Chapter 4
Four
Present Day
The café is busier on Fridays, which is why my normal day is Monday.
But I’m back. My Friday plans—as in go to lunch with Fran—fell through.
So, I’m free. I just finished my latest book, Grammy has a guest coming by the house today, my parents are seven hours away, I have no other friends, and nothing else to do. I can’t have nothing to do.
I can’t.
The nerves in my body threaten to revolt with just the thought.
So, I’ve brought Carlos another book for his granddaughter, hoping he works on Fridays.
I should have asked him about his schedule.
If he isn’t working, then I’ll be stuck reading Return to Saigon again.
I’ve read it multiple times, and while I love this middle grade novel about a girl from Vietnam, it’s not going to be good enough to distract me today.
I ask the hostess for a patio seat, but the patio is full.
Nerves race in my chest, throat, and stomach. Each asking, Why am I here?
I need air. I can’t be cooped up in this restaurant with no book, no patio, and no Carlos.
But then I see my waiter friend. I shoot my hand in the air and wave to him. He’s holding a drink in each hand, but he nods and smiles at me before hurrying out to the patio.
“I think I’ll wait until an outdoor seat opens up,” I tell the girl. It looks as if Carlos is working out there like normal. I’ll be able to get Partida her book after all.
She jots down my name and goes back to her busy Friday, seating a couple that came in after me inside the café.
I stand at the front, clutching my book to my chest, nothing to do but hyper focus on my anxiety and wandering mind.
I hate a wandering mind. If Fran were here, I’d be able to look at her and talk.
I’d be able to pretend that my life isn’t a mess at the moment.
Except the happy smiling lines around Fran’s eyes have deepened slightly.
They aren’t wrinkles, but they are new. And they remind me that I can’t trust my own mind.
My lines are different, too.
I can’t even look in the mirror without being reminded that my life is a lit match in a firework stand.
I pace once, then sit on the bench at the front of the café to wait for my patio seat.
“Hello.” An older man nods when he passes me, but his eyes are too sociable—as in someone I should know but don’t.
Instead of saying hello, I stand and turn my back on him. Smooth, Rose.
My body wants to panic—I can feel it. It’s begging to lose it, here and now. What was that thing Robert always said? ‘There’s always a bright side. And a way out.’
Robert.
I wish he were here. I wish he still thought of me the way I think of him. He’d calm the panic trying to rage inside me. My nerves are like Mrs. Bennet on steroids.
My throat clenches and aches with a dryness I can’t seem to shake.
What else can I occupy my mind with?
My eyes dart to the patio door. No free tables yet. I’d sit at a dirty one at this point. I fumble with the hardback book in my hand, opening to the middle pages. I read one line and know exactly where I am in the story.
“Rosalie?” A breathy, feminine voice sounds from behind me, from the entrance of the café.
I turn on instinct to see a woman with long blonde hair holding an infant and staring at me. Her eyes are bright and glassy with tears. She knows me.
She knows who I am, but I’ve never seen her face before.
I can feel the life drain out of me. I’m guessing there’s not an ounce of color left in my cheeks.
“Sorry,” I whisper, charging into the middle of the restaurant, away from the woman, and toward the single stall restroom.
It’s one of the things I love about this place—their scones, their herbal lemon tea, and the one-person, private bathroom I can lock myself in in case of a panic attack.
By some miracle, it’s open. I shut the door behind me and turn over the lock.
My chest patters and my head aches. My breaths come fast and I can’t seem to slow them.
I grip either side of the white ceramic sink and stare down into the basin, trying to focus.
But my dread won’t calm. I can’t breathe. I can’t think.
Turning on the cold water, I splash a little over the back of my neck. I repeat the mantra Dr. Case gave me: “I’m safe. This will pass. I’m safe.”
But I don’t feel all that safe. I feel lost and alone.
I peer up into the mirror, into my own eyes. They’re mine. And they’re not. They aren’t twenty-year-old Rosalie’s eyes. But an older version of myself.
The sight is strange and off-putting. And throws me every single time.
They called it retrograde amnesia.
But to me, it’s simply the thing that stole my memories and turned my life upside down. In many ways, it feels as if retrograde amnesia has taken my past, my present, and my future.
The woman with the baby. She knew me. Sometime in the last six years, I met this woman. She looked at me with dejected eyes that tell me she also knows what’s happened to me.
But I don’t know her. I don’t know her name, her face, or how we met.
The panic rises once more, and I’m afraid I might vomit. “I’m safe. This will pass.”
The whole reason I moved to Tesoro and quit the job I never remembered obtaining with a degree I don’t remember earning was to avoid all the things and people and places that know me. Those I don’t know.
But they’ve found me.
Here, in a place I only remember visiting as a child.
It’s been a while—at least twenty minutes. Surely the woman is gone by now. And surely there is a spot opened on the patio. I glance at my Return to Saigon book for Partida that sits on the tank of the toilet.
Ew.
Yes—time to go.
I wash my hands and snatch up my book. Then I hurry back out into the restaurant, keeping my head down, in case the woman with the baby is still out here.
I’m watching my feet when—oof—I slam into something hard and firm and smelling of mint and pine. I tip my head way up because, holy, I ran into a giant with a short red beard, blue eyes, and ginger-blond hair.
It’s him.
I never realized how tall the redheaded man is. He’s always sitting and reading when I see him. I also never realized he came to the café on other days. He’s here almost every Monday—but Fridays, too? Who knew?
“I’m sorry,” he says, though clearly this collision was my fault. “Are you hurt?” His eyes crease, and he looks genuinely worried about me.
I’m not sure why, but his worry dissipates mine, calming the tremors inside of me.
“No,” I say, my voice breathy, somewhere between a laugh and a cry. “I’m okay. I’m pretty sure I ran into you. I wasn’t watching and—”
“It’s fine.” He smiles, and while it’s genuine, it’s also sad.
Hmm, that’s something I understand.
“Do you want to sit?” He swallows, his Adam’s apple lifting in one dramatic bob.
“Umm…” I look, but I don’t see the blonde or her baby anywhere. “Is there anything open on the patio?”
“I’ve already got a table out there.” The redhead’s cheeks warm with a blush.
Broad, deliciously handsome, six-foot-something, and nervous. Huh. Who knew there was such a thing? It makes me think I already like the redheaded reader. Not to mention, Gram is going to love hearing about this.
“I’m Zev. By the way.” Another sad smile.
“Zev? Is that—”
“Hebrew.” He gives a tilted nod.
“Very cool.” I study him. Zev with the Hebrew name and great shoulders and charming blush is a miracle worker. I almost feel normal. It’s like he’s absorbed all of my nerves.
He clears his throat timidly. “And you are?”
“Oh.” I shake my head, honestly just thankful he had to ask.
“Rosalie. I’m new in town.” I squeeze my eyes shut.
“Sort of new. I know you’ve seen me here for a few months—” Why did I say that?
Just because I’ve noticed him doesn’t mean he’s noticed me.
But then, hasn’t he? He bought my breakfast. Still, presumptuous, Rose!
“Or maybe you haven’t. I don’t know what you’ve seen.
You aren’t looking.” Now I’m putting words in his mouth.
“Or maybe you are. I don’t know. The point is, I’ve only been here a few months. ”
“I have seen you,” says tall, handsome Zev, his hands fisting at his sides. “We must be on the same schedule.”
I nibble on my bottom lip—okay, maybe his nerves are contagious. Or my brain is broken and it can’t decide if it should panic or relax. “Yeah. We must be.”
“My table is right over here.”
My eyes drop to the book in my hands. This is weird. This is so weird. I am about to sit with a stranger when I should be leaving before I have another panic attack. And yet, I say, “I’ll follow you.”
Thankfully, there is no blonde with a baby on the patio. Whew. I walk behind Zev, who might equal two of me in size to his regular table in the corner. My regular table, two down from his, is taken.
“The café is busy today.” My small talk is lacking.
“Yeah,” he says. “Friday afternoons are the busiest.”
“Do you come here often?”
His jaw flexes. “I do.”
“I love their—”
“Scones.” His expression tightens. He might be more nervous than I am.
I smirk. “You, too?”
Zev folds his hands together, resting them on the table. “Yeah.”
There’s a short awkward silence, and then we speak at the very same time.
“What brought you here?” he says.
“Is Carlos your waiter?” I ask at the same time.
My fingers around my book pinch until my knuckles turn white. “What was that?”
“I just asked what brought you to Tesoro.”
“Oh.” I pinch my brows together. I haven’t been asked this question.
Until this very moment, I’ve avoided meeting new people, you know, in case they aren’t all that new.
I see Fran and Grammy, who I talked into moving to Tesoro with me.
“Well.” Since retrograde amnesia plus debilitating panic attacks doesn’t roll off the tongue, I give Zev a half truth. “A breakup.”
He squints like he’s seeing through my white lie. Am I that terrible of a liar? “A breakup?”
Swallowing past the ache in my throat, I attempt to smile at him. “Among a few other things. I’ve lived in Reno for years. But my ex still lives there.”
Zev exhales audibly, his brow still wrinkled in question. “Oh.”
“Yeah, I needed a change of scenery. I needed to be in a place where I didn’t really know anyone.” Isn’t that the truth! There’s too many strangers who know me in Reno. And back home, in California, there’s no Fran or Grammy. I grind my teeth. “You know?”
“Sure. You need… time.”
A delirious laugh titters from my mouth. “You have no idea. I need a whole lot of time.”
“What did you ask before?”
I peer around at the crowded patio. “Is Carlos your waiter?”
“Carlos?”
“Short, Hispanic, always wears a black bowtie, though none of the other waiters do.”
Zev nods with my description. “Yeah. He is my waiter.”
“Perfect. I have a book for his granddaughter.”
Zev’s eyes drop to my book. “Return to Saigon. The perfect combination of culture and entertainment.”
I can’t help my smile now. I swear I’ve said the exact same thing before. “You’ve read it?”
“Yes. You—” He scratches his neck, nervous vibes still oozing from his essence. It’s sort of lovely and refreshing. Who knew I liked nerves? “Have you?”
“Yes. But I’m kind of surprised to hear that you”—my hand stretches out, motioning to him—“are into middle grade novels.” I breathe out a laugh.
“Not that I know you. At all.” But I’m thinking of the books I’ve seen him bring into the café.
Brothers of Ash and Iron isn’t exactly a middle grade read.
He exhales a quiet laugh. “A friend of mine made me read it.”
I lift one brow. “Smart friend.”
“You’ve always got a book, too,” he says, grinning. And it’s a great grin.
“It’s my thing.”
His fingers curl and uncurl. He pulls in one quick breath. “You should go to Bennett’s Book Bar. I mean, assuming you haven’t. You said you’re new to town.” He swallows, and I almost want to laugh at his jitters. “If you haven’t been, I think you’d love it. Just a cozy little book shop downtown.”
“I have not been,” I say with ease. Maybe I like Zev’s nerves because they make mine feel less peculiar.
“I’ll have to check it out. Thanks.” I press my lips together and sit in the silence for only a second.
I tap my book and peer around the patio for my waiter friend.
“I brought it for Carlos’s granddaughter, Partida.
She’s eleven, and she’s laid up with a broken leg. I think this will help.”
“Oof.” His nose wrinkles in a cringe. “Broken leg. I know all about that. I’m sure she’ll appreciate it.”
“You broke your leg?” I don’t remember seeing him in a cast.
“Yeah.” He fidgets in his seat. I’m going to start calling him ‘Jittery Zev.’ “Several months ago. There was a major fracture to my tibia. I had surgery, then I was in a cast for six weeks, and a boot for six more. But it’s still not quite right.”
“You’re in physical therapy?”
He nods. “Yeah. Hurts like Hades. But they keep telling me it’ll help.”
My brows cinch and my eyes draw to the outstretched leg I can see from here. “I’m so sorry. How did you hurt it?”
He shakes his head. “Just an accident.”
He looks so healthy, so strong, like he might have been carved from granite. I guess you can never tell just by looking at someone. No one would know I’m broken just by looking at me.
The thought takes away the ease Zev’s brought to my afternoon.
“So, what’s your favorite part of the book?”
“The book?” I peer down at my worn copy of Return to Saigon, my brows pulling together once more, this time in thought. But in my discomfort, my broken brain can’t remember a favorite scene.
I puff out a shaky breath. “You know what? I should go.”
“But—”
I stand, and Zev’s chair screeches as he pushes himself out from beneath the table to stand too.
“You—you just sat down,” he stammers.
“Yeah. But I was waiting for a table before. My grandma needs my help. I just—it’s time.” I set my book onto the glass tabletop. “Could you give this to Carlos for me?”
“He should be over soon,” Zev says. “You could—”
“Thanks for letting me sit with you. But I need to go.” I push in my chair, ignoring the disappointing look on his face.
He’s a sweet, jittery giant. But I can’t stay.
The nervous energy pulsing inside of me isn’t going to allow it.
“I hope the leg heals.” I nod once, and then I spin around and bolt for the exit.