought I could keep him safe.
I scrape both plates into the trash and wash them, scrub the pan, wipe the counter twice.
When I run out of things to clean, the quiet rushes back in.
So I do what I always do when I need the one person who actually gives a damn.
I take my phone to my room, sit cross-legged on the bed, and call Anna.
The call takes a while to connect. A nurse usually helps her start the video call when it rings, and I listen to the tinny chime repeat.
The screen flickers. And there she is.
Gray hair pinned back with the tortoiseshell clip I bought her three birthdays ago. The wingback chair by the window. Orderlies passing behind her in soft-soled shoes.
“Irina?” Anna’s eyes search the screen. Hopeful and uncertain. “Irina, is that you?”
The familiar ache. She does this sometimes, calls me by my mother’s name, sees a ghost in my features.
I look like her, apparently. I wouldn’t really know.
My father didn’t keep photos of her around.
I’ve seen one, blurry and faded and tucked in the back of a drawer like something he wanted to forget.
“It’s me, Natalia.”
A beat. Her brow furrows, then smooths. Recognition breaks through like sun through cloud cover.
“Nat!” She beams, creases deepening around her eyes. “It’s so good to see you, sweetheart. How are you? Where are you?”
“Traveling a little,” I say. “Away from the city.”
“Mm.” She accepts this the way she accepts most things now, without pressing, without the through-line of logic that used to connect her thoughts to each other. “Are you eating enough? You look thin.”
“I’m eating. I promise.”
“Good.”
“How are you, Anna? Are they treating you right? Have you scared off another nurse?”
“Not yet, but give it time.” Her chin lifts. Stubborn as ever. “Your dear old Anna will get the best of them.”
I chuckle and her eyes drift toward the window, tracking something I can’t see. The focus slides off her face like water. She’s here and then she’s not, and I’ve learned there’s nothing to do but wait and hope she comes back.
After a moment, she turns back to me. “It was so lovely when you visited last week. You brought that cake I like. From the place on Delmar.”
I haven’t visited. I can’t visit. But I know better than to say that.
“The almond one?”
“That’s the one.” Her face softens into something certain and pleased. “You were wearing your blue coat. The one with the big buttons.”
I don’t own a blue coat. I’m not sure I ever did.
“I love that coat,” I say.
“Beautiful, that coat.” She nods, satisfied. Then, a beat later: “Oh, it was so lovely when you visited. You brought that cake from Delmar.”
The loop. I keep my face still, warm, completely untroubled.
“The almond one.” I say it like it’s new information.
“Yes.” She smiles, and I love her so much I could break in half. “You always remember.”
Her eyes drift again, longer this time. The window. The hallway. Somewhere I can’t follow. I sit with it, watching her face, waiting for the thread to come back. It always does, eventually. Sometimes pulled thin, sometimes knotted, but it comes back.
This time it takes longer than usual. I’m about to say her name when she blinks, and her eyes find mine with sudden, startling clarity. The fog lifts all at once.
“You look tired, my girl.”
“I’m okay.” I smooth my face. “Just a long week.”
“Come see me.” Simple as breathing. “Come when you can. I don’t need much. Just your face for a little while.”
“I will.” The lie tastes sour on my tongue. “As soon as I can.”
She nods, already half-smiling about something else. She’ll forget I said it before the call ends. That’s its own particular grief.
“Don’t forget to eat something,” she says.
“I won’t.”
“And sunscreen.”
Another small grin turns up the corner of my mouth. “I will.”
“Good girl.” That smile, broad, warm, entirely herself. “I love you, Nat.”
“I love you, Anna. Talk soon.”
I end the call and press the heels of my hands against my eyes until I see white.
The only person who ever truly loved me is more than two thousand miles away, forgetting me a little more every day. I can keep her safe, but the thing that keeps her safe is the same thing that keeps me caged.
And for about ninety seconds in that kitchen with Johnny, I forgot all of it.
I should do something productive. Study. Review my notes. Do anything other than lie here and replay the feeling of his mouth on mine.
Instead I curl onto my side, shoes still on, and stare at the framed stock photo of a seashell hanging on the wall. My fingers drift to my mouth before I realize what I’m doing, and I pull them away like I’ve been caught.
I chose something today. For myself. For no other reason than because I wanted it. For one small moment, I was a person who got to want things.
Here’s the thing I can’t say out loud, the thing that makes me a terrible person: I don’t want him to remember. Not yet. Not today.
Because when he remembers, he leaves.
And when he leaves, this house goes back to being a waiting room with an ocean view.