Текст книги "Madame X "

Автор книги: Jasinda Wilder

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

SIXTEEN

He takes me to a tiny Italian place. We walk there, a half hour of walking hand in hand across town.

The streets are wet, the trees dripping scintillating droplets in the golden evening haze. The sun has returned, peeking between clouds and skyscrapers to illuminate everything with a sheen of decadent brilliant light, making everything seem romantic and beautiful and perfect.

I feel no panic at being outside, and it is incredible.

“I love this time of day,” Logan says, apropos of nothing. “Photographers call it the golden hour.”

“It is beautiful,” I say, my heart full of joy at the simple luxury of this moment.

He gestures at the sunlight streaming at us from between the buildings to our left as we cross an intersection. “You know, the Japanese have a word. Komorebi. It means the way sunlight filters through the trees in a forest. I’ve always thought there should be a similar word, something that captures this time of day, in this place. The way the sun is such a perfect gold that you can almost but not quite look directly at it, the way it’s framed by the buildings, shines off the glass, turns everything beautiful.” He looks at me. “So beautiful.”

Is he referring to me? Or to the sunlight, the moment?

We walk on, and I memorize this. His hand in mine, his fingers tangled between my fingers, his thumb rubbing in small circles on the web of skin between my thumb and forefinger. The beauty of the city, the air warm and lush and smelling of fresh rain, the familiar cacophony of New York, freedom, the man beside me.

“There’s another word,” he says, once again breaking the silence. “This one is Sanskrit. Muditaˉ”—he says it moo-dee-tah—“and it means . . . how do I put it? To take joy in the happiness of someone else. Vicarious happiness.”

I watch him, and wait for him to elaborate.

He glances at me, a smile lighting up his beautiful face. “I’m experiencing muditaˉ right now, watching you.”

“Really?” I ask.

He nods. “Oh yeah. You’re looking at everything like it’s just the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.”

I wish I could explain it to him. “Everything is beautiful, Logan.”

“And I just . . . I love that innocence, I guess. I tend to be jaded, a lot of the time. I’ve seen a lot, you know? A lot of nasty shit, and it’s easy to forget the beautiful.” He pauses. “I like odd words, because they capture things in ways English doesn’t. They capture the beauty of little moments. Words like komorebi remind me to put aside my general disillusionment and just enjoy the now.”

“What kinds of things have you seen, Logan?” I ask, although I’m not sure why, or if the answer will be something I can stomach.

He doesn’t answer, just directs me with a nudge to my elbow through a low doorway into a dark restaurant, accordion music playing, garlic scent strong in the air.

He waves at an old man wiping down a red-and-white checkered tablecloth. “Got a table out back for me, Gino?”

“Yeah, yeah, course I do. Go on, go on. Sit, I’ll bring wine and bread for you and your pretty friend.” Gino smiles and hustles off into the kitchen, hunched over but moving faster than I’d have thought possible.

Logan leads me through a back door and into a tiny open-air courtyard. I could probably touch both walls if I lay down, but there are four tables crowded into the space, three of them occupied by other couples. White lights on a string are draped around the perimeter of the wall over our heads, hanging on nails driven into old crumbling brick.

We’ve barely had time to sit, Logan with his back facing the wall, when Gino returns, a wicker basket full of garlic bread in one hand, a bottle of wine and two goblets in the other. He sets the basket of bread between us and then pours the wine, a dark ruby liquid.

“This is a good Malbec,” Gino says. “From Argentina, ’cause no good Malbec ever came from anywhere else. It’s good, very good. You like it, I think.”

“Is there wine I don’t like, Gino? Answer me that.”

“Shitty wine, that’s what,” Gino says, setting a glass in front of me. He and Logan both laugh, but if there’s a joke, I’ve missed it.

Both men stare at me, expectant. Apparently I’m supposed to try it first? Another new experience. Tentatively, remembering the last time I tried red wine, I take a sip.

This is different. Smoother, not biting at my taste buds quite as hard. Flavorful, but not overpowering. I nod. “I like it. But I’m not a wine expert.”

“Who’s a wine expert? Not me,” Gino says, “certainly not this joker. No sommeliers here, mia bella, just good wine and good food.”

“Mia bella?” I ask.

“It just means ‘my beautiful,’” Logan answers.

“Hey, who’s Italian around here, buddy? Not you, that’s for damn sure. You wouldn’t know bella from bolla. Leave the language of love to me, heh?”

“I thought French was the language of love?” Logan laughs.

“Nah, nah. Italiano. Italiano é molto più bella.” Gino waves a hand. “Bah. French. Sounds like a duck blowing its nose. But to speak Italiano is to sing, my friend. Now. What you have to eat?”

“Surprise us, Gino. But be warned, we’re both very hungry.”

“Mama’s in the back, and you know how she is. You’ll need a crane to get you out of here before she finishes with you. You’ll be so stuffed you’ll beg for mercy. And then she’ll make you dessert!” He laughs, an uproarious belly laugh that, although I once again have missed the humor, is nonetheless catching.

I find myself grinning, and sipping the wine, which is, as he said, very, very good.

Alone once more, Logan leans forward, his forearms on the table. “Gino’s an old friend. And he wasn’t kidding about Maria. She’ll keep sending food out until we can’t eat any more.”

I take a sip of wine. “This is perfect, Logan. Thank you.”

He glances at me, and his eyes narrow, his brow furrows. “Am I allowed to ask you questions, X?”

“If you answer them yourself, sure.”

“It’s a deal,” he says. “And you drive a hard bargain. I’m not much for talking about myself, either.”

“So we’re quite the closed-mouth pair, aren’t we?”

He nods, laughing, and tears a piece of garlic bread off the loaf. “Guess we are.” He chews, swallows, and his smile fades. “I guess I’ll start with the obvious first: How is it you know so little about yourself?”

I sigh, a long breath of resignation. “I can answer that in four words: acute global retrograde amnesia.”

Logan blinks as if trying to process what he’s hearing. “Amnesia.”

“Right.” I attempt to cover my discomfort with a large mouthful of Malbec.

“Acute global retrograde amnesia,” he repeats, and leans back in his chair as Gino arrives with a large bowl of salad and two plates, dishing a generous portion to each of us before vanishing once more without a word. When he’s gone, Logan picks at the salad with his fork, spearing some romaine and a chunk of fresh mozzarella, his eyes on me as he does so. “Can you unpack that a bit for me?”

I take a few bites, sorting out my thoughts. “It just means I have no clue who I used to be. I suffered a severe cranial trauma, which affected my ability to recall anything about myself whatsoever. I have no memories prior to waking up in the hospital. None. That was six years ago, and I haven’t recalled anything either, so the doctors say it is unlikely I ever will. Many amnesia patients experience what is called temporally graded amnesia, meaning they won’t remember events nearer the trauma, but will remember pertinent information about themselves and their past farther back, childhood memories and the like. Most patients can and will experience spontaneous recovery, wherein they recall most of the forgotten information, although events immediately prior to the trauma will often still be absent. The severity of the trauma and damage to the neural pathways determines the severity and permanence of the loss of memory. In my case, the trauma was extremely severe. That I survived at all, that I woke from the coma at all, much less was able to function on anything like a normal level? It is considered an unexplainable miracle. That I escaped the accident with only amnesia, however severe, is a cause for celebration. Or so I was told. But the fact remains, I woke up with no memories. No knowledge of myself whatsoever.”

Logan seems shaken. “Damn, X. What happened?”

“No one is entirely sure. I was . . . found by—by someone.” I don’t dare even think the name. “I was nearly dead. A mugging gone horribly wrong, it is thought. I should have died. And, I’m told, I did die on the operating table. But they brought me back, and I survived. I had a family, but they died and I did not. They were murdered, and I escaped, somehow. Or . . . so I’m told.”

“And no one could identify you?”

I shake my head. “It seems not. I had no identification on me, and my family was dead. There was no one to identify me.”

“So you woke up alone, with no knowledge of who you are?”

“Not . . . alone, no.”

“We’ll come back to that, as I have my suspicions.” Another pause as Gino removes the half-finished bowl of salad and our plates, replacing them with small squares of lasagna. We both dig in, and after a few bites, Logan speaks again. “So you can form new memories, though, right?”

“Yes. That’s the other kind of amnesia, the inability to form new memories. It’s called anterograde amnesia.” The lasagna is incredible, and I don’t want to ruin the experience by talking, so we lapse into silence as we both eat.

“So—” Logan starts again, after we’ve both finished.

I speak over him. “I think it’s my turn.”

He shrugs. “Fair enough.”

“Tell me about your childhood.”

He smiles, and it seems a bit sad, to me. “Fairly typical story, really. Single mom, dad left when I was a baby. Mom worked two, sometimes three jobs just to provide a roof and something like three squares a day. She was a good woman, loved me, took care of me the best she could. Got no complaints, there. She just . . . was working a lot. Couldn’t keep me under her thumb the way I needed. I skipped a lot of school. My buddy’s dad ran a surf shop outside the city, right? He knew we were skipping, but he’d never graduated either, so I guess he didn’t care. I don’t know. He’d lend us boards and we’d surf all day. We’d only come to shore to eat a sandwich and then go back out, stay out on the waves till we were too exhausted to swim. This was how it was for Miguel and me, from like fifth grade onward. Skip school, go surf. Eventually his dad just gave us our boards, and we’d run the beaches hunting for the best waves. Sounds great, right? It was. Right up until we hit high school age. Miguel had a cousin, Javier, and he got us into smoking dope. And he also got us into helping him sell dope. Which led to being in a gang, of sorts. Me, Miguel, his cousin, a few other dudes. Lots of trouble. Quit even pretending I gave a shit about school. Mom pretended she didn’t know, as long as I didn’t get arrested and let her know I was alive every couple days. Just how it was, you know?”

He trails off again as Gino appears yet again, this time with plates of chicken parmesan with a side of pasta topped with a dollop of red sauce.

“So, things were . . . not good, but nothing crazy, I guess. Nobody went to jail, nobody got hurt. We smoked dope and surfed and sold a few dimes here and there. Nothing big, not enough to really call the attention of the more serious dealers, right? But then the summer before I’d have been a senior, I was seventeen, I think. Almost eighteen. Miguel’s cousin got approached by a big-time dealer from down by the border, dude called himself Cervantes. Wanted Miguel and Javier to be his mules, run some product south. Big cuts, big risk. I wasn’t in on it, ’cause I was white, you know? Most of the time, that didn’t matter, but for this, it did. So he approached them when I wasn’t around. They went with it. Ran the product, got paid out big time, figured they’d hit the jackpot, right? Yeah, that went fine for a few months, until Javier got in trouble. Got caught by a DEA border guard sting op. Javi turned snitch. Set Miguel up to take the fall. And Cervantes . . . he figured it was Miguel that was the snitch when a big shipment got intercepted and cost him a couple hundred grand. Miguel and I were surfing, like we always did early in the morning. Best waves, you know, when it’s just past dawn.” He ducks his head, gently swirling the dregs of his wine. “Cervantes and three of his soldiers were on shore, waiting for us. Didn’t say a word, just—just lit him up. A dozen slugs to the chest. Right in front of me. That was it. No threats, no warnings, no interrogation. Didn’t say shit to me, either. Like, obviously if I said anything to the cops, I’d be next. Miguel was my best friend, man. He was like family, you know? We’d been friends since third grade. Blam-blam-blam, dead. Right in front of me.”

“My God, Logan.”

He bobbles his head side-to-side. “What was I supposed to do? I knew I’d be next. Either I’d be his mule—which would land me in jail, eventually—or I’d wind up dead. Well, one day I happened to walk past an armed forces recruitment office, and this guy was standing outside smoking a cigarette, wearing a badass uniform, badges and a real medal and shit. Stopped me, asked me what I was up to. Made the army sound like a good gig. A good way out of the shit I’d found myself tangled up in. So I joined the army. And honestly, it was the best thing for me. Got shipped to Kuwait. Turned out I had a knack for engines, and they needed mechanics to fix up the trucks and tanks and shit. Ended up getting my diploma and a set of skills and some money in the bank. But then, like I told you before, when my four years were out, I ended up stuck in St. Louis, met Philip, the Blackwater guy . . . got my ass recruited again. This time, I got combat training. They put a gun in my hands, sent me to Iraq, and paid me huge amounts of money to hang my ass out the side of a helicopter. Had as much of a knack for nailing insurgents from a hundred yards away out the side of a moving helicopter as I did for cleaning sand out of piston chambers. Did that for . . . too long. Felt like a badass, you know? The regular army and Marine guys hated us, but that was just because we got paid quadruple what they made to do the same thing.”

“Quadruple?”

He nods. “Hell, yeah. Easily. Danger pay, right? And I liked the danger. Didn’t have anyone back home waiting for me, and I honestly didn’t give a shit what happened to me.”

“And then you got shot,” I suggested, sensing the shape of what came next.

“And then I got shot,” he agreed. “Some asshole with an AK got lucky. I mean, there was no way he could have made that shot on purpose, you know? Way too far away, moving way too fast . . . but that didn’t stop him from trying. We wore bulletproof vests, of course, but there was an early-morning incident with an IED and an ambush, so we got scrambled and I forgot the vest in my rush to get on the helo. Took the two to my shoulder, no big deal, wouldn’t have been life-threatening. But then he shoots again, and a round hits me down low. You saw it.” He indicates his ribs, and I can see the puckered wound in my mind’s eye. “Good thing I was strapped in, let’s just say that. They hauled me back in, got me to a medic, shipped me stateside. That was it for me, as far as combat went. But I spent a long-ass time on my back, recuperating. Thinking. I’d narrowly avoided death twice. Cervantes should have killed me. Probably would have, eventually, if I’d stuck around. But he didn’t, and I ran off with the army. So then I took the bullet to my stomach, and it nearly killed me. Nicked my lung, permanently compromised my lung capacity. Narrowly missed hitting a bunch of other organs and my spine. It was bad. Real bad. And you spend enough time horizontal, thinking about how close you came to dying, realizing you should be dead, you start to rethink your priorities.”

“What conclusions did you come to?”

“That I had to make something of myself. I’d survived when I shouldn’t have. I was alive, and I mean I guess it sounds like a cliché, but I felt like I’d been given a second chance. One thing led to another, and I ended up in Chicago, working for a flipper, a guy who buys foreclosed houses, fixes them up, and sells them at a profit. I had money, but I needed to stay busy. Learned enough to do it myself, flipping houses on my own. This was a big thing for a while, back when the real estate market was going gangbusters. I made a mint, and decided to go bigger. Bought a bar that’d gone under, owner ran out of money. Renovated it, hired some folks who knew shit about running a bar, sold it for a big profit. That earned me deeper pockets, let me take bigger risks for bigger rewards. Most of them paid off, some didn’t—and every time I got a big payout, I used it to fund the next deal. Learned other skills, learned to recognize when something will pay off and when it’s a bust. Got into technology development, bought some other companies . . .”

“And then you found yourself on the losing end of a bad deal.”

He nodded. “Yeah. But that’s a whole different story.”

“And one you don’t like to talk about.”

“Right.” He eyes me. “Back to you. How’d you end up with Caleb?”

Everything inside me freezes. I don’t know how to answer. I don’t know how to talk about Caleb. How to explain it.

“He was there when I had no one,” I end up saying. It’s true enough.

Logan nods, but it’s the kind of nod that implies he realizes I’m keeping back more than I’m saying. “How about I offer up some really . . . personal information? So you see I’m for real. I just want to know. I’m not going to judge you or try to . . . I don’t know. I just want to know.”

“What kind of personal information?” I can’t help asking.

A pause, as Gino brings yet another dish, something else kind of like lasagna, wide rolls of pasta in sheets, stuffed with ricotta and ground sausage, doused in marinara.

“Did you see the painting?” Logan asks.

“Starry Night,” I say. “Yes, I saw it. I wondered about that.”

“You know, Van Gogh only ever sold a couple paintings in his lifetime, and that was one of them. But that particular version of Starry Night was actually only one of dozens he did that were similar. He painted them from an asylum in France. What we’d call a psychiatric home now. It was a lunatic asylum for the wealthy. He was chronically depressed, suffered a mental break. Cut his ear off, I guess, or part of it. Admitted himself there, to Saint-Paul de Mausole. He had a whole wing to himself, and he’d sit in this room he’d made into his studio, and he’d paint the view, over and over and over. Different perspectives, trying different techniques. Day, night, close up, far off, everything. There’s another one, called Starry Night over the Rhone. Anyway, he’d just paint the view from that room over and over again. But that one, the one we both have copies of, it’s something special. He was a deeply troubled man, Van Gogh, and that painting, I guess to me it just . . . echoes things I sympathize with. That deal that went wrong . . . I ended up in prison. I don’t want to go into the details, but they’d let us out into the yard during the day, so we could lift weights and all that cliché bullshit. The view from the yard, there was this hill in the distance with some trees on it, and birds would fly in from all directions. I can see it now, the grass heading off into the distance, with yellow dandelions in patches here and there. Then the hill, and the trees. I don’t know what kind, oak, maybe? Thick, huge, with these massive spreading branches. And I’d be there in the yard, in the crazy fucking heat, staring at that stand of trees and the shadows they cast, daydreaming of being up there on the hill, in the shade. It was a scene I could paint from memory, even now, if I were able to draw for shit. And Starry Night, it’s . . . there’s this sense of distance, peace—I don’t know, it’s hard for me to put it into words. But it just reminds me of how I felt, staring out at that hill every day.”

“For me, it’s the view of the city from my window, at my condo. It’s hard for me to go outside. You saw that. Walking here, it was the first time I can remember that I didn’t feel any panic at all. But looking out, watching the people and the cars, everyone just going about their lives so easily, it just . . . sometimes I’d long for something that simple, that easy. But then—I get outside, and the noise, and the people, and everything is so big, and there’s so much of everything . . .” I close my eyes, try to make sense of my own thoughts. “Starry Night, to me, is about how none of that matters. The stars will shine, and they’ll light up the world, no matter who you are, or, in my case, who you are not. I mean, I woke up, and I was no one. But the city goes on. That’s both comforting and scary, depending on my mood. But the stars will shine, for Van Gogh, and there will be cathedrals and cypress trees, and there will be something out there that’s beautiful, no matter what’s inside me. I don’t know how to make any more sense of it. Like you said, it’s hard to put into words.”

“No, I get it.” His hand reaches for mine, and there’s a moment, then, that passes between us. An understanding. It’s nebulous, but real.

But then time reasserts itself, and I can’t fall back into that moment, no matter how much I wish to.

Something has shifted.

Being here, with Logan, like this . . . it’s too easy. Too simple. Too real. I want to enjoy it, the wine and the food and the impossibly handsome man who seems to want to know me, but I can’t. He wants to know about Caleb, and how do I explain that?

How do I explain that even now, Caleb is a part of me? Even now, to talk about Caleb feels like . . . sacrilege. Like betrayal. Like to put into words the wealth of what has occurred between Caleb and me would be to make less of them, to bare to the light things that should not be revealed. Not secrets, just . . . private things.

One cannot be more bare, more naked, more vulnerable than to be without identity, to be denuded of all personality, to be utterly without an identity, without a soul.

To be no one.

Caleb made me someone. And that someone is all tangled up and woven around the person that is Caleb.

“X?” Logan’s voice. Quiet, but sharp.

“Yes, sorry.” I try to smile at him.

“I lost you there, didn’t I?”

I can only stare at him, stare into his eyes. “Can we . . . can we go, Logan? This is . . . wonderful. And maybe you can’t understand this, but . . . it’s too wonderful. Too much.”

He sighs, a sad sound. “Yeah . . . no—I get it. I really do.” He stands up, digs into his pocket, and tosses some money on the table.

Gino is there, dishes in hand. “No, no, you cannot go, not yet. The best is yet to come!”

Logan claps him on the shoulder. “Sorry, man. My friend isn’t feeling good.”

“Ah. Well, if you must go, you must go.” He shrugs, as if to say what will be, will be.

Outside, then, Logan’s hand in mine. Evening has fallen. Golden light has faded to dusk, gold melting into shadows. The magic hour has gone, and the spell seems to have snapped. I don’t know why or how. But I walk, and feel ill at ease.

Instead of beauty, now I see the underbelly. The trash on the streets, the smell of Dumpsters, diesel fumes, a man’s angry shouts from an open window. A curse. Glass crunching underfoot. Graffiti on the walls, ugliness marring crumbling brick.

I feel a bit dizzy from the wine, thick-headed. A headache prods at the interior of my skull.

The walk back feels like it will be endless, and my feet hurt.

When was it I woke from the bath?

How long has passed? An eternity, it feels.

Was that really all just today?

The length of the day is crashing down on me, the pressure of all I’ve experienced weighing heavily. Heavy food, heavy wine. Logan’s mouth on mine, his body against me, his kiss. Wanting him, yet feeling as if . . . as if I shouldn’t have him. As if to be with him would be . . . wrong, somehow. I can’t make sense of it. To try is dizzying.

I want my own bed, my library. I want to read Mansfield Park and sip Earl Grey. I want to watch night fall from my window.

But I can’t. I left that behind. I walked away from it.

Was that a mistake? It felt right at the time. But now? I’m not so sure. Who is Logan? A warrior. A man who has been to prison. A man who has been to war.

A man who risked much to do what he felt was freeing me.

But can he understand me, understand my situation?

“X?” Logan’s voice again, concerned. “Are you okay?”

I try to nod. “It’s been a long day. I’m very tired.” So much left unsaid.

“Let’s get you home, huh?” His arm around my waist.

Home? Where is home? What is home?

“I can’t walk anymore, Logan. I just can’t.”

I feel him look at me. “Shit. I’m an idiot. I’m sorry. You’ve been through a lot today, haven’t you? What was I thinking?” He lifts a hand, and like magic, a yellow taxi appears and swerves over to us.

Logan helps me in, slides after me, gives his address. The ride is short.

He pays the taxi driver. We are stopped, rows of brownstones on either side. Darkness like a blanket, pierced by lamplight. Logan’s arm around my waist, helping me walk the few feet from where the taxi let us out to Logan’s front door.

Will I sleep with Logan? In his bed? On a couch? A spare room?

So much of me wants to go home. This feels like an adventure, like something from a story, and I just want to return to real life. But it’s not life, it’s not a story, it’s not a fairy tale.

What is it?

I’m very tired.

I want to go back to when I was naked in the hallway, Logan’s hands on me, back to when things felt simple and possible. In that moment, everything was simple and easy. I just wanted him.

I still want him.

I feel safe, his arm around me like this.

But I don’t know what tomorrow will be like. For that matter, I do not know what now will be like. I am lost and confused and homesick. This is the longest I’ve ever been away from my condo, away from all that is familiar.

I feel Logan tense, come to an abrupt halt. “Stay here,” he whispers to me, and helps me lean against the tree.

The light shines from below, bright. I blink, and see Logan standing with his hands in fists at his sides. He is taut, coiled.

I peer into the shadows and see another shape, sitting on the steps to Logan’s brownstone. A familiar shape. Familiar broad shoulders, familiar curve of jawline seen in profile, those cheekbones, that forehead, those lips.

I step forward. “Caleb?”

“Stay there, X.” Logan’s voice is hard as iron. “And you stay right where you are, Caleb. Keep away from her.”

“X. Let’s go.” That voice, deep and dark as a chasm.

I blink, sway on my feet. Logan, in front of me, acting as a human shield between Caleb and me.

Caleb, standing now, hands in pockets.

Two men; one dark, one light.

I want to run, want to climb into this tree and huddle in the nook of the branches.

Caleb takes another step closer to me, Logan blocking the way with his body.

Tension crackles.

Violence is thick in the air.

I cannot breathe, panic welling up within me, as familiar as the wrinkles on the palms of my hands.

I see eyes like midnight shadows, staring at me. Expectant. Knowing.

Seeing me, seeing me.

“It’s time to go home, X.” That voice, implacable, like darkness made flesh, like shadows that curl as sleep stakes its claim, shadows not to fear but rather shadows that lull, shadows that witness dreams and wait through the night until the sunrise.

“You don’t have to go with him, X.” Logan.

“You know where you belong. It’s time to go.” Caleb.

Where I belong? Do I know where I belong?

Caleb strides away. Toward a sleek, low, black car, Len waiting, holding the rear passenger door. Logan swivels to face me. He is not standing in my way, not preventing me. Nor is he touching me.

Caleb to my left. The condo, what I know. My library. My window.

Logan in front of me. The brownstone, Cocoa. The fantasy of normalcy.

“You are Madame X.” The voice to my left, confident, calm, strong. “And you belong to me. You belong with me.”

“But you don’t have to, X.” Logan reaches for me but doesn’t touch me. Not quite. Almost, but not quite. “You don’t have to. Don’t you see that?”

I feel the pull. An invisible thread, ensnaring my wrist. My ankle. My waist. My throat. It isn’t a scent, or a memory, or a touch. It isn’t sorcery.

I lost twenty years of memory. I lost all I was. I lost me.

But now I have a past. Six years, perhaps only a fraction when compared to the totality of my life, but it is the only history I know. The library. The window. Tea. The way time passes in lulling increments, each moment ordered and known and understood.

Logan . . . he represents the unknown, a future that could be. A dream. A dog to nuzzle my cheek, to welcome me. Kisses in the madness of wild moments, passion that consumes. Disorder, frenzy of need, time like sand slipping through a clenched fist, so many new things.

But then there’s Caleb . . . my savior, my past, and my present. I’ve gotten a glimpse, rare and precious, past heaven-high walls and into the inner sanctum of who the man really is.

Caleb has given me so much . . . a name, an identity, a life.

He is a mystery, and often inscrutable, but he is all I know.

I choke on my breath.

I feel my foot slide backward.

Logan’s eyes distort, and his jaw clenches. He sees the infinitesimal slide of my foot, and he correctly reads the sign for what it is. “Don’t, X.”

“I’m sorry, Logan.”

“Don’t. You don’t know what you’re doing.” He sounds utterly sure of this.

“I’m sorry. Thank you, Logan. So much. Thank you.”

Caleb stands waiting, watching, tall and broad and clad impeccably in a tailored suit, navy with narrow pinstripes, white shirt, thin slate-gray tie. Fingers uncurl from a fist, palm lifted, hand extended. “Come now.”

I cannot make myself break my gaze away from Logan’s, away from the sadness, the need. He, too, sees me.

I back away. Back away.

Logan lifts his chin, jaw hardened, fists at his sides, brow furrowed. Faded jeans, a pale green henley, four buttons at the neck, each one undone, sleeves pushed up around thick, corded forearms. I see his hands—and for a moment, only those hands. They touched me, so gently. I felt a lifetime of touch in what in this moment feel like were stolen moments.