“Feather.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’m getting more of them lately.”
I shake my head in confusion.My hand drops.His large hand catches my arm, holding it gently.Questions linger in his face, and his blue eyes look at me with the kind of knowledge that, not gonna lie, scares me.
“You’re afraid of cats.”
“What?”I search his face.
This time, it comes out more as a question.“Are you afraid of cats?”
Shit!
Deflect.Lie.
Shrugging, I say, “Normally, no.But that one looked feral.”I don’t have to fake the creeped-out shiver that runs over me.
“Your pulse is going crazy right now.”Not sure how or when his hand circled my wrist, but his thumb is over my pulse.
I pull away.
“I’ve had some bad experiences in dark parking lots in the past.”Which isn’t a lie.
I move away, open my door, and toss my purse onto the passenger seat.When I turn back, I sound exasperated.“Look, I’m not weak.I can handle myself.I’m used to this.”I motion to the club and the parking lot.“But, you know, sometimes, something like that takes me back.PTSD, you know?”
“Someone attacked you?”He seems taken aback by this.
I nod.“Yeah, and I’ve worked through it.Mostly, I’m fine.It’s just shit like that, and I have a moment.That’s all.”
He looks off to the side, lips pressing together.When his gaze reconnects with mine, he says, “I’m sorry.”The words are hoarse, and I hear the apology in his tone.He runs his hand over his mouth, the other through his long hair.“It’s just… a lot of people lie, Lily.And because my memory’s fucked, I don’t have space for people in my life who can’t tell it to me straight.It’s a deal-breaker for me.”
I rush to say, “I’m not—”
He holds up his hand, cutting me off gently but firmly.“I just wanted to explain why I questioned you.The way you reacted… it triggered something.A memory.”His words hang in the air between us, thick with an unspoken weight.
“Is that a good or bad thing?”
His lips twist, not into a smile but something troubling and bitter.“I used to think it was a good thing.But the pain that comes with each memory—I’m not so sure anymore.”His voice drops lower, almost resigned.“I get these flashes.Snippets of memories that help fill in the gaps of time I don’t remember, but piecing them together is another matter.”
His words twist inside me.I want to reach for something, anything, to ground myself.But all I feel is the cold night air and the creeping chill of uncertainty.The truth slowly trickles in, and I rush to say, “Don’t remember?What do you mean?”It comes out uneven, because I’m afraid of the answer.
“It’s not like in those TV shows,” he says, his voice gravelly with exhaustion.“My doctors call it traumatic amnesia.Or, more accurately, dissociative amnesia.Courtesy of my last tour.It didn’t wipe my slate clean, but it did punch holes through it.”
“Wait… what?Like for real?”
He nods, and the expression covering his features is filled with utter honesty.The reality of the situation sinks in slowly as I realize what it means.
He.Doesn’t.Remember.
He doesn’t fucking remember me.
Holy shit!
“How?What happened?”
“Our Humvee hit a roadside bomb.We were ragdolls inside, and I ended up with massive head trauma.But I’m lucky.I got out alive.Some of my team—men I fucking cared about—didn’t get that chance.Still, parts of me, parts of my life after that day, are just gone.And not all new memories stick around.Some fall into what I think of as a black pit inside my head and get swallowed up.On good days, some memories come back.There’s no rhyme or reason to it.Things just get lost and found.”
