Forgetting August (Lost & Found) (8 page)

What exactly, I wasn’t sure.

“What is this?” I asked.

“Oh, um—everything I could find in the attic. I brought it all down, hoping I could make sense of…well anything.”

I stepped forward, picking up a sheaf of pages from the top of a stack. It was an old term paper from his days at Stanford. I held back the smile that wanted to break through, remembering what a brainiac he used to be.

He wasn’t that August anymore. He wasn’t anything anymore.

And I needed to get out of this situation.

“Well, I wish you good luck with that,” I said politely, placing the key on the stack of papers.

“This was my key to the house. I had it while you were—absent—just in case, but now that you’re back, well—there’s obviously no need. So I’m returning it to you. Also, if you could remove me as your power of attorney, now that you’re able—I would appreciate it.”

His eyes met mine—those intense hazel eyes I’d fallen in love with at the tender age of eighteen, when life was easy and monsters were things of legend.

“Good luck, August,” I said softly, before he had the chance to respond.

It had turned out monsters came in all shapes and sizes—and right now, I needed to remember that.

Starting work in the wee hours of the morning had very few perks, aside from super fresh coffee, clear streets, and free afternoons.

Today, I was thankful for one of those in particular as I clocked out at three and headed home.

I had two hours to figure out what I was going to say to Ryan.

Two hours to formulate my story about how my encounter with August wasn’t a big deal.

My fingers tapped nervously on the steering wheel as I waited for the stoplight to turn green. As I turned into the Whole Foods around the corner from our apartment, I knew Ryan wouldn’t agree.

To him, this would be a huge deal. Which was why I shouldn’t tell him.

It would be so simple—easy. And after all, wasn’t easy what I wanted?

Placing the car in park, I took a deep breath as my head slumped forward.

It would be easy—so easy to just omit the entire event. He would never have to know.

But how many relationships were built on tiny white lies? How many heroines had I read about, watched on TV—screamed at for making the same mistake?

No matter how small, lying is still just that—lying. And secrets have a way of revealing themselves over time.

Ryan was the man I’d chosen to spend the rest of my life with. He was good, decent and kind. The exact opposite of August and everything I’d left behind. I would not let the echoes of my past pollute the possibilities of my future.

Taking a firm step forward, I got out of the car and began carefully planning out my night.

I was just putting the finishing touches on the table when Ryan walked in, causing me to nearly jump out of my skin.

Calm down, Everly
, I silently chanted, turning to face him.

The look on his face was priceless as he wordlessly stared down at the candlelight and then back up at me. It was that scared, fearful look guys get when they see the house is set a certain way, and suddenly their minds start flashing through dates and memories as they try to remember if something significant happened on this particular day.

“Relax, you didn’t forget anything,” I assured him, an amused smile pulling at my lips as my pulse slowly returned to normal.

His eyes wandered up and down my body shamelessly. “Are you sure? Because I can’t remember the last time I saw you pulling a casserole out of the oven, dressed like that.”

I guess I had gone a little overboard. Guilt will do that to a girl. But I just wanted him to know how much I loved him and when I got stressed, I tended to act out in odd ways. Particularly in ways that involved food.

“No—no anniversaries. No special celebrations. I just thought it would be nice to have an evening together. We always eat in a rush, gathered around the TV. Isn’t this better?”

The coppery flecks of his eyes caught under the lights, turning a dazzling gold as he walked toward me. A casual smile tugged at his face.

“Yes. Very nice.” Placing a slow, soft kiss upon my lips, he lingered, grabbing me around my waist to pull me closer. I could smell the familiar scent of his aftershave mixing with the fruity scent of my own shampoo. He’d run out of his own brand, so he’d been using mine for the last few days. The thought made me smile as I rested my head on his shoulder, loving the fact that I had someone to share my shampoo with.

“Now, what can I do to help?” he asked, stepping back to admire me one more time. I hadn’t really done much to my appearance—just a little more makeup than I usually wore and a nice pair of jeans that hugged all the right areas. I appreciated the attention, though.

“Nothing, really—oh, maybe pour the wine?” I suggested, pointing to the bottle I’d just uncorked.

“How was your day?” I asked, hoping he’d have some stories worthy of discussion—lengthy discussion. Although I did want to tell him about my day, I didn’t want to do it right away.

Maybe after he’s had a glass of wine…and a bite of pasta. That might make things better, right?

Cheese and wine always put me in a better mode.

“It was good—okay, I guess.”

I laughed at his muddled response. “Can’t quite decide yet, huh?” I asked as I watched him finish pouring the merlot. He set the bottle back down on our small dining table and turned back around, leaning against a chair.

“Just frustrating, I guess. This new client I have. They’re—”

“Frustrating?” I guessed with a smirk, as I finished stirring veggies that were sautéing over the stove.

“Yes. One minute they want one thing. The next minute they want something else. And then they decide they don’t like something but they’re not sure why.”

Ryan was a graphic designer—a pretty good one, and he worked with one of the top website companies in the area. He was used to picky clients.

“And they’re different from your last client how?” I questioned.

“I guess I’m just tired,” he sighed. “Ready for a vacation.”

“You mean a honeymoon?” I corrected him with a grin. He stepped forward and slid his hands around my waist again, resting his chin on my shoulder.

“Yeah, that would be nice. Any thoughts on my ideas for that?”

Reaching forward to shut off the burner, he stepped back and allowed me to plate everything.

“Paris? It’s just so much, Ryan. Can we even afford that?”

“Ev, I’ve been a bachelor for a long time. Which means, I’ve basically had myself to care for. I don’t know if you’ve noticed but I’m not exactly high maintenance.”

I snorted, remembering the hint of raspberry shampoo wafting from his hair. No, definitely not high maintenance.

“With my job, I’ve managed to save up quite a lot over the years. I don’t want to go crazy, but let me do this for us. We only have one honeymoon.”

Turning to face him, I couldn’t help but smile. He brought that out in me—simply by being him. From the moment I’d met him, he’d always managed to bring out the best in me.

“Okay, but only on one condition,” I said. “I want to pay for half from my savings.”

His mouth opened to protest, but I stopped him, holding up my hand to silence him.

“My choice,” I pressed. “You already take care of more than your share of the rent. Let me do this.”

“Fine,” he grumbled, obviously hating the idea, but a small smile escaped from his lips before he pivoted back toward the table. “But soon, it’s not going to be yours or mine…it’s just going to be ours. That’s what this whole marriage thing is about.”

“Oh yeah?” I teased. “Is that what I got myself into?”

I pulled the few remaining items out of the oven and headed toward the table. When I’d arrived at the grocery store earlier, I had no menu planned and little to go on but the guilt eating at my gut, so I’d decided to stick with what I knew best. Looking at the table as I set everything down, I wondered if I should have planned better.

“It looks great, babe,” Ryan said, taking his usual seat by the window. We didn’t sit here often, but when we did, we tended to migrate toward the same two chairs. Mine was closer to the kitchen since I liked to flutter between the two areas for forgotten items like butter and extra knives.

“Are you sure?” I asked. “It looks kind of strange.” I was always my worst critic when it came to cooking.

“Are you kidding? This is every man’s fantasy. Meat loaf, mac n’ cheese—hell, even the veggies are floating in butter. It’s great.”

“I guess I was in the mood for some comfort food,” I shrugged, scooping mac and cheese on to his plate. He helped himself to the meatloaf and we dug in. Thankfully, it was all pretty tasty and Ryan was reaching for seconds within minutes.

All those hours watching Paula Dean and every other Food Network star over the years seemed to have paid off.

“So, are you going to tell me what’s going on?” he asked after a third helping of meatloaf. He pushed a piece of a roll around his plate, catching the leftover bits of cheese and meat.

Our eyes met and I knew my ruse was over. Suddenly the idea of shoveling food into my face didn’t seem appetizing anymore. No amount of sinful casseroles or dolled-up outfits could cover up the fact that I was hiding something. He knew me too well, and I might as well have stamped it on my forehead—he’d seen it coming a mile away.

I sighed, my head falling forward into my hands.

“Am I that obvious?” I asked.

“Well, the dinner was a little much.” He grinned.

“Okay, yeah…you got me there.”

Smooth fingers gripped my chin, tilting it upward until I found myself swimming in the warm glow of his gaze.

“What is it, Ev?”

“I saw August today,” I answered, feeling each word as I tried to maintain eye contact.

His hand fell, the warmth from his touch dissipating like thin air. He slumped into the seat, as I watched his eyes lose focus.

“Did you”—he paused—“seek him out? Did you want to see him?”

And this was why I should have never told him—why I should have never done any of this. The hurt in his words, the anguish he felt in that very moment cut me to the core. That ultimate trust we’d had—it was gone. I could see the first fragments of doubt in his eyes now.

“No, god no, Ryan,” I answered, moving to take his hand in my own. “It was an accident.”

He finally looked at me—an encouraging sign—so I decided to continue. “He was lost. He’s been released from the hospital, and I guess he decided to take a walk. He wandered into the coffee shop. He wasn’t looking for me.”

A pained laugh escaped his throat as he shook his head.

“I bet he wasn’t,” he said quietly, under his breath.

“Ryan, I honestly don’t think he was trying anything.”

“And what did you do—when he showed up at your door, lost and alone, Everly?” He asked as if he already knew the answer.

“I—I gave him a ride back home.”

He smiled, a tortured smile, as he pulled our joined hands close to his lips. I watched in confusion as he kissed each of my knuckles, slowly. Reverently.

“You’re too damn nice for your own good. Don’t let him get under your skin. Don’t forget, Everly. Don’t ever forget the person he once was.”

I felt him tug gently on my arm and I willingly went to him, just followed him into the bedroom later that night and willingly gave myself to him, promising myself I would do anything to make him forget the pain and distrust he must have felt from the reappearance of August in my life.

I wouldn’t let August come between us.

And yet, later that night…as Ryan slept in our bed, I couldn’t help but think of August sitting among those boxes, wondering. Always wondering and never knowing. And it gnawed at me.

Until I couldn’t stop myself.

I was too damned nice.

Too damned nice and a whole lot of stupid.

I
t had been fifteen minutes.

Fifteen of the longest fucking minutes of my life.

Or at least I think it had.

How the hell was I supposed to know? It wasn’t like I had a memory of my life to compare it to.

But as I sat there listening to the latest shrink’s sound machine, as he tried to lull me into a sense of security with the fake sounds of ocean waves and birdcalls, it surely felt like the longest damn time ever in that room.

Was he ever going to talk?

I continued to look around the small but tidy room, taking in the hip gray walls and modern suede couch he sat on across from me. All very different from Dr. Schneider’s preferred dark wood and leather. The furnishings obviously weren’t the only things that differentiated the two men. The lack of communication from this guy was high on the list.

Weren’t psychologists trained to speak? Or was this guy special because he’d been labeled a therapist? Great, I’d probably been stuck with the college dropout. Just like that, the chorus line from “Beauty School Dropout” started running through my head on repeat. I really needed a few good friends around every once and a while to tell me when the Internet was dead wrong about movie suggestions.

I glanced up at him and he gave me a polite, encouraging smile but remained mute. I resisted the temptation to let my head fall back in frustration but finally decided one of us needed to say something. At the very least, I wanted to know if he could indeed speak words. Actual words. From his happy, smiling mouth.

“So, are you going to say anything in this hour…or are we going to just stare at each other for the next”—I glanced at the clock and nearly rolled my eyes. Only two minutes had passed since I’d last looked at the damn thing. “—forty-three minutes?”

The gentle smile returned to his face as he simply shrugged. “This is your session. You can choose to use the time however you wish, August.”

Well, huh—the man could actually form complete sentences.

“So, I’m just supposed to talk? About anything?”

“If that’s what you want,” he responded. His voice sounded very passive, as if he really couldn’t give a fuck whether he was here or not.

“What if I wanted to sit here and do nothing?” I challenged, crossing my arms in front of me defiantly.

Poker-face just continued to smile. “Again—your session, your choice. I get paid no matter what goes on in here so it doesn’t really matter to me one way or another.”

“Isn’t that kind of a crocked way to conduct business?”

His grin widened, and little wrinkles appeared around his dark brown eyes. I’d gotten to him. Good.

“Not really. Why try to help someone who doesn’t want it? It’s frustrating for everyone involved. You don’t have to be here—no one is mandating you seek therapy. It was just highly recommended, and yet here you are. So I’ve got to figure some part of you wants help; otherwise, why bother showing up? So until you figure out what kind of help that is, I’ll just be over here waiting—earning money while I plan my grocery list.”

My mouth hung open for a moment as I tried to formulate my comeback, but I had none.

The damn asshole was right.

No one was forcing me to be here. When I’d been released from the hospital, Dr. Schneider had written down names and numbers for a few therapists and psychologists, underlining this particular one. Schneider had said he was highly recommended, but nothing was required of me after I walked out those doors.

So, why was I here?

I didn’t have an answer.

And neither did Dr. Abrams—that was his name, this crazy doctor with the sound machine, who didn’t speak unless spoken to.

The crazy doctor who was charging me to stare at the dark gray walls of his office until I figured out what was wrong with me.

Me…not him.

This man was a fucking genius.

The boxes from the attic had been scattered across the living room for weeks now.

I’d unpacked every single one of them and so far hadn’t made any headway into my past by doing so. It was a fool’s errand and I was definitely the fool. Nothing was dated or labeled, and half of the boxes didn’t seem to have any sort of organization whatsoever—as if I’d just thrown random shit into boxes, uncaring whether any of it made any sense whatsoever.

Of course, the younger version of me had probably also figured I’d have all my faculties intact and would be able to make sense of all of it down the road.

Yeah…funny how that all worked out.

There were some nights I contemplated lighting every last box on fire, and roasting marshmallows while all the confusion went up in smoke. But the rational side of me knew I’d regret it. Besides, rational people didn’t start fires in their living rooms, and I was supposed to be proving I was sane. Or at least somewhat sane.

Running a frustrated hand through my hair, I picked up a picture I’d been staring at for the past few hours and sat down on the couch. As I reached for the half-empty bottle of beer I’d been nursing for over an hour, I flipped over the picture once again, somehow hoping that a date or timestamp had magically appeared since the last time I’d checked. But no, the only thing printed over and over diagonally across the back of the print was the word “Kodak”, like so many of the others.

Turning it back around, I skimmed my thumb over the surface as I starred at the younger version of myself.

How odd to recognize yourself in a picture, but have no memory of ever being there.

But there I stood, probably no older than ten. I was standing by the ocean, holding a giant caramel apple in my hand. As I held the picture close, I couldn’t help but notice the huge smile on my face. I wondered who I’d been looking at. My mother or father, maybe? I’d seen pictures of them—or at least I assumed I had, based on what I could deduce from everything. Had I loved them? Where were they now? Were they dead? Had they abandoned me like everyone else when I’d become too volatile to be around?

Looking at the picture, I held it close and noticed something I hadn’t seen before. The hand that held the caramel apple had a tiny bandage—cotton, white and large, wrapped around my left thumb. Maybe I’d climbed a tree or tried my skills as a chef? Wondering what had happened, I instantly glanced down and saw a faint scar just below my thumbnail I’d never noticed until that moment.

The discovery made me feel ill. The sudden realization was like a tidal wave and I felt like I might drown in the deluge of memories from my former life.

It was too much.

I’d been up late the other night and caught the last few minutes of this old film where an entire town had been taken over by body-snatching aliens. That’s how I felt. I wasn’t August Kincaid. I was just someone who inhabited his body, and somehow I was expected to take over as if nothing had ever happened. Go on as if life were normal.

Life for me would never be normal again.

Not unless I started getting my memories back, and I couldn’t bank on that. It had already been weeks since I’d come out of the coma and not a single memory had surfaced. Every day that passed just felt like further proof I’d never regain anything that was lost.

Finishing my beer in one long swig, I threw the picture back on the pile and rose to my feet. I needed air and I needed away from this house. I’d done nothing but comb through this mess for the last few weeks and suddenly the air in here felt stifling and stale.

I headed for the front door intent on walking out my frustrations, but made sure to grab my cell phone. With my address now programmed into my phone’s GPS app, at least now I wouldn’t get lost in this maze of a neighborhood I lived in.

Shaking my head as I locked the deadbolt, I remembered the awkwardness between Everly and me on the day she’d driven me home. How much had I hurt her to cause so much pain and tension between us? How could love have become so excruciating? I honestly wasn’t sure I wanted to know. What would I learn about myself? Some things you can’t unlearn.

When I took a deep breath, the salty air seemed to help clear my thoughts. I walked down the street. It was a weekday, still early in the afternoon, so the only sounds were the waves pounding against the nearby cliffs and the occasional bird or passing car. I’d realized shortly after moving back into this house of mine that this wasn’t like the neighborhoods I’d seen on TV or movies, where children played in the streets and neighbors talked between driveways.

After a bit of hunting around on the Internet, I’d realized I was living among movie stars and millionaires. Sea Cliffs was like the Beverly Hills of San Francisco, and somehow I’d managed to snag a little piece of it for myself.

How? I still had no fucking clue.

After several walks like this, I’d discovered the rich didn’t water their lawns and talk gossip over their rose bushes like I’d seen on the sitcoms in the hospital, nor did they allow their children to play basketball in the driveway.

Everyone kept to themselves. It was eerily quiet.

Which was both a blessing and a curse.

For moments like right now, when I needed to clear my head, it was perfect. I could simply step outside my door and not have to worry about walking into a single soul. I imagined my self-indulgent neighbors were either too busy making or spending money to worry about anyone but themselves, so I had the entire neighborhood to roam away my cares.

But when it came to seeking answers…well, it flat-out sucked.

No one knew me. Hardly anyone had even noticed I was gone. I’d made the mistake of trying to introduce myself to the guy next door—a musician of some sort—only to be politely asked to leave. Turns out he didn’t know who I was and really didn’t care.

So much for being neighborly.

After an hour or so, I made my way back to the house and stopped to check the mail. Bills had found their way to me once again, including ones from the hospital and my new therapist.

At least someone knew where to find me.

As I fumbled through the junk and a handful of bills, my eyes fell upon a familiar-looking envelope. My fingers caressed the words as I remembered where I’d seen the handwriting before.

August and Every…2005

Everly’s handwriting. Forgetting everything else, I raced inside and dropped the rest of the mail on the kitchen counter. I had no idea what to expect, but I felt exhilarated from anticipation alone. I knew nothing of our past, knew we had no chance of a future, but the mere sight of my name written by her hand did something to me.

And I had no idea why.

Could the heart remember what the mind couldn’t?

This was something I contemplated as I pulled the letter out and fell back into my spot on the sofa—the only place free of boxes, photos and dust. There was no greeting—no pleasantries or how do you dos. Just a simple listing of dates and the milestone or event that corresponded with each:

Many other dates were listed, included my birthdate, my parents’ birthdates and the date of their deaths: February 10th, 2003. In parentheses, she’d noted the cause. Car accident.

No other details.

My eyes blurred as I finished reading through everything she’d given me, which was more than I deserved.

I should have been happy. I should have felt elated. This list was my start—my step into finally figuring out what all this shit sitting in my living room meant. But instead, all I felt was loss.

Loss for the parents I’d never know. Loss for a life that had to be written on paper instead of remembered and lived.

As much as I hated to admit it, perhaps the quack doctor at the hospital hadn’t been too much of a nut after all. Maybe it was time for me to look at this as a second chance rather than as a recovery.

After all, I couldn’t recover what I didn’t know, and I definitely didn’t want to be a man everyone hated. So now I just had to figure out who the new me was and go from there. Perhaps one day I could become someone Everly could be proud of, even if she didn’t know it.

Yeah, that sounded easy enough.

Looking around the chaos of the room, I knew without a doubt that I was already screwed.