Chapter 31
Tuesday
“Hello.”
As I stare at him, I stand here stupidly, any scrap of a plan I had already out the window. Did I really think I could show up and everything I wanted to know would be answered the moment the door opened? What do I do? I don’t even know who he is, much less how he’ll react.
Is this safe?
Am I?
Is he?
Blond hair. Light eyes. Around my age. I have no clue who he is—brother, cousin, someone who works here, boyfriend, or .
. . I don’t give voice to the last guess.
I can’t imagine he’d be my husband since I wasn’t wearing a ring when I was found, and I don’t want to put that out into the universe anyway.
I glance back over my shoulder as if I’ll be able to silently plead for Loch to come back.
As if the thread that harnessed our love can stretch the miles between us, and he’ll return to get me.
Secretly, I’d hoped to be home with Loch before tomorrow with my memories intact. I realize now that I was foolish.
“You’re back.” The man glances at the suitcase and then at me again, but something is missing that I thought would come naturally—a smile that he’s happy to see me and that I was missed. “Back for good?” He looks behind me, but then asks, “Where’s the rest of your luggage?”
Despite using the strength Loch gave me to dive into the unknown and reclaim my life, this man feels more like a speed bump than an ally.
Shouldn’t something, even just a feeling in my gut, be revived by him?
Not one memory is triggered, though. He’s no different than a stranger on the streets of New York.
“This is all I have. Did I leave with more?”
I hadn’t spent energy on my time in Manhattan prior to the attack, but now I can’t stop from wondering where I was living and where’s my stuff if I took it with me?
Ignoring my questions, he contorts his face, furrowing his brow. “Why did you knock?”
“I . . . I made a mistake.” I grip the handles of my handbag, so tempted to run away from my past—literally and figuratively. It would only take a week or so on foot if I start now. I know I can’t, but the thought makes me grin just a little.
I need to know who I am . . . was.
Brave face, Tuesday.
He’s handsome in a way that speaks of old money—polo player, life of privilege from a day’s labor. It’s easy to imagine him smoking cigars at a men’s-only club and patting servers on the ass as they deliver his next drink.
I don’t like him. But more so, I don’t trust him because his eyes fail to meet the half-hearted smile sitting awkwardly on his mouth.
He takes a step as if he’s going to embrace me but stops just shy of doing it.
I’m cold from standing outside for so long, but mostly from this stranger who must be familiar enough to think he could touch me.
He steps back. “Thank God you’re home in time for the holidays. Now I don’t have to spend it alone.”
“Holidays here?” My gaze travels the roofline before looking at him again.
“Of course. Where else?” He laughs, but no humor is heard. “So much has changed. I’ve been staying here while you were away.”
“Staying here? Where I live?”
He chuckles again. “Yeah, where else? Figured since I’ve been working so many late nights that it only made sense to start staying here.
Cuts the commute. And since you weren’t here to take care of the place, I stepped in.
” His hands go out in front of him as if that will put me at ease.
It does the opposite. “Only while you were gone, though. We can talk about it, though. You might like having me here full time. I should hope, considering . . .”
I’m afraid to ask for fear it might mean exactly what I think it does. I’m not ready for relationship confirmations, not yet anyway.
I’d planned to hold my amnesia close to my chest. But I still have no idea who he is, and this will get awkward if I don’t reveal the truth soon. I ask, “Who are you?”
With a wide grin, he laughs, but it favors mockery this time. “Who am I? What are you talking about, Céline?” I catch a slight annoyance flicker in his eyes before the grin is adjusted in place again.
Hrm. Not good. And since I don’t have a reasonable explanation other than the truth, I detour, and ask, “Do I get to come inside, or do I have to stand in the cold all day?”
The most authentic expression finally settles on his face, one that tells me he recognizes this version of me.
One corner of his mouth rolls higher, and the blue in his eyes brightens, finally making me feel welcome.
Grabbing my case, he opens the door wider and steps inside because I guess he goes first in this world.
Noted. “Can’t keep you out of your own home. ”
This is my home? My heart could argue otherwise.
Taking a deep breath, I stomp my shoes on the mat and enter, hoping to have answers the moment I step inside.
Though I’m greeted with a huge staircase in an expansive foyer where light floods in from the windows above the door, colorful landscape paintings line the walls while beige carpet trails the stairs themselves, that doesn’t happen.
The interior is not as traditional as I first suspected when I saw the outside and the architecture. Surprisingly bright and airy, the decor has a modern beach house vibe due to the soft palette, despite the massive size of the entrance.
Céline has very good taste.
With each step echoing, it must be hard to sneak around on these marble floors.
He closes the door and sets my case down near the stairs.
I bend to the side to take in the grand room ahead, where a Christmas tree twinkles next to a fire crackling in the white stone fireplace.
The house is cozy despite its size and even smells of cookies.
Although the creature comforts of an old-fashioned holiday decorate the home, making it pretty enough to be on a greeting card, I feel out of sorts.
He says, “I can’t believe you’re home.” I turn back to him, gripping the handles of my purse even tighter. His palm hugs his forehead as he stares at me.
Home . . . Why does he keep saying that? Each time feels like the twist of a knife. “Me either.” The absolute truth.
“I hoped you wouldn’t be gone long.”
“How long has it been?” I slowly ponder out loud, willing him to fill in the blanks.
His gaze hardens as he looks at me twice. “Well, since September. You’ve already forgotten? It was a pretty eventful exit. One I’ll never forget.”
“Just slipped my mind.” If he only knew . . .
He leans on the railing and gives me a once-over. “You look tired . . . and different. Long journey?”
Tired and different? I look down at my jeans and sweater. The photo of Céline comes to mind. I should have considered how I used to dress before arriving, but I wanted to be comfortable for the drive. Now I have regrets.
“Yes.” Be brave . . .
Besides the memories of my past, I’d almost forgotten how Loch told me, very nicely, that I wasn’t having a good day—aka being rude—before the mugging.
That’s who Céline is. I need to play that part.
I hold my chin up and look around nonchalantly as if this isn’t the most beautiful house I’ve ever been in.
Grabbing my free hand from behind, he spins me around abruptly and brings me into his arms. “I missed you.”
Petrified, I lean back, but I swear my heartbeats echo off the walls like my footsteps did. I pull myself together and fix my eyes on him. “Why did you miss me?”
“What do you mean why? I care about you. I love you, Céline.”
Love?
I think my jaw just hit the floor. Metaphorically scooping it up, I stare at him, unable to fathom what he means by that.
The calm I carried under my defiance of letting him in disappears with those four words, knowing my fear is being realized.
How can he love me? He doesn’t even know me.
He didn’t even know where I was or care that I was gone.
He didn’t come for me, and more importantly, he didn’t file a report wanting to find me.
The most alarming thing is that he appears to believe that he genuinely loves me. It’s the most welcoming he’s been.
My heart starts to race as I question what I’m doing here. Is this worth it? Letting this man believe we have a chance? God, is that what he thinks? That I’m back to rekindle this relationship?
Will remembering who I am be worth the sacrifice of who I’ve become?
Getting the answers takes precedence over the temporary fear. “You say you love me, but you had no idea where I was or how long I’d be gone. Where did you think I was?” Asking questions that I should already know the answer to makes me sound ludicrous, but so is living with amnesia.
“What is going on with you?” he snaps. His disconcerting tone causes me to still. I push through my emotions, intent on getting what I came for—my past back. “Don’t do that.”
“Don’t do what?”
“Look at me like I’m your enemy. You know how that makes me feel.”
Guess this is a regular occurrence. And if I routinely do that, it begs the question of why I do it in the first place. The picture is filling out. Much to my dismay, it’s not in a positive light for him.
He signals to the door. “The time away was supposed to help—”
“Help what?”
“Help us.” Not the response I wanted. He rubs his hand over his face and sighs in frustration. “What were you doing all this time if you weren’t figuring out your damn life?”
Another surge of concerns clogs my chest. Is he violent? Or angry I left? Why did I leave? My own frustration sets in, but I know one thing for sure. The knowledge of my amnesia is not safe in his hands. Make that two things. I now know why no one was looking for me. I willingly left on my own.
“Why are you acting so strange?” he asks, his hair falling over the severity of his eyes. Despite telling me he loves me, nothing is comforting about him. Since I’ve arrived, his body language and tone have been anything but loving or welcoming. It’s as if I’ve interrupted his day.