Chapter 6
Sam
THE CABIN LIGHTS come on, dashing the bits and pieces of memories to the shadows.
I remember his smile, and the feeling of safety.
A kiss in a dark bar. I remember a coin flipping, and something about Elvis impersonators.
But I can’t remember how I ended up with a ring on my finger, or even how I made it to the hotel room.
I squeeze my shaking hands together, my knuckles blanching with the effort.
The facts swirl around my head, restless and unable to land.
I got married to someone, and I can’t remember it.
I got married to someone, and they bailed.
I got married to someone, and there are no records.
And I think the marriage is real. Worse, a deep part of me curls up and purrs at the thought of it, warmed by the fire of comfort he gave for those precious few hours. It’s infuriating.
In fact, the more I think about it, the more pissed off I get. So no, the shaking isn’t because I’m sad – it’s because I’m furious. What was I thinking?
I wasn’t. I broke my cardinal rule. And that’s what you get, a part of me whispers.
I reach up, seeking the comfort of the sea turtle charm on my necklace, but it’s not there. A gasp issues from me, unbidden, as I frantically touch my neck and look down my shirt.
“Nooo,” I whine softly, biting my lip against the tears that prick at my eyes.
My seatmate, a businessman in a perfectly pressed suit, shifts uncomfortably next to me.
I probably still smell like alcohol, but there’s nothing I can do about it.
I know it’s not in my suitcase. I know it like I know my own name, and yet it takes everything I have not to stand and yank my suitcase from the overhead and rifle through it.
I let a tear fall. One tear. That’s all I’m allowing this entire shit show to have: one single, solitary tear.
I clear my throat and straighten, the memory of my mum giving the necklace to me at graduation still so vivid. It’s the only real piece of jewelry I own, and I’ve treasured it for so long. For it to be gone, too, is heartbreaking. I’ll never get that back.
The plane lands with a jostle, and I jump in surprise. My seatmate grunts, no doubt judging me, but I can’t find it in myself to care. As we taxi down the runway, I turn my phone off airplane mode and it pings with messages.
KARI
Do you need a ride?
You’re not answering so I asked your brother.
I’m in the cell phone waiting lot. Text me when you’re off the plane and I’ll come get you.
Thank you. I’ve landed.
I make my way through the Atlanta airport, taking in the sights that I was too jet-lagged to notice when I landed here from Melbourne a few months ago: people of every type and nationality abound, some flat-out sprinting to get to their terminal or gate, and others off to the side wrangling kids, dogs, coffee, or all of the above.
It’s bright, loud, and chaotic – a lot like the city itself.
Announcements for gate changes and calls for final boarding ring out as I head to the exit, the wheels of my carry-on suitcase ka-thumping along.
Outside, the scene is far from calm, with people darting in and out of traffic as they aim for taxis, rideshares, and hotel buses.
I spot Kari as she swerves her Jeep into the pickup lane, smiling broadly and waving like a maniac.
I toss my suitcase in the back before climbing up and settling in.
She doesn’t even let me buckle the seatbelt before she starts in. “Well?”
I sigh, knowing exactly what she means. “I don’t know.”
“Don’t know where he is?” she asks, darting into the row of vehicles.
“Don’t know who he is,” I correct. “Don’t know his last name. Can’t confirm if we’re actually married, because the clerk’s office doesn’t have a record.”
Her face brightens. “That’s a good thing – no record means no evidence. You’re not married.” She states it with full authority, as though she’s solved all my problems with a simple declaration. To be fair, she is in public relations, so it makes sense that this is a done deal to her.
But it’s not to me. I know we’re married.
And the part that makes it so bad isn’t that I married someone, because if I could find him, we could fix that.
No, the part that I can’t get past is that I broke my one rule.
Not only did this man somehow convince me to break it, but he left afterward.
Despite my feeling of safety with him, I wasn’t. I was the opposite of safe.
How am I supposed to trust myself after this? Because what if…what if he didn’t convince me at all? What if I did it willingly?
“Hey,” Kari says, her voice gentler than I think I’ve ever heard it, “It’s going to be okay.”
I clench my jaw, staring out the window at the passing cars. I don’t think it is. Because I know that even though I don’t remember anything yet, there’s no shaking the feeling that I’ve irrevocably changed my life.
A text buzzes against my calf, and I reach down to pull my phone from my backpack.
UNKNOWN
Hi Sam, this is Neesha from Granite HR. Good news! We’ve got all the paperwork sorted and are ready for you. Checking in to make sure you’re planning to swing over tomorrow and sign. Excited to have you on the team!
A whimper issues from my throat. A bleat, really.
Like a little baby goat who’s lost its mama.
I jumped at the chance to take a position with the Granite when a spot opened up on the physical therapy roster for the team.
It was this remarkable piece of kismet, as though the universe had seen me trying and finally decided to reward me.
I’d wanted to come to the States for years, but never had enough money to pull it off because I kept using any extra funds I had to get more training.
When Ollie declared he wanted to try out for an American rugby team, Mum was more than happy to help fund me coming here with my brother.
She wasn’t confident in Ollie’s ability to navigate an entirely new country, let alone try out for an American rugby team.
Little did Mum know that Ollie did just fine, thanks, and really only wanted me because he needed a training partner and someone to keep him focused.
To be honest, the hardest part for Ollie was making the mental shift from rugby league to rugby union, which is what the American pro league plays. But he’s a fast learner.
Their head trainer saw how I was working with Ollie on the odd Saturday we used Granite’s facilities, and pulled me to the side. But instead of getting chewed out like I thought I would, he asked if I wanted a job. It was too good to pass up.
Only now, after last night, I’m second-guessing everything. I thought I knew exactly who I was, what I wanted, and how I was going to get there. The problem is that the woman I thought I was wouldn’t have broken her one-drink rule and ended up married.
I stare at the text.
“You need some water?” Kari asks.
I clear my throat. “No. No thank you.” What I need is my memories back. What I need is more than flashes of a sequin jumpsuit and a lucky quarter. What I need is time travel.
What I need is to punch something.
She zooms into the HOV lane at eighty miles per hour, calmly hurtling us toward sudden death if anything were to go wrong. “You plan on riding with your brother to work every day?” she asks, clearly avoiding the real reason I’m white knuckling my phone.
“Probably.” Even though I already know that won’t work for the long term. Then I realize what she’s said. “Wait – did you know the paperwork went through?”
She waves a hand and makes a dismissive sound. “Of course. Did you think I wouldn’t be all over this? Getting to work with my best Australian mate?” She delivers the last line in a horrific Australian accent.
I cringe. “Don’t do that again. Ever.”
She laughs. “Which part? Saying ‘mate’ or saying it in that accent?”
“Both.”
A car cuts in front of us and Kari lays on the horn, not missing a beat. “I can pick you up some days if you want.”
“Sure, if I wanted to cheat death on the daily,” I crack.
“Hey! I’m a good driver!” she protests.
“I may need to learn how to drive on the right side of the road,” I mutter. But first things first: regain my memories.
A harrowing fifteen minutes later, we’re off the interstate and heading toward my apartment complex.
Tall, impossibly leafy oak and maple trees line the sides of the road, with every color of crepe myrtle dotted here and there among them.
Above them, fluffy clouds float in the marble-blue sky, not bothering to shade anything for more than a second or two. “I think I need a witch,” I muse.