Forgetting August (Lost & Found) (13 page)

“Yep, looks good,” I quickly answered, pulling back and placing my hands in my lap.

“I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to upset you,” he said, reaching out toward me but then second-guessing his decision.

A ghost of a laugh fell from my lips as I glanced down at him.

“You didn’t mean to upset me? Really, August? After everything tonight—that is the one thing you apologize for? Making me look at your nasty ass stitches?”

“I—I’m sorry for everything?”

“You’re sorry? You’re sorry! You fucking asshole!” I screamed, jumping up from the bed. “You have no regard for anyone, or anything! You could have died! Died! You stupid jerk! And you’re sorry—for what? You don’t even know, do you? You’re apologizing for nothing. Nothing!”

Rage, anger and then tears. It happened all so quickly. I didn’t even realize it when the hot salty trails made their way down my cheeks; I just kept yelling and screaming at him.

A volcano can only stay dormant for so long…and mine had enough emotions bottled up inside, it was ready to explode. A timid hand finally touched my shoulder, and I turned to find August standing before me, balancing on one leg.

“I hate you!” I shouted, banging on his bruised chest. “I hate you,” I said again, losing my fight. “I hate you, August,” I whimpered one last time.

I have no idea which one of us initiated it, but I soon found myself cradled in his arms, sobbing as I held on to him like a lifeline. My body quaked as the pain tore through me. My fingers dug into his skin as salty tears fell from my cheeks.

“I know. I’m sorry, Everly. I’m sorry—for everything.”

His voice cut through me, sobering my emotions, like getting hit with a bucket of ice cold water. I pushed against his bare skin, putting much needed distance between us. I quickly whisked the moisture from my eyes, sniffling as I tried to control the echoing sobs that still tugged at me.

“Good-bye, August,” I said, taking a final glance at him under the moonlight.

“Good-bye, Everly,” he echoed, his gaze following me as I fled.

Fled the memories, the man, and the life I needed to forget.

I wasn’t surprised to find Ryan waiting for me when I walked in.

Clutching a cup of coffee between his hands, he sat at the small dining room table, fully dressed for work at six in the morning.

He usually only got up this early when he went to the gym, or when he followed me to work for a free cup of coffee. Neither of which were happening this morning.

“How long have you been up?” I asked, gently setting my purse down on the counter.

“Since you left,” he answered, not bothering to look up from his empty cup.

I busied myself in the kitchen, grabbing my favorite mug then pouring a cup of coffee for myself and refreshing his. When that was done, I had nothing else to do but join him at the table.

Taking a hesitant seat next to him, I took an audible breath before wrapping my hands around the large warm mug.

“We’re not getting married this weekend, are we?” he asked, the tone of his voice defeated and shallow.

“No,” I answered quietly, taking a slow sip of coffee.

He started to get up, clearly upset, but I stopped him, reaching for his hand.

“Please, let me explain.”

Finally, his eyes met mine. Hurt, pain, and distrust met me, and as much as it tore me up inside to know I’d once again caused all of those emotions, I knew I couldn’t marry him.

Not right now.

Not just to make things better between us.

Marriage wasn’t about fixing a problem—it was about creating a beginning. And I wasn’t about to start ours this way.

I watched as he slipped back down in his chair, and I took a moment to collect my thoughts. “I want to marry you, Ryan.”

He shook his head in disbelief, but I gripped his hand and pressed on. “I do. Please believe me. There is nothing I want more. But running off to get married this weekend is wrong, and you know it.”

His eyes met mine, and we held gazes—deadlocked until he finally nodded. “Yeah, you’re right. I was reacting to the situation last night. I don’t know how to handle him in our lives,” he admitted.

“I don’t either,” I said. “And it’s something I need to figure out.”

He nodded in agreement, but I could see the disappointment—the fear that he would lose me.

“Just promise me you won’t let him get to you,” he begged. “I know he’s different—changed, but he’s still the same man who hurt you.”

Standing, I took his cup and placed it on the table, stepping into his grasp. His hands instinctively wrapped around my thighs as I settled into his lap, wrapping my legs around his torso.

“I promise, Ryan,” I said softly, pressing my body tightly against his. “I choose you. Always you.”

No more secrets.

No more lies.

It was time to say good-bye to my past.

I
t seemed like wherever I went in this life, I always found myself surrounded by boxes.

No matter what I did to hide from them, put them out of my mind…I’d find myself in the recesses of a forgotten closet or the darkest spot in the attic, searching…hunting for something.

Anything.

Ever since that late night with Everly, I’d been on a mission—a sick, twisted manhunt to find anything that would bring me closer to her. Those few precious seconds she’d been in my arms had been the first time since I woke up that I’d truly felt grounded—rooted to the earth.

And now I was searching out anything and everything that could possibly give me the same response.

Today I was in the bedroom, surrounding by a box of pictures I’d collected. Happy memories of the two of them over the years. I still couldn’t say “us.”

Even though it was me in those pictures smiling back at the world, it wasn’t my memory.

It wasn’t my life.

It was like having a twin brother. We looked the same but that was where the similarities ended. The guy in the picture looked like he’d had everything, while I’d been left with nothing but confusion and frustration. Could I really look at all these happy memories and claim them as my own? Claim the woman and the love she’d given as my own?

What about her hatred? And her fear?

I’d have to take that as well.

“Are you aware your front door is unlocked?” a familiar voice called out from behind me. I turned to see Brick, the friendly psychotherapist, standing in the doorway of my bedroom. Holding a pile of mail.

“No, I wasn’t,” I answered, giving him a curious look as he stepped forward and handed me my mail.

“You missed your appointment. I figured I’d find you here.”

“House calls a regular thing for you now?” I asked, placing the mail aside in exchange for something less dismal. He ignored my question and instead pointed at the half-empty bottle of vodka I was now clutching.

“Thought you’d put that particular liquor firmly in the ‘no’ category,” he remarked.

“Well, I might have been a bit hasty with my decision,” I answered, pulling the bottle to my lips. The clear, fiery liquid burned all the way down, but it helped numb my thoughts and settle my mind. “So I’m giving it another chance.”

“At ten in the morning?”

I shrugged, feeling my body relax a little as the alcohol did its work. “I’m an overachiever. Or at least that’s what my report cards say.”

He pulled a seat up to mine and grabbed the bottle out of my hand. To my ultimate surprise, I watched as he took a long gulp before placing the bottle on the nightstand beside us. His eyes roamed around the room, zeroing in on the box beside me on the bed.

“The three-million-dollar woman, I presume?” he asked, nodding in the direction of the photo that rested on my knee. I glanced down at the single photo, picking it up and rubbing the crisp edges between my fingers.

“Do you think it’s possible to be in love with a woman you don’t remember, Brick?”

He took the picture from me, looking it over. I had no idea when it had been taken. No inscription was left as had been on the one in my wallet, but it was obviously several years old—before things had gotten bad between us.

They looked happy—laying in a field, with Everly’s hair fanned out around them, making a goofy faces toward the camera above. The image was innocent and lighthearted, and probably captured a moment they had wished to remember for a lifetime.

When had it all gone wrong?

“I think the mind is capable of many things,” he said, handing the picture back to me. “Why don’t you let me help you with this stuff?” he offered.

I quickly nodded, and we both stood, taking a wide glance over the scattered boxes.

“I just don’t understand what happened. How this…” I said, picking up another random happy moment from my long lost past, “became this.” I held my hands out wide, encompassing the room, as if it symbolized everything that was wrong with my life.

And in a way, it did.

This house, this room—it was where it had all fallen apart.

Or at least, that’s what she’d alluded to.

If life between Everly and me hadn’t plunged into sadness—hadn’t cascaded into the dark dismal existence she’d made it out to be, would I still be here? Or would I be living life like one of these photos? Making memories with the woman I’d loved…

I placed the single photo back in the box, and took a deep breath.

“Have you ever considered asking her? I don’t know exactly what happened between the two of you but it’s obvious you’re hurting. It could be good for you—help you move on, August,” Brick said gently, in a tone he very rarely used. I called it his clinical voice and usually the sound of it grated my nerves, making me feel weak and feeble. Right now, however, it just helped normalize me, filtering out the alcohol—like a level finding its center.

“I couldn’t. After everything she’s been through—everything he’s done.”

Looking across the room, I found myself instantly correcting my words. “
I’ve
done,” I restated. “I can’t put her through that again. She deserves a clean slate from me. A normal life—whatever she chooses that to be. I need to find a different way to sort through all this.”

Taking one last glance at the assorted boxes, I only saw one option.

“Can you do me a favor, Brick?” I asked, the very idea of it making my fingers twitch. He nodded once, and I grabbed the nearest box.

“Get rid of it. All of it. I can’t be around it—the memories of her. It’s too painful, knowing I once had something so precious but wasted it away. I don’t care what you do with it, but please—just take it from me.”

The words felt like sandpaper against my throat as I spoke. Ever since she’d left that night I’d briefly held her in my arms, I’d spent hours in this room looking over these pictures, analyzing each smile—every laugh, the way my hands and fingers held her—trying to find that moment when things had begun to unravel.

Why? I don’t know. Maybe because I just didn’t understand why I would ever stop loving someone like her.

But maybe I hadn’t.

She’d said I’d locked her away—made her a prisoner in her own home.

Why would I have done that?

Maybe sometimes love isn’t pure. Maybe sometimes it’s toxic—so toxic it consumes a person until they would do anything to have it.

Like a drug.

If I loved her now, would it be the same as before?

Would I consume her?

I
awoke, the remote falling from my hand as I looked around the living room. The TV flickered, grabbing my attention, and I quickly bent down to grab the fallen remote and turn up the volume.

Another old movie was playing.
Back to the Future
.

Was I ever going to watch something from this century?

Marty looked down at a picture of his siblings, and watched it slowly fade as he was being erased from existence.

How fucking surreal.

I looked around and nearly jumped out of my skin.

Every damn box I’d given to Brick surrounded me, like a bunch of damned creepy stalkers, staring me down. I stood up, looking out over the tops of the boxes and saw nothing but more boxes.

More and more boxes.

The whole house was filled with them.

I dug my hand into the closest one, pulling out several pictures I recognized. Old, happy memories from a life I didn’t remember. I didn’t want these memories. I didn’t want these reminders of a life I would never have again.

As if a wish had been granted, the color began to drain from the photo onto the floor. Our happy smiles smeared and distorted as the photo disappeared before my eyes. Colors mixed, created dark black streaks on my hands. Soon I was covered in it.

I picked up another photo, and another and they all vanished, like they were being erased from existence.

“Wait!” I yelled. “I want them back! I want them back!”

I’d wasted far too much time, sitting around waiting for my life to start.

No more taste tests or fast cars. No more dwelling on the past or pondering over old pictures or crazy dreams that haunted me. I’d been ignoring far too much, and spending the rest of the time feeling bad for myself. It was time to finally wake up from the perpetual fog I’d been in for the last couple of months and take charge of this life I’d been given.

There were bills stacking up on the counter, a million messages on my outdated cell phone, and the idea of spending the rest of my life living off my fortune doing absolutely nothing was starting to make my skin crawl.

There was so much about this situation I couldn’t control, but the tiny amount that I could…It was time I made that my bitch.

Starting with paying the bills.

I took a deep, settling breath, made the biggest cup of coffee possible and took a long walk down the hall toward my forgotten office—a place I’d never visited much, but which seemed like the perfect location for bill paying and general businesslike stuff.

Flipping the lights on, I took a brief look around. It was formally decorated—dark wood and leather—like something straight out of an old Hollywood set. It even had fancy green lamps that probably cost more than most people’s cars. But I guess I had liked that look in the past. It was really quite intimidating.

Maybe it would grow on me?

Taking a seat in the large leather chair, I put my feet up on the polished wood table and leaned back, trying to imagine myself conducting business deals in this space.

Nope, couldn’t see it.

Obviously, I had been good at what I’d done. The house and bank account were proof of that, but I just couldn’t picture myself in a stiff dark suit, commanding business deals over the phone, while there was an entire world out there to explore.

And the perfect woman to worship.

Bills. Need to pay bills.

It had been three days since I’d asked Brick to take away the photo boxes. Three days, and yet I still couldn’t go a few minutes without thinking of her. Even my subconscious was dreaming of her. My mind would drift as I brewed a fresh pot of coffee—the smell alone making me think of her—and I’d start wondering whether she was working, and if she liked her job at that little coffee house. Even today, as I grabbed the bills off the counter, I thought about how she’d handled everything for me for the two years I was in the hospital.

She’d giving over everything to my lawyer and accountant—making sure everything was taken care of. Even my cell phone bill had been paid, for two years, even while everyone assumed I’d never wake up.

Why? Did she secretly hope I would…or had that just been an oversight?

Whatever her reasons, she’d stopped the moment I awoke. All the bills came to me now, and it was about time I figured them out. I could have simply handed everything back over to the same accountant she’d used for the last few years, but for someone who currently didn’t have a job—it just seemed ridiculous. I had plenty of time, and I really needed to understand my own finances.

For someone with no memory of their past—I was the easiest fucking target on the planet right now. I didn’t want to be walking around with amnesia and also be poor. It was time to start using all those smarts I’d apparently been blessed with.

First bill on the stack—hospital bill. Easy; paid. Next. Utility bill—check.

I went through several like this—lightning fast—and I thought I’d be done in no time. I’d barely made a dent in my giant cup of coffee, and it was still piping hot.

And then I found the bill from an attorney.

Fuck.

The dude who’d hit me in the intersection was suing for damages and hospital fees. Looked like I needed my lawyer—and fast. Not remembering much from my first few days after waking up in the hospital, I couldn’t recall the law firm that had contacted me off the top of my head. Pulling out my phone, I clicked through my old contacts, having previously discovered my former self had liked to list contacts in random ways. Dentist was listed just like that—“dentist.” I’d spent several nights looking at this strange organizational system. Some people were just an occupation, while others had names—like Everly. But then some were just a string of initials. Not a single person had a last name, which made the whole listing seem very murky and clandestine. Did he think he was a spy? Whatever the reason, it made me hate myself a little more.

As I made my way down the list, I couldn’t help but chuckle at some of the notations—“Everly’s hippie doctor”—there had to be a story behind that one, I was sure. One that I’d probably never discover.

Shaking my head as I scrolled down, I found the one I needed: “lawyer”.

Who knew what his name was, or if he’d even remember me after all this time, but it was worth a try.

After a few rings, a secretary answered, saying, “Johnson, Doyle and Platt”. The names now sounded suddenly familiar, and I quickly introduced myself. As if I’d said some magic word, she quickly cut me off and placed me on hold.

“August Kincaid—it’s Jeff Doyle. Is it really you?” A gruff-sounding older man came on the line.

“Yes, it is, sir,” I answered.

“Well, I’ll be damned. I thought you were dead,” he chuckled. An odd response considering the comment.

“Nope, just in a coma—for a couple of years,” I deadpanned.

“Oh, that’s right—” he cleared his throat—maybe because of a lack of anything to say to that. “What can I do for you, son? Already got yourself in hot water?” There was that arrogant chuckle again.

“Had a bit of a fender bender. Need some representation.”

“Not a problem—figured it was something to do with you and Trent, and I can’t lie, you had me worried.”

I had no idea what he was talking about, so I just made a noncommittal noise to move the conversation along. I was sick of telling people my sad story of loss—seeing their sympathetic looks, hearing their apologies. He obviously remembered my coma now that we were on the phone, but had no idea I was still suffering from the after-effects. To him, I was August Kincaid—whatever that meant.