Forgetting August (Lost & Found) (15 page)

I
don’t like this, Tabitha.” I shook my head as I copied Ryan’s signature move in the middle of her suddenly very cramped office and paced back and forth, really wishing there was a window I could open.

Or a door.

“Are you sure that’s the reason it’s bothering you?” she asked calmly. I hated calm right now.

Calm could kiss my ass.

It had been two hours since my meeting with August and I was so amped up on coffee and rage and forty other different emotions I hadn’t sorted out, calm was just about the last thing I wanted to hear.

“Like what? Like how this was just about the worst idea on the planet? Getting two people together like him and me? Shit, it’s like putting the atomic bomb and its detonator in the same room and waiting around to see what happens. So fucking stupid.”

She let me take another layer off her carpet before responding.

“Why are you so convinced this is such a bad idea? Is it based on your past? Because of what you’ve been through together already—or are you afraid of what might happen if you get close again?”

“We are never getting close again. Ever,” I answered with a finality that I hoped ended that train of thought.

But Tabitha wasn’t afraid of me or my stern voice, and she had a knack for picking on the subjects I wanted to avoid the most. I really hated that trait in her.

“Why?” she pressed on.

“Because, I—” I stopped myself, realizing I was lashing out, rather than thinking. Why didn’t I want to get close to him? He was a different person—a far cry from the August I’d left in that hospital room two years ago.

“He’s too dangerous,” I finally admitted.

She nodded, understanding my intention. The old August was dangerous because of the harm he could do to me as a person. The new August—he was dangerous for an entirely different reason, and I wasn’t sure my heart could take it.

“So are you giving up? Walking away?” she asked. I got the feeling she knew the answer before she even asked.

“No,” I answered. “I agree with Mr. Abrams—that closure could be found for both of us by letting go of the past. August doesn’t have any memories of himself, so I am simply giving him that. It doesn’t need to be anything more.”

“And Ryan agrees?” she asked, watching me finally take a seat in one of the nearby chairs.

“He’s agreeable—enough. He doesn’t like the idea of me being anywhere near August—nor do I, but considering how things have been between us, he’s willing to make the sacrifice. We’ve never encountered difficulties in our relationship. The biggest drama we had before this was what color towels should be bought for the bathroom and whether the yellow and blue went well together. He knew I was damaged when he and I got together, but I just don’t think he ever really thought about when this moment would happen—if it ever would. Neither of us did. We lived in this August-free bubble of bliss, and suddenly it’s been blown to smithereens.”

“No one ever prepares for these types of things, Everly—whether it be a tragedy or something else equally life-altering. Those who say they do are still never prepared for the battle it takes—on your emotions, your general health and well-being. And your relationships. It’s normal to see everything suffer slightly. And yes, this situation is unique, but it doesn’t make it any less important. You were a victim of abuse.

“While verbal abuse may not make headlines, it still hurts. There are no scars…no reminders on the flesh, but you have wounds. You have memories and days that you’ll relive over and over again. And even though that man is gone, his face, the man you once loved—is still here. It’s a hard thing to cope with. Do you trust him—do you not? It’s something only you can decide. If he had just woke up August, with all his memories intact, this would be a much different conversation, but he didn’t. So the struggle begins.”

The struggle had begun the very moment I saw him walk into the coffee shop, so lost and alone. It was in that moment that I’d truly realized he was gone.

“But what if he comes back—the real August?” I asked.

“Ah, but what if he doesn’t?”

And that was the real question—the one I was too frightened to ask myself.

What if this was the real August?

Could I truly hate a man who didn’t remember any of the sins he’d committed? If you took away the hurt and the pain I felt for him, what was left?

“
I
thought you said you liked where I lived…that it didn’t bother you,” I said accusingly, my hands opening wide in a mock display as I spun around the small space of my apartment.

“Would you listen to what I’m saying…Jesus, woman,” August cursed. “It’s not about being embarrassed or bothered.”

“So you want to rescue me—that’s it,” I stomped my foot, turning away from him with resentment. After everything I’d shared—everything I’d told him of my life growing up…

“For the love of Christ—” Hands gripped my waist and spun me around. “I know you don’t need to be saved. I just want to be with you—all the damn time. I’m trying to tell you I love you, Everly!”

His kiss was punishing—brutal to the point of pain, our lips meeting over and over. He’d asked me to move in with him and I’d lashed out in typical Everly fashion.

Nothing good had ever happened in my life.

Until him.

His hands wove deep groves in my hair as our frenzied passion slowed. “Move in with me. Please. Warm my bed, live in my arms…never leave.”

“Yes,” I answered, finally realizing what it felt like to be cherished.

To be loved.

“Showing me more real estate today?” August’s voice cut through the lingering memory…bringing me back to the present. I blinked several times, looking out onto the street where our first house still stood.

The house we’d rented when I’d finally agreed to move in with him.

“So are you going to move into the ghetto with me? Or do you just expect me to pick up all my things and move into that disgusting bachelor pad with you?” I smiled, running my hands over his naked chest.

He looked down at me, placing a single kiss on the top of my head.

“Hell—we can find someplace entirely new if you want’ I don’t care. As long as I wake up like this every morning.”

And so we had.

I’d planned to make that house my next stop on this little roadmap of the “This was our life” journey, but suddenly it felt too private.

Too real.

And I just wasn’t ready to give it up.

“No.” I finally answered his question. “Just a meeting place,” I explained.

His eyes roamed the street and I studied him, waiting for some sort of spark— a hint of something that would tell me he remembered, but there was nothing.

To him—it was just a street.

Nothing special.

And for some reason, that hurt…just a little.

“So, what are we doing today?” he asked, curiosity peaking as he turned to me. I immediately looked away, crossing my arms in front of myself as I tried to think of a new plan.

With the memories of our first house still haunting me, I needed someplace safe and easy—a neutral zone where I could let these lingering feelings fade.

“We’re going to be tourists,” I quickly answered, remembering a day when we did the same years back.

“Here?” he asked.

“Well, not exactly here, but in the city—yes. Come on, let’s go. I’ll drive.”

I didn’t bother waiting for him. I knew he’d follow. Sheer curiosity had him hooked. As I hopped in the car, he followed my lead and jumped into the passenger side.

My car suddenly felt too small. Like a clown car with forty men stuffed in the back. He was everywhere—his scent, his demanding presence, and I couldn’t find enough oxygen to breathe.

“On second thought—how about you drive?” I managed to squeak out before pushing open the door and inhaling a large gulp of air into my lungs.

His gentle voice called out behind me. “Everly? Are you okay?” He didn’t touch me, but I could feel the heat from his body radiating against me.

I took a step forward and turned.

“Fine,” I answered. “I just don’t feel like driving—that’s all.” I made a beeline to his car and waited for him to unlock it. He watched me, his hazel eyes full of intensity, as if he was trying to decide whether to call me on my bullshit or move on.

Thankfully, he chose to move on and unlocked the doors, giving me a way to escape his heavy gaze.

As he settled into the seat next to me, he placed the camera on the console between us.

“So, where are we going?” he asked, starting up the engine.

“Fisherman’s wharf,” I answered, wondering if he’d need directions, but he just pulled away from the curb and headed in the right direction.

“I’ve been studying maps,” he explained. “That day I got lost and found myself at your coffee shop—I felt so helpless and alone. It wasn’t a feeling I wanted to repeat, so I’ve been trying to relearn the city, bit by bit.”

I nodded silently and then winced. “Well, I hate to tell you this, but you just missed your turnoff.”

“What?” he exclaimed, looking up at his rearview mirror. “Shit!”

I held back my laughter, covering my mouth.

“You know,” he said, “if you want this to work, you’re eventually going to have to start opening up.”

“I don’t need to like you for this to work,” I responded harshly. “You want to know about our past—that’s what I’m doing. The sooner we do this, the sooner you can move on. That’s my closure.”

“Seems like you’ve got it all figured out then,” he replied, his voice trailing with each word.

We didn’t speak the rest of the way down to the wharf. The truth was, when I was with August I wanted to hate him—and part of me did. The scared, crying, younger version of me that would always remain locked behind that bedroom door would always hate the man who had promised me forever and decided I wasn’t enough.

But the woman I’d become…she had a hard time resenting a man who brought a camera with him everywhere and studied maps. Those qualities reminded me of the man who’d begged me to never leave…to warm his bed and stay there forever.

I had him park as close to the water as he could, which ended up being on a hill. I watched as he squeezed into a space meant more for a two-seater than the giant gas guzzler he had, but he seemed to know what he was doing. He even turned his wheels in the right way—a San Francisco must when parking on nearly vertical streets.

“We both grew up in this area,” I said as we stepped out of the car and met on the sidewalk. I kept a sensible distance between us as we made our way down to the water’s edge. “And one day, as we were strolling along the wharf, eating ice cream or something like that, we realized that neither of us had actually done anything ‘San Franciscan.’”

“Like what?” he asked.

“When you travel, what is the first thing you do?” I asked.

He stopped and looked at me blankly.

“Okay, if you were to travel, what would be the first thing you would do?” I rephrased the question. I crossed my arms over the edge of the wooden rail that lined the dock. Several boats were docked in front of us advertising fishing and whale watching cruises for hire.

“Go online and Google things to do?” he guessed.

“Exactly. But this was about ten years ago, and I was less technically savvy back then, so I probably would have picked up a travel guide—but it’s the same idea. We realized we’d never done the ‘to-do’ list for our own city.”

“So you did?”

“Yep,” I answered, remembering my excitement for the idea. “In one day.”

“How did you manage that?” he asked. “Don’t people plan weeklong vacations here?”

“We were very speedy,” I explained. “Which is why we need to hurry!”

I took off on a run, toward the wharf, knowing he’d follow. There would be no holding his hand through this adventure. We were reliving a memory, but that didn’t mean I needed to rekindle the emotions that went with it.

Our first stop was bread. Sourdough bread, to be exact.

No, it wasn’t exactly one of the top things to do on a Google search, but the second you stepped into Fisherman’s Wharf, you knew exactly why Boudin Bakery had been feeding tourists pounds of sourdough for decades. The bakery took up an entire block, and as soon as we stepped on to it, that savory pungent smell that is unique to sourdough flooded my nostrils and I was in bread heaven.

Bread Heaven—it was a real place.

And I wanted to live there. Forever.

Boudin’s had a restaurant, so you could sit down and enjoy a meal with friends and loved ones. For us, though, takeout seemed the most logical. Spending an hour making small talk with my ex didn’t exactly sound like a ragging good time, plus we had other stops to make on this grand tour.

As he followed me through the store and we waited in line, I watched him curiously as he looked around, taking in the giant loaves of bread shaped like animals and sports emblems, and the many knickknacks scattered about.

“Is this what we did—originally?” he asked as we stepped up closer to the register.

“Uh—no, we actually ate—up there,” I said, pointing through the glass toward the restaurant. “But I figured we wouldn’t have time.”

He just nodded.

We ordered a loaf of bread and coffee and made our way out of the store. I didn’t waste any time breaking into the loaf with my bare hands. Good bread didn’t need butter or condiments. It could be eaten plain and still be amazing.

I reluctantly handed over the bag to him to share and we made our way toward some of the other shops. I had one more thing to get before we moved on.

Saltwater taffy.

No self-respecting tourist would be caught dead without a bag of saltwater taffy, and I needed to make sure August got his before we left. So, after a quick trip through another store, I selected several different flavors and colors for him, even ones that made his face distort with displeasure, and handed over the bag as we exited.