The Scars of Missing You

Chapter 1

one

Aggie’s everything I’m not. Short. Blond.

Adorkable. Outgoing. She knows who she is in every fiber of her being, whereas I’m a tall brunette with a serious case of high-functioning depression.

And let’s not forget the identity issues.

I remind myself retrograde amnesia will do that to a girl.

This, at least, is one thing I’m sure of.

Tonight we’re drinking. A lot.

I’d like to say it’s not a normal thing, but that would be a lie. At least this time there’s a reason—a breakup. Hers, not mine. I try to care, but I despise Brad. When I consider her ex-boyfriend’s weasel face and condescending personality, my lips draw tight at the corners.

Still, I’m doing what I sense is my part, being a good friend and helping her forget “that bastard.” He is one, no doubt about it.

But I’m not drinking to forget their existence as a couple.

I drink to do things I wouldn’t normally do, like hanging out in a park after hours when there’s clearly a sign stating this section closes at dark, or worse, sitting on the hood of a car that doesn’t belong to either of us.

Nothing too crazy, but under normal conditions, breaking these little rules would make me anxious, make my shoulder twitch.

And then there’s my highly irrational sense of hope. No matter how small, its dangerous whispers suggest alcohol may have a revealing effect, releasing my lost memories from a black hole of intoxication.

Aggie doesn’t know about my past. No one in Chicago does, which is how I’d like to keep things. Five years ago, I woke up in a hospital, scared and near death. When I opened my eyes that terrible day, a line was drawn. The violent slash divided my life into two parts.

Before

--------------------------

After

Everything in the before was severed. The life I had was erased, leaving a nearly blank slate. I was a twenty-one-year-old newborn starting over in the after. But it’s been a long time since before, and I’m ready to move on. I think.

I blame Aggie. After knowing her, she’s changed something in me.

I long to be like her. Worry-free. Anxiety-free.

Just . . . free. She spins through life with her arms spread wide and her chin lifted skyward.

Even after suffering a breakup, she exudes happiness.

She can’t help it. She’s unrelenting luminous sunshine, and I’m just rain.

Dark, cold, pelting rain. That’s how I know she’ll be okay. Me? I’m not so sure.

Tonight we’re at North Avenue Beach at my favorite spot. From this vantage point across a wide cove, we view the spectacular, long-reaching Chicago skyline. Window lights shimmer and sparkle, reflecting on the waters of Lake Michigan.

Aggie trekked here from her condo in Lincoln Park after another disastrous texting marathon with Brad.

I supplied the two bottles of champagne we’re guzzling, but only after Aggie decided her breakup was cause for celebration, rather than the pout festival she hosted the prior seven days.

If she were anyone else, I think there would have been some crying involved, but I’m honestly not sure if the word crying exists in her vocabulary.

“I need Mr. Right Now.” Aggie takes a deep chug from the champagne bottle, winces, and hands it to me.

“Maybe you only need you for now.” I take a swig and finish it off with a shiver, then balance the empty bottle on the roof of the car.

“Gross, no. I get bored with me.” She flinches. “I need to find a new someone to forget the old someone. It’s better to line them up, one right after another.”

She hoists her petite frame onto the car’s hood and lies down with her back against the windshield, her hands settled in her lap.

I do the same, pointing my gaze skyward, searching for one twinkling star to wish upon, but this is an impossible task with all the light pollution from the city.

Not that it matters. All my wishes after seem impossible. My arms settle heavy at my sides.

“That’s crazy talk. You only need you,” I say.

“You’re so right. I need to get out and sow my wild womanly oats.” Her arms flail. It doesn’t take much to animate her melodrama, and when she drinks, her cute Southern twang emerges. But the crazy? That’s 24/7.

“That’s not what I said. Not at all. Pay attention.” The sound of my laughter surprises me. She makes me smile, though she’s never given me much choice in the matter. “I didn’t know women had oats to sow,” I confess.

“Of course we do. I need to explore more, bypass all the relationship bullshit for the main event, you know?” She winds herself up and kicks the air with her foot before sliding off the car’s hood to the ground. “And you should too.”

“Not likely.” It’s been a long time since I had a relationship. Before. Back in high school, or so I’ve been told. I twist the hem of my shirt.

“You can, Cait!” Aggie continues ranting about her new plan. “We’ll both do it. We’ll march right up to hot guys and tell them we want them. We’ll write a book about our adventures, start a YouTube channel, host our own talk show, and get famous. The usual stuff.”

“Isn’t there already an app for that?”

Aggie ignores my comment and continues her incoherent rambling.

“We’ve been programmed to fit into this stupid, puritanical B.S.

mold where guys sleep around and people call them studs, but when girls do it, they’re called sluts.

It’s an epidemic. No, it’s bigger. It’s an international crisis of double fucking standards. ”

I give her a look.

“Just play along, please.”

“Fine. It’s an intergalactic injustice.” I punch my fist into the air.

She does a cheerleading jump, her arms and legs spread wide. Her blond hair bounces and swings in the air before she surprisingly nails a solid landing. Then she gracelessly hikes her leggings around her waist.

“Listen, the point I’m trying to make is there’s nothing wrong with sampling the goods. I could say we should explore our sexuality, but what I’m saying is we need to have fun.”

She giggle-snorts, stumbling with a drunken sway to the car’s hood.

The car catches her fall, and her hair spills over her jean jacket dotted with artsy enamel pins.

With a squeak, she lifts herself, joining me again.

The weight of the alcohol makes her slump heavy at my side.

She’s winding down. Even the sun needs to sleep.

Her words slowing, she says, “With your job, you meet a ton of hot, eligible men. I’ve seen them parade around the office. They can’t help but flirt with you.”

“They can’t?” I can’t recall any man ever flirting with me.

“Don’t act like you don’t know. And if you don’t, start paying attention.” She pokes my arm as if to drive her point home. “The point is, why not have a little naughty time with them in those empty offices you’re trying to lease?”

I try not to sigh. Even though I helped her land a job as our new office assistant, she’s been quick to make her own rules.

“Because I could lose my broker’s license.”

“But it would be consensual sex.”

“In a client’s property.”

“Making it even hotter,” she says with a slur.

As far as I can recall, I haven’t noticed a guy in . . . well, ever. Not in that way. Not after. Since I arrived in Chicago, I’ve been slammed at work and preparing to land an important client. There’s been no time for a guy in any capacity, not that I would want one.

“How do you get over a guy so fast?” I ask.

“Sometimes I don’t think you know anything. How did you make it this far in life, looking like you do, and have no experience with men?” She gives me a suspicious glare.

I give her my standard answer, the one I always use when I can’t make sense of social dating conventions. Ones I probably understood before. “I don’t know. Late bloomer?”

Aggie’s face scrunches like she’s unconvinced.

But since she’s always willing to school me on important issues such as these, she continues with her fast talk.

“There are basic rules to the romance universe every woman should know. Brad and I dated for three months. The acceptable equation for getting over a breakup is two days for every month we were together. I should have been over him by day six, and it’s now day eight.

So I’m already behind schedule and wasting precious flirting time. ”

“Makes sense. I think.” I pause, giving my thoughts time to find their way back to where this conversation started. “Aggs, there’s someone amazing out there for you, but in the meantime, maybe you should enjoy time by yourself?”

This seems like a reasonable game plan. The safe plan. That’s my plan.

“What’s that dating app called again?” She slides her finger across a line of icons on her phone. “You should download it too.”

“I’ll think about it,” I say, hoping she’ll drop the subject.

Seconds pass before Aggie’s arms loosen in her lap, her fingers easing off her phone. Her heavy breathing becomes a purring snore. As she snoozes, I rest my head against hers and exhale.

What would it be like to let loose and be different—to be like Aggie? I may not want to be serious with someone, but why not take her suggestion and bypass the crap and have a little fun? I smirk and relax a little at the hazy thought. Under the influence, the word fun sounds nice.

“Hey! Get off my car!” The command pierces the silence.

I whip my head toward the voice and spot an older man charging in our direction. I suck in a sharp breath and jab Aggie with my elbow.

“What?” She jolts awake with a grunt and looks around with an annoyed expression. Rubbing her eyes, she yawns.

She’s moving at sloth speed, so I hook my arm with hers and drag her from the car’s hood.

When my feet hit the ground, Aggie stumbles at my side.

Every distasteful name she growls fades into the background when the approaching man steps under a streetlight, and its beam reflects off his police badge.

Pure fear shoots through my veins as the terrifying thought of breaking the law sobers me.