17. Nash #3
My stomach drops like a stone. This is it—the moment I've been dreading since I brought her home. The moment her real memories start coming back and she remembers exactly who I am. Exactly what I've done to her over the years.
"A memory?" I try to keep my voice neutral, but I can hear the tension creeping in around the edges. "What kind of memory?"
Eve studies my face, and for a second I think she's going to tell me she remembers everything.
The quarry, the ferris wheel, the winter formal, that night after I left when we were young and stupid and desperate for each other.
I brace myself for the anger, the accusation, the inevitable moment when she realizes I've been lying to her by omission.
Instead, she says quietly, "I remember when we met. When I was seven and you were... eight, maybe? My family had just moved to Wintervale from Boston."
The memory washes over me. Seven-year-old Eve with her pretty outfit and her nervous smile, trying so hard to fit in somewhere new.
Eight-year-old me, all sharp elbows and mean words, too young to understand why this pretty girl with the soft voice made me feel angry and protective and confused all at once.
I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry. "Yeah. That's... that's good that you're remembering things."
But even as I say it, I know it's not good. Not for me, anyway. Because what Eve remembers from that first meeting isn't the way she looked in her new school dress or how badly I wanted to talk to her. What she remembers is me being cruel.
"Yeah," she says softly, still watching my face with that new awareness. Like she's trying to reconcile the man kneeling in front of her with the boy from her memory. "You called me sweetheart. But not in a nice way."
Christ. Of course that's what she remembers.
Not the way I used to watch her from across the playground, unable to walk away and knowing I should.
Not the way I wanted to protect her from the other kids who whispered about the new girl with the different accent.
Just the cruelty, the way I lashed out because I was eight years old and didn't know how to handle wanting someone's attention so badly it felt like dying.
Even then I knew she was far too good for me and ruined it.
"I was a kid," I say, but the words sound hollow even to me. "Kids are... kids say stupid things."
Eve nods slowly, but I can see the wheels turning behind her eyes. She's trying to piece together who I was then with who I am now, and I can feel the careful balance I've built starting to shift.
My stomach sinks as I watch her process this fragment of our history. This is exactly what I was afraid of—that her memories would come back piece by piece, each one showing her another reason not to trust me. Another reason to run.
The fresh start I thought I might have with her is already crumbling, and she's only remembered one interaction. One moment out of years of me being the worst possible version of myself around her.
I want to explain, to tell her about the boy who pulled her hair because he didn't know how else to touch her.
The boy who was mean because being nice felt too dangerous, too much like admitting how much power she already had over him.
But how do I explain that without sounding like I'm making excuses for being a complete bastard?
How do I tell her that even then, at eight years old, I knew she was going to matter more than anyone else ever would?
"I wonder what else I'll remember," Eve says quietly, and there's something in her voice—wariness, maybe, or the beginning of understanding.
I wonder too, and the thought terrifies me.
Because if this is what comes back first, what comes next?
The ferris wheel, when I stared at her like I wanted to devour her and then snapped at her for catching me?
The bonfire, when I kissed her and then told her it was just to shut her up?
Winter formal, when we almost had something real before she ran away?
Or worse—that night when I finally had her in my bed and my heart and she looked at me afterward like it meant nothing. Like I meant nothing.
I'm already starting to lose this chance with her, and we've barely begun. The irony isn't lost on me—I wanted her to know me without our history, but our history is exactly who I am. The boy who hurt her because he loved her, the man who let her walk away because he thought she deserved better.
Some patterns are too deep to break, even with amnesia as a reset button.
But as I kneel here looking into her face, seeing the confusion and wariness and something that might be disappointment, I make a decision. I'm not that eight-year-old boy anymore. I'm not going to hurt her again just because I don't know how to handle what I feel for her.
Even if it kills me. Even if it means watching her remember every cruel thing I ever did and losing her all over again.
I'm going to be better this time. I have to be.
And maybe it's wrong, but I refuse to let anything come between us again.