Forgetting August (Lost & Found) (16 page)

“One perfectly mixed bag of saltwater taffy. Start eating,” I instructed.

“Now?” His eyes widened.

“Yep. We are only tourists for the day, so it has to be gone by the end of the day.”

“I’m going to die.”

“Giant baby.” I rolled my eyes. “Didn’t you know tourists gain like ten pounds during vacation? It’s a rule or something.” I grabbed a few out of the bag. “I’ll help. Okay, let’s go.”

He stuffed a few pieces of taffy in his mouth as we walked back up toward the car, and I watched him cringe as the orange and root beer mixed together. I should have warned him not to mix flavors. That was a rookie move.

“So where to now?” he asked, his eyes full of curiosity and excitement. He’d stopped beside his ruby red behemoth of a vehicle but I just kept walking.

“Follow me,” I called out over my shoulder, digging my legs into the pavement as I climbed the steep hill. My breath quickened and my lungs burned as we made our way up several blocks. I took a moment to turn and appreciate the new view. The wharf stood below us, the water sparkling under the sunny glow of the midday heat. It was a beautiful spring day—much like the day we’d spent together here so long ago.

And yet today was so different.

So vastly different.

I crossed the street, seeing his shadow out of the corner of my eye. “We’re going to ride the cable car,” I explained, as we followed the tracks that led to a long line of people waiting to do the same thing.

“Along with the rest the city?” he chided, as we took our place in the back of the line.

“Would you rather I just tell you what happened that day, or do it this way?” I snapped, folding my arms across my chest in frustration.

His eyes briefly slid down my body, but quickly turned away as he took in the street artists and view of the water. Still feeling flustered and annoyed, I tried not to think about his mesmerizing hazel gaze and the way he looked at me with such intensity.

Waiting for the cable car took time—time we probably could have spent doing other things, like visiting Ghirardelli Square or driving to the Golden Gate Bridge. But I wanted to try and mimic the original day as much as possible, and on that day…we rode the cable car.

“August! Look at that line…we’ll never fit everything in! We still have a bunch of things left to do today,” I whined.

“But this is what tourists do, Everly…they stand in lines!” He laughed, grinning so wide his eyes crinkled at the corners.

“Okay, but if I don’t get chocolate by the end of the day because of this stupid cable car, I’m blaming you!” I shouted as he pulled my reluctant hand across the street toward the long line of eager tourists waiting their turn to ride a real San Francisco cable car.

We slowly made our way to the front of the line, listening to random conversations around us. Foreign languages, different accents—there were even locals like us making a day of it. People were out enjoying the city, and yet I couldn’t find two words to string together to say to him.

So I just watched.

Observed as he walked away and clicked pictures of random buildings, people and scenery. This was something I’d grown used to years ago, when his photography hobby had really blossomed. He’d just wander off and I’d happily wait while he got stuck in the moment, finding ordinary things that seemed to captivate him in extraordinary ways: the way a finial on the gate curved at just the right angle, or how a woman carried her child down the street. He’d always seem to capture just the right moments.

But those were the photos he never printed. Those were the ones he never focused on.

The boxes and boxes he filled were of us.

Always just the two of us.

Eventually, the camera had been locked away and forgotten, like everything else, and life moved on.

Or it tried.

And yet, here we were, back in line on a warm spring day, waiting for a cable car as I watched him snap photos down the street. Life had a way of circling back around. What else in my life would I find repeating itself?

“Looks like we’ll be next,” he said, walking back to stand next to me.

“Yep,” I answered quickly, having been so deep in thought I’d barely noticed he’d returned.

“This wasn’t what we were supposed to do today, was it?” he asked suddenly as we quickly bought our tickets and stepped up on the car, choosing to stand rather than sit. I took hold of one of the bars above to brace myself before we started and he did the same.

“Why would you think that?”

He shrugged. “Seemed like a strange place to meet if we were going to head down here. Why didn’t we just start down here? I just doesn’t seem logical and—”

“No, okay,” I answered finally. “This was not what I’d originally intended for the day. Okay? Are you happy?”

His eyes searched mine until I looked away. The cable car chose that moment to come to life. Children laughed and squealed with glee and it began moving along the track. The conductor said something over the loudspeaker but I couldn’t make it out.

“What we’re going to do?” August asked, taking a step closer. I knew it was to avoid yelling. We’d waited a long time and for some of these people, riding the cable car was a once-in–a-lifetime experience. My anger was not an excuse to ruin that.

I just shook my head.

“Please,” he begged, his body nearly touching mine.

“That street,” I said, finally giving in. “We lived there.”

He froze as his gaze drank me in. “Why didn’t you want to show it to me?”

I swallowed, my throat too dry—the cramped space suddenly too small.

“It’s too much,” I admitted. “There are too many memories there. I’m not ready.”

“Okay,” he acknowledged with sad somber eyes, taking a step back as I felt the air creep back into my lungs. The deafening sounds of the cable car returned as well, and I suddenly realized how focused on August I had been; the outside world had completely melted away.

He didn’t press further as we rode the cable car down the loop, until it came to a stop about midway through its run, stopping to let passengers off and on. I chose this moment to flee.

August followed close behind.

“I think I’ve had enough sightseeing for the day,” I commented as I looked around. Hopping off on a random street corner wasn’t the best idea, but we were still in the tourist area of the city, so I mostly knew where we were—it just took me a minute to get my bearings.

“We need to turn down here,” August said, pointing in the opposite direction to where I’d turned.

I looked around, realizing he was right, which only frustrated me further. I said nothing as I walked past him down the street toward where we’d parked earlier.

It was going to be a long walk.

A camera clicked behind me, and I turned to see August quickly pointing the lens across the street, taking a quick succession of shots of several row houses.

“Where do you think you’ll be in ten years?” he asked as we crossed another street in our trek back to the car.

“What? Why?”

“Well, you said you’re focused on the future—not the past, so surely you have some sort of plan…an idea of where your life is headed. I know you said it didn’t matter anymore, but it obviously does, otherwise you wouldn’t be engaged, or planning a life with someone.”

He’d caught up to my quick gait and now we were walking side by side, our shoulders nearly touching. I took an obvious step to the right. With a gulp of air, I answered, “Well, I guess I see children. And a house full of laughter—simple things, I guess.”

“And is that different from what you wanted before—” he asked.

“No, not entirely. Just—”

“Different,” we both answered.

Silence followed as we crossed another street, and another.

Finally the roads began to slope, signaling we were returning back to sea level once again. As we crossed another street, August pointed to a corner sign. “Isn’t that Ghirardelli?” he asked, as several people stepped out of the famous chocolate store.

“It’s one of them, yes. The one that everyone always goes to is down a bit farther, or down the stairs, if you go inside there,” I pointed, remembering how badly my feet had hurt the day we’d walked nearly every inch of the city in our quest to be the best damn tourists San Francisco had ever seen.

“You didn’t forget!” I exclaimed as we turned a corner and the huge lit up Ghirardelli sign filled up my vision.

“Of course I didn’t. When my woman demands chocolate—I deliver.”

Jumping into his arms right there in the middle of the street, I wrapped my arms around him like a lovesick teenager and said, “My hero.”

He’d always be my hero.

“So, do you want to stop in and get something?” he asked, pausing by the entrance.

I looked up at the sign, just barely visible at this angle and then back down at him. Closing my eyes briefly, I shook my head.

“No,” I answered. “I think we’ve relived enough today.”

And then I walked away.

He was my hero, no longer.

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I
’d watched her pull away from the street corner ages ago.

Our street—or at least it used to be. We hadn’t said a word to each other since she’d walked away from me at Ghirardelli Square. I’d rushed after her, only to find her waiting silently by the hood of my SUV.

She was done, and I guess at that moment I had been, too.

I didn’t know what I’d done—or not done, to cause her so much pain in that moment, but I was tired of hurting her. My presence alone angered and upset her and as much as I knew this involvement between us was supposed to be mutually beneficial, I couldn’t help but feel like I was to blame for everything.

If I could just move on.

Let go.

I glanced up at the street—a place that should hold so many happy memories in my life. Instead, it looked like any other San Franciscan road—cramped, tight little houses all lined up in a row. Not an inch of grass, but plenty of concrete and a nice path to walk a dog or push a stroller. Driveways were a thing of dreams here, and the only parking was on the street. It was city living at its best and you paid top dollar to live it.

Owners dressed up the area with flower boxes on the windows and pretty plants by the doors. I wished I knew which door had been ours—which house had been our home.

Shaking my head, I started the engine, and noticed the bag of half eaten saltwater taffy on the passenger seat.

We hadn’t finished it like she’d wanted. Just another failure to add to the day.

Pulling away from the curb, I drove around the neighborhood, taking it all in—the buildings I would have passed on a daily basis, the restaurants I would have most likely dropped by after work to pick up takeout.

I could see it.

Life with Everly.

Despite everything, I could imagine it. Her in my life, in my bed.

It would be as easy as taking my next breath.

Swerving to the right, I took the first empty spot on the side of the road I could find and put the car in park, killing the engine. Lowering my head to the steering wheel, I took a long deep gulp of air.

If my mind could forget everything—every memory I’d ever had, then surely I could train my heart to do the same.

Starting right now.

Feeling determined, I glanced up and spotted the first restaurant I could find—a small bar and grill that was advertising a festive happy hour that had just begun.

Perfect.

I knew just about two people in this city. Three if you counted the redheaded waitress I was currently trying to avoid. It was time I ventured out and met new people.

Tried new things.

And moved on. For good.

Having declined a table, I took a seat at the bar instead and restlessly tapped my thumbs against the grained wood, waiting for the overworked bartender to appear.

The restaurant, one of those fusion places that mixed a million different cuisines in an attempt to create something new, was decently busy for a weekday. The place was steadily filling with locals arriving after work. Mostly coming in in twos or threes, they filled up the tables around the bar and kept to themselves, but every so often a group or a single like myself would take up a couple spaces at the bar.

It didn’t take long to order a drink, and once my order for a nice microbrew Brick had got me hooked on had been placed, I continued my people watching until I was bored stiff.

It took less than five minutes.

This was why men ate peanuts and watched TV at bars. We didn’t people watch—that was a chick thing.

“You look familiar.” I turned to my right and saw a beautiful blonde a few seats down, leaning toward me, trying not to shout over the noise.

“Do I?”

“Yes,” she continued, grabbing her drink and moving closer. “Have you been here before?”

“Maybe,” I answered with a grin. She seemed to take my answer for flirting and she responded with a giggle. I was just being honest, but I liked her smile.

And her laugh. At least I could make someone laugh.

The bartender arrived at that moment with my drink and I offered to buy her another. “Another gin and tonic,” she said to the man behind the counter. He nodded and stepped away.

“Hmm.” She took the remaining sip of her drink. “Oh, I know where I’ve seen you!” she said. “Did you used to work at Joey’s bar down the street?” she asked, her eyes wide with excitement, like she’d just put the final piece to a very complicated puzzle together.

Honestly, I didn’t know what to say.

Everly hadn’t ever mentioned me working in a bar, but that didn’t mean I hadn’t.

Would it be likely for this woman to recognize me from a job I might have had ten years ago?

Not really.

“Uh—” I started, but she cut me off.

“It’s Mike, right?” Her hand fell to my arm, and I looked down at it briefly.

“August, actually. But I bet I’m better looking than Mike,” I grinned.

She laughed, covering her mouth and turning away. “I could have sworn that was you. But no, you’re right. Mike had a giant skull tattoo on his forearm. And you?”

I lifted my sleeve to reveal nothing but the lean muscle I’d been slowly gaining back. My morning runs were paying off.

“Definitely not Mike,” she said slowly. Her eyes raked over me in an appreciative manner. “So August, then? That’s a nice name.”

“Thank you, and yours would be?”

“Magnolia,” she answered with a shrug, before adding, “My mother was a florist.”

I liked the way she covered her mouth when she laughed, as if she was embarrassed or befuddled. It was sort of cute. “Beautiful name for a beautiful woman.”

Her drink arrived and we spent the next few minutes getting to know each other. She worked in the area and liked to stop by occasionally for happy hour. Her coworkers had bailed on her, which explained her current single status. My part of the conversation was slightly awkward.

“I am retired,” I explained.

“Retired? How old are you?” Her eyes widened.

“Thirty-one,” I answered, with a grin.

“How does one retire at thirty-one? Because I’d really like to do that.”

I chuckled, trying to figure out how I was going to explain that. I wasn’t ashamed of my situation, but it wasn’t one I wanted to tell just anyone.

“I was really good at my job. So good that I made enough to retire—much earlier than expected. So I did, and now I’m just deciding what to do next.”

She placed her hand under her chin and just looked at me with wonder. “Wow, that’s amazing.”

“It’s actually sort of boring,” I confessed. “But I think I’ve found something I’m really into.”

“Really? What?” Her enthusiasm was genuine and it felt good to be interesting for a normal reason.

“Photography. I used to do a bunch when I was younger and kind of fell out of it, but now I have the time to pick it back up. I’m loving it.”

“That’s great. Really great.” She smiled, and tiny creases formed at the corners of her eyes. “It’s rare to find something you’re truly passionate about.”

“I agree.” My eyes locked with hers. “Hey, do you want to grab some dinner while we here?” I asked, realizing I didn’t want our conversation to end.

Her expression lit up once again, and I felt her hand touch mine.

“Yeah, I’d like that.”

“So would I.”

And even though it wasn’t as easy as breathing, I took that first step and got a table for two, because I needed to move on. I needed a new path that didn’t include coppery redheads and little cramped houses.

I needed a new life.

The Haight, or the Haight-Ashbury district of San Francisco, was like stepping into a kaleidoscope. Every walk of life seemed encapsulated in the two hundred-some acres of space, from wide-eyed tourists wanting to take home a one of a kind treasure to the aged beatnik who’d spent every day of his life here, playing the same song, never regretting a thing.

Things had changed since the crazy days of the sixties—the arrival of new generations and styles, but the vibe was still mostly the same—different was beautiful and creativity was celebrated.

It was no surprise that this was the place Brick had chosen for our next meeting. As soon as I spotted him sitting at the little café, cradling his cup of coffee to his lips, wearing a crazy flowered shirt and khaki shorts, I could see how at home he was here.

“Are we ever going to meet at your office again?” I asked, taking the open seat across from him.

“You didn’t talk much in there,” he shrugged, taking another sip of his coffee, “And besides, the coffee is better here.”

The mention of coffee had me thinking of Everly. Had she worked this morning? Was she behind that counter greeting customers and making cups of coffee just like the one Brick held?

Would she greet me the same way, or give me the same cold shoulder?

I let that thought go and ordered an espresso and a blueberry muffin since I hadn’t had breakfast. Sitting back in the cozy chair, I allowed myself a minute to enjoy the warm sunshine and cool California breeze before diving into conversation.

People milled about down the street in front of us, many on their way to brunch or in hopes of some early morning shopping. It was early Saturday afternoon and soon this place would be bustling with tourists.

Turning back toward Brick, I asked, “So, are you ever going to send me another bill?”

I’d begun to notice, now that I had a firmer grasp on my finances, that he hadn’t sent me a bill in over a month.

“I haven’t really decided yet,” he answered with a slight grin.

I shook my head in disbelief. “Anything to do with the new choice of meeting location, or perhaps the fact that you went out of your way to contact Everly on my behalf?”

His eyes crinkled at the corners. “No to the first part—I really do like the coffee here, and I do find you open up more outside an office setting. I would be doing this regardless of…other things. In regards to the second half, well…that was out of the norm, even for one so out of the box such as me. I acted more as a friend than a counselor or therapist, which is why I stopped charging you as one.”

“So, I guess if this all goes south, I won’t be able to sue you?”

He chuckled, shaking his head at my comment. “No, but you will have me around—as a friend—to put everything back together again.”

“And if it just happens to go well?”

“My bill will be in the mail,” he joked with a chuckle.

“So much for friendship.” I rolled my eyes. My coffee and muffin were delivered at that moment and I dug in, feeling famished. Brick was right; the coffee here was right on and their muffins weren’t all that bad either.

“Your Everly makes a good cup of coffee,” Brick said as I polished off the last of my muffin.

“She’s not mine,” I muttered.

“Sorry; you know what I meant. She made me a cup or two that day I visited her. Real nice, very sweet.”

“To everyone else,” I answered.

“Still giving you the cold shoulder?”

My silence was answer enough for him.

“She just needs time, August.”

“Time for what?” I blurted out. “Time to realize I’m not the same guy…because I’m not. I’ve showed her that over and over, but no matter what I do, I’ll always look just like him and that’s something I can’t change.”

“Time,” he simply repeated.

Time.
Such a funny word for me. It was something I’d lost—so many memories and years gone in a single moment. And yet, here I was with nothing but time stretched out before me to do whatever it was that I chose.

It seemed my entire life always boiled down to that one word.

But what was I holding out for? What would giving things time bring to me at the end of all this with Everly? She’d never be mine…and why did I want her to be? Why did I feel such a pull to this woman I didn’t remember?

Looking at the people passing by, I watched them disappear into little boutiques and funky shops. Men would buy their girlfriends and wives tiny trinkets, a necklace or a pretty scarf to remember the special day. If I wandered into one of those shops, I wouldn’t know the first thing about Everly—what to get her and what she might like.

And yet, every time she was in a room, I had to be near her.

Why?

Were they feelings left over from a life already lived or did I truly love this woman?

I guess I would never really know.

“Have you seen Magnolia again since I last spoke to you?” Brick asked, pulling my attention away from the busy street.

“Date number three is tonight,” I answered.

“So things are going well, then?”

I nodded. “She’s beautiful. Nice to talk to. What isn’t there to like?”

“Have you slept with her yet?” he asked out of the blue.

“Jesus, Brick.” I choked on my coffee. “Give a guy some warning. No—she has one of those five-date rules.”

“And you see yourself sticking around until lucky date number five?”

I shrugged. “Yeah, why?”

“Just curious. That’s all.”

And now, so was I.

What did the good old shrink have up his sleeve?