23. Amara
Amara
I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror, my fingers gently tracing the edges of a purple-yellow bruise on my collarbone. The colors have faded, melting into each other like watercolors do when the brush is swished into water.
I press my fingertip on the bruise that runs toward my shoulder.
“Fuck,” I hiss, wincing as a sharp pain radiates outward.
I’ve been home over a week now, and the angry reds have mellowed to something less alarming than when I first saw them.
Everyone still tiptoes around me, though, treating me like I’m made of glass and about to shatter.
Dom hovers constantly, his eyes following me whenever I’m in the room. He’s attentive in a way that feels both comforting and suffocating.
But it makes me feel like it’s what I need.
My eyes lift again. The mirror shows a stranger with my face. A girl with hollow eyes who doesn’t remember how she got these marks that decorate her body like unwanted tattoos.
More than anything, I’m a girl who wants to know who these people are around me.
Caleb and Poppy visit daily, bringing books and flowers. Dom makes sure Caleb and I are never alone. He’s always there, watching with those piercing blue eyes that seem to see right through me as Poppy chatters about dance and school. I want to join her. I just hope one day I can.
Yesterday, Lia visited with Dante, Rafe, and Cade.
It was a shock to find out she is in a relationship with all three men, and I can’t help but wonder how that would feel.
Nice, I suppose. Especially as the way they orbit around her, protective and adoring, makes something twist inside me.
I’m not sure if it’s jealousy or curiosity.
While Milly tends to try to make me laugh with outrageous stories and jokes about my “convenient amnesia,” Lia is more serious.
She sits close, holds my hand, and talks about finding whoever did this to me.
There’s a hardness in her eyes when she says it.
She seems cold and determined to get whoever hurt me, and that makes me believe she’ll tear apart the person when she does.
“Amara,” Milly’s voice sing-songs from my room.
“In here,” I call back.
I hear her footsteps approaching, light and quick.
If there’s one person I trust completely, it’s Milly.
I don’t remember anything, but I feel it in my bones—I feel that she’s my sister, my blood.
When she’s around, I don’t have to pretend I know more than I do.
With her, I can just be this broken version of myself.
She loves me unconditionally.
I drop my hand from my face, still staring at my reflection. The girl looking back at me seems uncertain, lost in a world she should recognize but doesn’t.
“Are you okay?” Milly asks, leaning against the doorframe.
I turn to face her, forcing a smile. “Yeah. Just...getting used to all this.” I gesture vaguely at my bruised body.
“The bruises will fade,” she says, stepping closer and wrapping an arm around my shoulders. “Don’t worry about them.”
“I know they’ll disappear,” I sigh. “I just hope my memories replace them.”
Milly squeezes me into a tight hug, and I wince slightly as she presses against a tender spot. She immediately loosens her grip, apologizing with her eyes as she steps back.
“Come on,” she says, tugging me toward my bedroom. “Let’s sit.”
As we settle on my bed, Milly pulls a chocolate bar from her pocket. She unwraps it and breaks off several chunks, placing them in my palm.
“Thanks,” I mumble, letting the chocolate melt on my tongue. The sweetness is comforting, familiar in a way few things are right now.
Milly chews thoughtfully, then says, “You know, you were different before... before the accident.”
I look at her sharply. “Different how?”
“I don’t know exactly. You changed over the last six months or so. Like you were hiding something.” Her voice is careful, measured, as if she’s afraid of pushing too hard.
I stare at the wall ahead, trying to process this. “What do you mean? What was I hiding?”
Milly shrugs, breaking off another piece of chocolate. “I don’t know. You just seemed...secretive. You were always on your computer and were jumpy when anyone came into your room.”
She studies my face, then asks, “Do you still write in a diary?”
“A diary?” I repeat, confused.
“Yeah. You’ve written in a diary since you were about seven. You were religious about it.”
I try to recall this habit but come up empty. “I don’t remember that.”
“Have you seen one? Since you’ve been back home?” Milly asks, her eyes scanning my room as if the diary might materialize.
I shake my head slowly. “No. I haven’t found anything like that.”
I break off another piece of chocolate, the rich, sweet scent wafting up as I bring it to my lips. Something about this—sitting cross-legged on my bed with Milly, sharing chocolate—feels right, like muscle memory.
“A diary,” I murmur, letting the next chocolate chunk melt on my tongue. The taste unlocks something—not a memory exactly, but a feeling. Comfort. Safety. Milly and I have done this countless times before.
“Yeah, you were obsessive about it. You’d write in it every night before bed.” Milly leans back against my headboard. “You kept it hidden, though. Even from me.”
I swallow the chocolate, trying to imagine myself writing secrets. What would I have needed to hide? And from whom?
“Do you think it’s still here somewhere?” I ask, glancing around my room. The space feels both familiar and foreign, like a childhood home revisited after decades away.
Milly shrugs. “Maybe. You were pretty good at hiding things when you wanted to.”
I take another bite of chocolate, savoring the way it melts against the roof of my mouth.
“Oh, by the way,” Milly says, brushing chocolate from her fingers, “there’s a big family dinner tomorrow night.”
I tense immediately. “What? Why?”
“Rafe is feeling better, and Dom wants to welcome Lia, his sons, and Cade back into the family.” She picks at a loose thread on my comforter. “He says he has something he wants to do.”
My stomach knots at the thought of a formal dinner with everyone present. Too many eyes watching me, too many relationships I don’t fully understand.
“Lia and his sons.” Something clicks in my brain. “Wait—Lia is dating her stepbrothers?”
Milly bursts out laughing, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “She married Dante.”
“Dante…”
“Your stepbrother…Lia’s stepbrother.”
My mouth drops open, the half-eaten piece of chocolate forgotten between my fingers.
“I know, right?” Milly grins, clearly enjoying my shock. “This family hides many secrets.”
I roll the remaining piece of chocolate between my fingers, feeling it soften against my skin. The sweetness lingers on my tongue, a small comfort in this unfamiliar world I’m now trying to work out how I fit in.
“Do you want to watch a movie tonight?” Milly asks, her voice breaking through my thoughts.
I look up at her, at the hopeful expression on her face. She’s trying so hard to make things normal, to help me feel like myself again. I shrug. “Okay.”
The mattress shifts as Milly bounces slightly with excitement. “Great! I’m going to treat you to your favorite take-out tonight.”
My heart sinks a little. Another test. Another thing I should know but don’t. “What’s that?” I ask, hating how small my voice sounds.
“Chinese sweet and sour,” she says without missing a beat, no judgment in her tone. “Do you want noodles or rice?”
I shrug again, feeling the weight of not knowing what I like pressing down on me. The chocolate has melted completely now, sticky between my fingers. I resist the urge to lick it off, suddenly self-conscious.
Milly’s smile widens, gentle and understanding. “I’ll surprise you. Don’t eat dinner. We’ll eat in bed and watch a movie together.”
The thought of curling up with food and a movie—something simple, normal—makes something loosen in my chest.
“Thanks, Milly.” I grab a tissue from my nightstand and wipe the melted chocolate from my fingers. The paper feels soft against my skin. “I don’t remember liking any food in particular, but if my memory doesn’t come back, at least I’ll be making new ones.”
Milly slides off the bed, then hands me the remaining chocolate, our fingers brushing, her skin warm against mine.
“Enjoy it. My hips won’t thank me if I eat anymore,” she says with a dramatic sigh.
I laugh, the sound surprising me with its genuineness. “Your figure is perfect.”
Milly walks to the door, her footsteps light on the carpet. She turns back to me, and sunlight from the window catches in her hair, illuminating the pink tone like a halo. “You’re still sweet, Amara. That never went away.”
Something warm blooms in my chest—recognition, perhaps, or just the comfort of connection. “You are too.”
As soon as Milly leaves, I jump off the bed.
A diary. I had a diary. Something inside me jolts at the thought—a flash of recognition that feels right. If I was keeping secrets, they’d definitely be in there.
“Where would I put it?” I mutter, scanning my room with fresh eyes.
I drop to my knees and peer under the bed, stretching my arm into the darkness. My fingers brush against something soft. I pull it out, but it’s just a sock, not a book.
I look at my dresser. “Not there. Too obvious.”
I stand, turning in a slow circle. My gaze lands on my closet. I yank the door open and run my hands through the pockets of my robes and jackets, finding nothing but tissues, lip balm, and loose change.
“Come on, Amara,” I whisper to myself. “Where would you hide something important?”
I check my nightstand, rifling through the drawer, pushing aside earbuds, hair ties, and a novel with a bookmark stuck halfway through.
But still no diary.
“Think, think, think.” I tap my temple with my fingertips. “If I was hiding something from everyone, where would I put it?”
My dresser drawers yield nothing but neatly folded clothes. I even check inside my pillowcases and between the mattress and box spring.
“This is ridiculous,” I groan, standing in the center of my room. “If I was hiding something important, where would it be? Not somewhere obvious.”
My eyes dart around the room again, landing on the bathroom door. Something tugs at my memory.
I rush into the bathroom, yanking open the medicine cabinet. Pills, Band-Aids, face wash. I check under the sink, behind the toilet tank, even feeling along the edges of the mirror for any hidden compartments.
As I’m about to give up, my gaze falls on a decorative box of toiletries sitting on a top shelf. Something about it feels off—too perfectly placed.
Standing on tiptoe, I pull it down and open it. No diary, but something else catches my eye—a flash of hard, black fabric tucked behind some bottles. I reach in and pull it out.
A blonde wig and a mask. Pink lace face with hard black bunny ears.
I hold it up to the window. The lacy material is soft against my fingertips. Something about it sends a shiver down my spine.
“Bunny?” I whisper, turning it over in my hands.
I turn the mask over in my hands, feeling the lace between my fingertips. Something about it tugs at me—not a memory exactly, but a feeling. Familiar and foreign all at once.
Without thinking, I lift it to my face. The fabric settles against my skin, soft and light.
A shiver runs down my spine as I glance at my image in the mirror.
I blink hard, shaking my head. My hands shake as my breath catches in my throat. The room spins slightly, and I grip the edge of the sink to steady myself.
“What the hell?” I whisper as I stare at my reflection—the pink lace framing my eyes, the bunny ears rising from the top. Someone else stares back at me.
This is someone I was—but someone I don’t know.
I walk back to my bedroom, drawn to my laptop sitting closed on my desk. My fingers hover over the lid before I flip it open.
The screen illuminates, asking for a password. A password I don’t remember.
My head throbs suddenly, a sharp pain that makes me wince. I press my palm against my temple, squeezing my eyes shut.
I’m sitting on my bed, the mask on my face, the glow of the screen illuminating my skin.
Typing messages.
Feeling watched.
Wanted.
Powerful.
The pain intensifies, spreading across my forehead like wildfire.
The pain in my head pulses harder, like something trying to break through. I rub my temples, trying to ease the pressure building behind my eyes as I remember the feeling of eyes on me, hungry and demanding.
I yank the mask off, breathing hard. My reflection on the screen shows wide, frightened eyes.
But what was I doing?
And more importantly, who was watching me?