Page 140 of Mourner for Hire
“I don’t remember any of it,” I confess.
I watch him swallow, searching the photographs for the right thing to say. “Tell me more about your memory loss.”
“It’s not really memory loss. It’s more misplaced. Something traumatic happened in my childhood, and my mind decided to compartmentalize it and tuck it away on a shelf in the back of my brain to protect me so I could function and move forward.”
“Is there a way to get it back?”
“Nothing is guaranteed. Some therapists believe in hypnosis, but even that’s a struggle because you can’t guarantee which memories will come back and which ones won’t.”
He nods and inhales. “So you don’t remember me?”
“No. Do you really remember me?” I let out a breath of a laugh with the question.
“Yes,” he answers, voice low.
“Well, I certainly must have left an awful impression.” Again, I try to laugh, and again, he doesn’t.
“I didn’t at first. Not that first night here. And when I read the will, it still didn’t register. But that day on the hike, I saw your birthmark, and I thought it looked familiar.”
I narrow my eyes. “And you still tossed a vibrator in my grocery cart.”
He grins, cheeks flushed. “Yep. Then slowly, it all started coming back to me.” He pauses, looking at me with what I can only describe as devotion. “You started coming back to me.”
“Tell me everything.”
“I remember you were obsessed with apples. You ate probably three a day. I remember your mom would let us have seconds when she made cobbler. I remember that you hate pumpkin pie. I remember that you would feed our dog your green beans because you didn’t want to eat?—”
“Drew Barkermore. May he rest in peace.”
He stares at me thoughtfully. “And I remember you were always around until you weren’t. And I remember Mom saying we’d see you soon and we never did, and after a while, I just stopped asking. Time ticks forward. Life goes on. You became this memory of a friend.”
I smile at the sentiment; a warm swell of affection surrounds my heart.
“Do you realize you just remembered something?” he asks.
My mind backtracks, but I come up short.
“You just remembered my dog’s name from twenty years ago.”
Realization makes me smile. “Memory is a funny thing, isn’t it? Picking a dog’s importance over you.”
“Maybe I get to make memories with you now, though. Because the past doesn’t matter.”
For some reason, this sentence makes my throat tighten. “That’s how I feel about the cottage.”
His gaze tightens on me, beckoning me to continue.
“I hope it’s a beautiful place for people to make memories because, based on my research, our families used to have a hell of a time there.”
“It turns out we still do,” he responds.
A grin spreads over my face, and heat hits my cheeks.
He cups his hand around my jaw, letting his fingers tangle into my hair as he tilts my face so he can sink his lips into mine. A quick sigh of pleasure escapes my mouth, and he pulls back, lingering.
“Or maybe it’s a place you andIcould still make memories.”
He pauses for only a brief moment to let the statement rest in the air between us before he kisses my jaw and trails kisses down my neck.
