“No. I know most of my past, up until I was about twenty. A few years are kinda hit or miss—some stuff I remember, and some I don’t. And then it’s all gone. The past three years. I don’t remember. I know who my parents are and that I have siblings, but I’m not close to any of them. I know I’ve struggled with an eating disorder.”

She shifts in her chair. “Yes. How are you doing with that?”

I shrug. “I haven’t relapsed, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“But you’ve reconnected with Rike.”

I nod. “Not sure what that means. It would help if I knew who I was. And I’ve researched. Retrograde usually means that it’s temporary. Memory should’ve come back by now. So why am I still a blank slate?”

She hesitates. “I don’t know. It’s just as baffling to me as it is to you.” She spreads some documents across her desk. “I’ve studied your MRIs and the x-rays. There was no lasting damage done to your brain. No bruising or bleeds, no permanent loss.”

“Except the memory,” I say flatly.

She nods. “But what you need to remember is that the brain is a marvelous machine. And while yours is a bit faulty at the moment, there is nothing to say that this is permanent. The memories could be triggered by something as simple as smell or touch or a song. The more you’re out there in the world, with the people who care about you, experiencing things and living, the more you’ll remember. It might take years for it all to come back or it could come back tomorrow all at once. We can’t say.”

“And you can’t help, right? I’m just stuck with this.” She looks a little crestfallen, her smile wilting and her eyes dimming a little—almost like a puppy that’s been scolded—and I wave a hand. “Don’t look depressed, Doc. I’m not bitter. I’m just getting used to the new normal.”

She nods, and gives me an uncertain smile. “This isn’t forever, Peyton. And you are making progress. Being with Rike again—that will help.”

I push to my feet, finding an unsteady balance on my crutches. “Thank you, Doc. I appreciate everything you’ve done to help me. If I ever come across someone with memory loss, I’ll be sure to point her in your direction.”

She laughs, and I leave the little office. I get around the corner, and lean against the wall. Concentrate, for just a few minutes, on nothing but breathing.

There isn’t a magic cure. This is it. My new normal. I let out a shuddering breath and shove down all of the fear. Push off the wall, and crutch my way toward the room on the third floor where Lindsay is.

I don’t get to dwell on how terrifying my normal is. Not when hers is so much worse.

The room is covered in flowers, and a trim blonde woman who looks like she could be Lindsay’s older sister bustles by the door with another vase full of white roses, chattering a mile a minute. She sees me and her face goes as pale as the flowers she’s carrying.

“Jim,” she gasps, and a man lurches from the couch, snagging the flowers from her as she sweeps me into her arms, crying and laughing as she holds my head to her chest.

I don’t know who the hell this woman is. I don’t know why I matter to her. But I do know that being here, being held by her while she sobs and smiles at me like I’m the moon in the sky—it feels right. The same way Rike holding me feels right. But where I fight that feeling with him, with her I don’t. I relax, my entire body wilting into hers as my arm comes around her and I cling to her. To the right that she represents.

“Ma. Let the poor girl breath. She doesn’t remember me, and she’s probably wondering why the hell she’s being molested by a southern diva.”

The woman laughs and steps back, dabbing at her eyes. She fixes a bright, watery smile on me and says, “I’m—“

“Jillian,” I say and the whole room stills. I glance around and meet Rike’s eyes, shocked and almost hurt where he’s sitting in a chair near the window. Scott is leaning against it, and his hand lands on Rike’s shoulder, holding him there as I swing my eyes back to Jillian and then to Lindsay. “Not Jillian?” I say lamely.

“You remember me?”

It clicks with a suddenness that makes me sway on my crutches, and Rike is moving, catching me before Scott can stop him. “Everyone give her a minute to breathe,” he snaps, crouching in front of me. I’m perched on the edge of Lindsay’s bed and his hands are tight on my knees as he kneels there. “What do you remember, baby?”

I can’t look around. I can feel them watching me, the hopeful, hungry stares, and I don’t want to admit the truth. I send Lindsay a pleading look.

“Rike, get out,” Lindsay says abruptly. “Everyone. Out. I need a minute with my girl.”

“Linds, not now,” Rike growls.

“Yes, now. I let you play this your way and you fucked it all up. Now get out and let me talk to her.” Rike doesn’t move and she huffs. “Scotty.”

It pulls the other guy off the window ledge, and toward the man kneeling at my feet. “Come on, man. Let her have this. It can’t hurt, and you can get all your answers as soon as she’s done. Come on. Jim. Jilly. Let’s go.” With a little effort and some cursing from Rike, he herds them out of the room, and it’s just us.

She’s quiet for a long minute. We both are.

“It figures you’d remember Ma. You’ve always adored her.”

“I don’t,” I whisper. “I don’t even know how I knew her name was Jillian. She just feels right—the way I feel around you. And it slipped out.” I twist to look at her. “He’s going to expect me to remember everything now, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” she says. “But he’ll take what he gets. We all will. He wants you back, Pey. That’s all any of us want.”

I shift up on the bed, and land on her ankle. “Sorry,” I say, lurching off, and she shrugs. Her face stays blank, except for the flare of sadness that slips over her for just a moment.

“How bad is it?” I ask.

“Bad.”

“I’ve been a shitty friend, haven’t I? I’m so sorry, Lindsay.”

“Don’t. It’s my fault we’re even here. I can’t listen to you apologize on top of that. It is what it is—the hand we’ve got. We’ll play it out, just like we always have.”

I nod, and she tugs on my arm until I’m close enough that she can hug me, and I hold her. Neither of us mentions the tears that are spilled. Neither of us lets go, for a long time.

“Lindsay?”

“Hmm?”

“What were we doing that night?”

She releases me slowly. Meets my eyes, hers wide and cornflower blue. Assessing. “Are you sure you’re ready to hear?”

“No. But I’ve been hiding in my little hotel room. It’s comfortable and I don’t really want to venture past it. It’s safe, not knowing who the hell I am and how I ended up with Rike and you and Scott But. It’ not really living, is it?”

She watches me for a moment. Then, “We were at my bachelorette party. A few girls I work with organized it; they were in the wedding. And you were trashed, because you were doing my shots. I wanted to be sober for the wedding.”

“What happened?” I whisper.

She hesitates. And then she tells me everything.

Chapter 13 : Before

I don't answer her phone calls. I'm too angry, and there's the simple truth. I want more than just a fun time. I think that's the worst part. That if she were any other girl, I wouldn't give a fuck. It wouldn't matter if Scott liked her or if I could share the important bits of my life with her. I wouldn't give a fuck that she was keeping so much from me. It would be almost a relief.

But because it's Peyton, and because she's been different from the very first time she stumbled into Barrie’s, I care. I can't quit caring. And it's driving me batshit crazy.

So I ignore my phone and Scott ignores my moping and we both ignore the pointed stares Lindsay gives my phone when it rings. She's spending more time at our apartment. It makes me vaguely nervous. She's overlap in a relationship that I have very little control over.