Текст книги "Beautiful Addictions"
Автор книги: Season Vining
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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 17 страниц)
11. Umbra
A shadow that blocks out illumination.
It was raining in Southern California and no one knew how to behave. Pedestrians scurried down the streets, taking cover under the eaves of various restaurants and secondhand bookstores. The strangers huddled so tightly together that personal space and physical boundaries were breached. The falling rain assembled into puddles along street curbs and on the dry fronds of palm trees.
Monica huffed at the inconvenience as she hurried down the sidewalk. The coffee shop sign lured her in, the neon glow immediately reminding her body of its requirement of caffeine. She weaved in and out of the crowds, sometimes darting through the downpour to reach her destination. The man before her, the one dressed in appropriate rain gear and designer shoes, swung the door too hard, knocking her over. Monica yelped and grabbed his sleeve to keep from falling, only to send them both careening to the ground.
“Shit!” Monica exclaimed, feeling the water seep through the seat of her pencil skirt.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, jumping up quickly, offering his hand and an apologetic smile.
She took it and let him pull her in beneath the shelter of his jacket. Once inside, Monica tried to assess the damage. She knew her ass was wet and maybe bruised, her hair was a mess, and she’d broken a nail. That shit always happens just when you get them all to the same length, she thought.
“Are you okay?” the man asked, concern lacing his voice.
His face was a bit round and childlike while still remaining handsome. His curly brown hair was cropped short, while his devious smile hinted that there was more beneath the surface. His oxford shirt hugged his chest, indicating a muscled body beneath such common clothes. Soon, for no reason at all, Monica found herself smiling back.
“I’m fine, really.”
“Well, if you’re sure. Hey, let me buy you a coffee. Pick your poison,” he said, gesturing to the menu.
Monica blushed and stepped to the counter, placing her usual order. He followed and ordered the same. There was a recognized silence between them as they waited for the drinks—a lingering glance, the faintest smile, all telltale signs of flirting. Even though all she could do was compare this man to Rob, Monica was flattered.
“Can you believe how people freak out when it rains?” he finally said.
“I know, right? It’s like I want to scream at them, ‘It’s just water!’”
He laughed wholeheartedly, his dimples deepening, further softening his face. Their order was called and they retrieved their cups from the counter.
“So you must not be from here?” she asked.
“Nah, I’m from Tacoma. What gave it away?”
“You’re wearing a raincoat, an item that none of us locals even own.” She twisted the cup nervously in her hands. “So you should be an expert, right? I hear the sun never shines up there. People have vitamin D deficiencies and it, like, rains every day?”
He shook his head and grinned at her. “It’s not quite that bad.”
“Well, thanks for the coffee…” Monica paused waiting for his name.
“Evan.”
“Evan,” she repeated. “I’m Monica. Thanks again, and good luck out there. Try to stay upright for the rest of the day.”
“You too,” he countered, raising his cup and grinning triumphantly at her retreating form.
* * *
Josie let Tristan’s statement sink in. Her crazed eyes could almost see the words breeze across the room and enter her head. He’d said them so matter-of-factly, so interestingly, as if reciting more of his random facts.
“You’re telling me that Dean Moloney, crime lord, wants me dead? Not only that, but he’s asked you to do it?” Josie screeched.
“Yes,” Tristan answered calmly.
“Why me? Who is this other person looking for me? Do you know him? Does Moloney know that you know me? He couldn’t possibly.”
“I’m not sure if he’s connected us to each other yet. We were just kids back then. But I bet this has something to do with your amnesia. We can assume that he may be responsible for your father’s death and your disappearance. Would you be willing to try hypnotherapy to recover your memory?”
“Been there, done that. Nothing has worked.” Tristan watched Josie’s grip tighten on the edge of the kitchen counter. Her elbows were locked, her shoulders high and tense while her head hung down between them. “What am I going to do?” she whispered.
The words poured from her mouth and circled the drain before slipping away.
“We,” Tristan corrected.
“What?”
“What are we going to do? I think I should go back to New Orleans and see what I can find out, but I don’t want to leave you here alone.”
“Take me with you,” she offered, turning to face him.
“Absolutely not! The chances of anyone recognizing you are low, but if they did, word would spread fast. Then you’ll be on his turf. You’ve got to stay here. Not to mention I’m not exactly on his good side. If Moloney finds out I’m there…” He trailed off.
“I want to help. I can’t sit around while you run off risking your life, Tristan!”
“Just don’t leave the four walls of this apartment. I’ll talk to Alex and have him keep a closer eye on you while I’m gone. Whoever is looking for you hasn’t found you yet, so it’s best to just stay put. It’s eighteen hundred seventy-two miles from here to New Orleans. If I leave in the morning, avoid big-city traffic, and maintain the average highway speed limit, I can make it there by Tuesday evening.”
“Shit,” Josie muttered, slumping down into one of her wobbly kitchen chairs.
Tristan watched as she absorbed the bad news. He knew it would be rough on both of them, but he was almost relieved not to have to deal with it on his own anymore. Josie curled into herself, the tips of her fingers rubbing at her temples.
He’d never been around someone who made him feel so whole and inadequate at the same time. She brought out the best and worst in him. She made him question everything he’d ever known and still he wanted to crawl at her feet to serve her every need.
When he’d said good-bye to her as a child, he never imagined he’d get a second chance. Now was the time to make things right, to build her up and tie her to himself. They would never get back the years they missed, but they could start over if she’d only surrender.
Pulling her to the sofa, Tristan wrapped his arms around her. She climbed into his lap and tucked her head beneath his chin. Her fingers dug into his skin relentlessly, feeling like if she let go, he would vanish.
Tristan’s eyes roamed over the meager apartment and he couldn’t help but cringe at all the drawings carved into the walls and doorframes, the paint and ink signatures on every surface.
“The drawings in your bedroom are one thing, Josie. You’ve got to stop marking up your apartment. You’ll never get your security deposit back.”
“Who says I paid a security deposit? I may have negotiated my way out of that.”
Tristan looked down into her eyes.
“I am very persuasive when I need to be. I have my methods.” He flinched at her implication. “Besides, I like it. Maybe I’ll never leave. When I die, I’ll be so famous that people will come to visit this place. It’s like a big memorial.”
“You will not die in this shitty apartment. I promise,” Tristan said.
“You don’t know that, Tristan. You can’t make that promise.”
“Promises are my best intentions.”
“Then promise to say nice things and tell stories when I die,” she said.
Tristan pushed that thought from his mind. It would be a cruel and terrible punishment to lose her after just finding her again.
“I remember the day of your memorial at school. It was so humid that it felt hard to breathe. It was the second week of school and everyone had already fallen right back into their cliques.”
Tristan took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and let that day play out against his eyelids. So clearly he could envision the sympathetic teachers, the looks from his peers.
“They asked me to say a few words and, at first, I refused. I was angry and knew that these people didn’t know you like I did. Then I figured I wanted them to know you better, so that I wasn’t so alone. I stood in front of the assembly and told them who you were and what you meant to me.”
Josie reached for his hand and laced her fingers through his. The vibrant ink that ended and wrapped around his wrist was such a stark contrast to her pale, clean canvas skin. They were contradictory and stunning together.
“‘McKenzi Delaune was my best friend. We met when we were seven years old. She was smart and witty and the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. You all knew her as the shy girl who studied during lunch and never joined clubs, but she was so much more than that.
“‘McKenzi climbed trees. She wrote secrets in a purple diary kept between her mattresses. She loved old black-and-white movies. She always danced around her living room with her mom, blasting music so loud that it shook the windows. Most of all, McKenzi loved to draw. Sketches of family and celebrities covered her walls. Sometimes she made up entire stories to go with her pictures, stories about dragons and aliens and superheroes. Every story had a common theme, happy endings. McKenzi believed in fairies and heaven and love. I hope that wherever she is now, she’s been reunited with her family and has found her own happy ending.’”
Tristan’s throat became tight and restricted with the words that he’d spoken as a teenager. Josie remained still on his chest, her breathing slow and steady. For a moment, he wondered if she’d fallen asleep.
“I can’t believe you remember that speech,” she said softly, sitting up so that she could see his face.
He smiled at her and couldn’t believe that she thought he’d ever forget it.
“I know things are shit right now. Our whole lives have been crazy, but I need you to know that I’m here to stay.”
Josie wondered how such passionate declarations could be made by a man who had suffered so much heartache. She looked at him, really looked at him, and could see now that he had made himself vulnerable. He was so unlike every other person she’d ever met. He wore his battered heart on his sleeve. Even after all the hurt he’d endured, he still had faith in love, whereas her faith had never existed.
She slid off of his lap and to the other end of the couch now, needing separation. Josie pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms tight around them, a defensive move she’d perfected years ago. A battle raged in her mind, a fight between what she wanted and what she needed.
“Tristan, I’m not that girl you remember. I’m not McKenzi. You’re infatuated with the memory of who I used to be, not who I am. You don’t know me.”
“I want to, Josie. If you’d just let me. I want to know everything,” he pleaded.
She shook her head and balled her hands into fists. He’d never want to know who she was now. She’d never compare to his perfect childhood memories.
“No you don’t, Tristan. No one wants to know those things.”
Tristan stood and began pacing the room, trying to keep his temper under control. He hated that she doubted his word. He hated that she didn’t trust him to keep her safe. But what he hated most was that he honestly didn’t know if he could.
“Yes, I do,” he said looking into her eyes, challenging her. “I need to.”
Josie shot off the couch, losing the last bit of restraint she had.
“Fine, Tristan. You want to know? I’ll fucking tell you. You want to know about when they found me, I was so dehydrated and malnourished I barely survived the night? I spent days in a hospital, and when I finally woke up everyone was a stranger! You want to know how I was shipped across the country to a state home, where I didn’t know anyone? You want to know how, at night, when the adults were asleep, the older girls would force themselves on me, and in me, while the others stood as lookouts? Is that what you want to fucking know?”
Josie yelled at him, she raged at him, she wanted to stop, but she couldn’t. Tristan just shook his head, helpless to soothe the trembling girl before him. Every statement stabbed at him like a serrated knife, destroying his heart.
“How about when I was so lucky to be placed in a foster home? You want to know how for the three years I lived there, I was kept in a nine-square-foot closet, even though there was a perfect little room upstairs staged with boy band posters and frilly pillows? Oh, I bet you want to know how that asshole beat me every time I spoke without permission.”
“No,” he whispered. “I can’t believe…”
“Yes! This isn’t one of your books, Tristan. This is my life. It’s real.”
Tristan wanted to go to her, he wanted to take away all the suffering she’d endured. He took a step toward her, but she held up her hand to stop him. Josie’s chest was heaving now, her breaths shallow and unfulfilling. The room began to spin as her heart crashed against her chest and pulsing blood deafened her ears.
“I slept in the park and stole to survive until Monica found me. Do you want to know that I’ve fucked so many people that I’ve lost count? Men, women, anyone who would give me what I needed. I did it for food, for a soft bed, and for a few pills.”
Tristan shook his head, unable to imagine the things she described, unwilling to accept that she’d endured those horrible atrocities.
“Don’t shake your fucking head, Tristan. You wanted to know, now you do.”
Her voice was only a whisper now, a tortured plea for solitude.
“None of that was your fault, Josie. None of it. You can trust me. I want to help.”
“You can’t help me, Tristan. No one can. This is who I am, now. I’m fucked-up and I can’t be fixed. Not by you or Monica or anyone else. Just go.”
“Josie.”
“Go!” she yelled, pointing at the door.
When he didn’t move, she yelled again, her face stamped with pink splotches and pent-up emotions. Tristan found himself on the edge of a precipice. He wanted to make her happy, but leaving would appease her only for the moment. He knew, more than she did, that she needed him to stay. Tristan squared his shoulders and prepared for battle.
12. Tides
The rising and falling levels of the ocean.
With heavy footsteps and infallible conviction, Tristan charged toward Josie. Her eyes widened in surprise as he approached. She’d told him to leave. She wasn’t prepared for resistance.
“No!” she shouted, pushing at his chest in a futile effort to keep him away. “Get out before I throw you out!”
He remained silent as he fought off her flailing arms and empty threats. Tristan’s large hands enveloped her wrists, stopping her assault midair. He pinned her hands to her sides and wrapped his arms around, trapping her in his viselike grip. She struggled against his hold, her strength fading with every effort.
“Let me go! Leave me alone! Just go! Why won’t you just go?” her weakening voice yelled.
Tristan squeezed her tighter and lowered his lips to her ear.
“Because I love you.”
Josie’s body sagged against his in defeat, and she rested her forehead against his chest.
“You can’t,” she whispered. “You can’t love me.”
“I do,” he insisted.
She blinked a few times, trying to focus her blurry vision, straining to understand his words. They made no sense to her. She’d never heard them directed at her before. It felt terrifying.
“Show me.”
Tristan crushed his lips to Josie’s. He didn’t have to think or plan, he only had to feel. He felt the wetness on her cheeks as his skin moved against hers. He felt the hot, soft flesh of her tongue push and pull against his. Releasing his hold on her, he slid his hands up to her shoulders and brought her flush against his chest. She felt so good, fit so perfectly. Tristan couldn’t imagine a physical pleasure more fulfilling than her touch.
Josie felt crazed and overwhelmed with emotion. She scratched and clawed at his body as if trying to climb inside him. Over the lines of his ink, she raked pink trails with her fingernails. Tristan hummed at the fulfillment of her pain becoming his.
Josie felt his hands trace down the curve of her body. Tristan grabbed the backs of her thighs and she hopped up, wrapping her legs around him. She celebrated the electrifying buzz of every part of her body being touched by every part of his.
A low, satisfied hum vibrated through his chest as he walked them to her never used bedroom. The only light came from the moon filtering in through the dirty window. Tristan dropped to his knees, Josie still clinging to his body. In a tangle of limbs, Josie fought her way out of her shirt and jeans while Tristan helped.
They ventured into unfamiliar territory for Josie. It was strange and intimidating and completely welcomed. Josie usually held all the control in these situations, taking what she wanted and then abandoning her conquest. With Tristan, she was happy to surrender.
Josie lay before Tristan, her skin glowing silvery blue in the moonlight. With her eyes hooded and her chest rising and falling so quickly, she looked like a beautiful waiting sacrifice. She was heavenly and entirely his. Here, in the quiet of this room, beneath the light that shone only for them, she was not damaged, she was faultless and brilliant.
Lowering himself down, he let the weight of his body press her into the mattress. He placed soft kisses on her chest and neck, dragging his tongue across her pulse point. The rapid thumping of her heart kept him grounded, otherwise he felt as though he might float away.
“Tristan, please,” she begged, pulling up on his shoulders so she could see his face again.
Josie rocked her hips against him, loving the feel of rough denim against her bare flesh. Desperate for the heat of his body, she tugged at his shirt until he sat up and removed it. The planes of his chest were artfully defined by the colorful images that curved and clung to his muscles.
She let her fingers trace over each pattern before dropping down to the fly of his jeans. Expertly, Josie slid each button through its hole, while her lips pressed kisses against his neck. He tasted like salt and adoration.
The muscles and tendons of his shoulders were rigid. Her tongue ran over the stubble of his jaw and she hummed at the delightful scrape of it against her lips. With his jeans undone, Tristan slipped out of them easily. Josie smiled at the revelation that he wore nothing beneath them.
Again, he lowered himself down onto her, but this time the feeling was quite different. Hot flesh against hot flesh and worshipping hands made them each feel as if time had stopped. Josie vowed to keep her eyes open, not wanting to miss a second of his loving, lustful face.
Tristan placed his lips on her body, sucking and biting until she was a hopeless mess. He slid his hand into hers to hold his weight. Josie treasured the feeling of being pinned beneath him, being held down by not only his body but also his affection. She’d never wanted to belong to anyone until this moment.
Josie watched in fascination as his brow furrowed and his eyes fluttered when he finally slid inside her. She felt her body stretch to welcome him and wanted to commit the feeling to memory. Once fully joined, he stilled and placed a sugary, chaste kiss against her lips.
“Perfect,” Tristan whispered.
He began a steady rhythm, a greedy pace set by his body and not his will. Sex had always been good for him, easy and pleasurable. But it had never been this. This was unexplainable and foreign. It was the rejoining of two lost souls to make each other whole again, immeasurable love.
“Tell me again,” she whispered.
Knowing exactly what she wanted, Tristan whispered the three words that gave her the only strength she had.
“I love you.”
His declaration sent her hurling over the edge. A fiery orgasm ripped through Josie, every muscle unyielding and taut as she chanted his name. She felt drunk and dazed and completely addicted.
Tristan groaned at the sight before him, her eyes squeezed tight, her lips parted in a silent scream. He’d never seen anything more stunning.
Josie hated that those three tiny words could invoke so much joy and so much fear inside her heart. As much as she felt that it might be true, she could not find the strength to reaffirm their more-than-physical connection. Instead, she kept with what was familiar to her.
“Oh God! So good, Tristan.”
Josie knew her words were harsh and unromantic, but they were easy. She couldn’t offer him the same profession that he’d given her, so she stayed true to the wild desire between the two of them. Tiny whimpers escaped Tristan’s lips with his climax, his own erotic melody.
Tristan rolled them over and wrapped his arms around her. Slowly, their breaths became slower, their pulses calmed. Bathed in the glow of lunar beams, they fell into a deep slumber surrounded by the pencil-sketched faces of their past.
* * *
The next morning, in the Clairemont neighborhood, swimming in their own postcoital glow, Monica and Rob exchanged their own confessions.
“It seems soon, but I just know that you’re it for me,” Monica said, tracing the light trail of hair leading from his belly to the waistband of his boxers.
“It’s the same for me. I love you like biscuits and gravy.”
“Ha. You better really love biscuits and gravy,” she teased.
“Of course, ma’am.”
“Seems like some people wait for love their whole lives. Some people never expect to find it. How did two people like us happen across each other? Destiny or a higher power maybe,” Monica said, her voice trailing off.
Rob nodded, silenced by her ideas of destiny and otherworldly forces responsible for their union. He believed in no such thing. Still, he pulled Monica in close and kissed the top of her head. He wouldn’t question her ideals. All he knew was that he wanted her to be happy and he would do anything in his power to make that happen.
Later that afternoon, when they had rehydrated and fed themselves, the couple ventured out to Balboa Park. Rob lay in the grass with his jacket folded beneath his head. In the warm light of the late-day sun, he hummed as Monica ran her fingers through his hair. They watched children play and dogs chase after them. Couples walked hand in hand, enjoying each other and the impossibly beautiful weather. When massive jets swept over, they would raise their faces to the sky to enjoy the roar of the engines and the momentary eclipse created by their shadows.
They talked about love and life and changes to come, planning their future as if it were guaranteed. Rob admitted to never being in love before. While Monica couldn’t admit the same, she was sure that it had never felt quite like this. Rob complained about the unrealistic expectations of his job and his fears of failure. So much responsibility sat on his shoulders and the weight of it felt crushing at times. Monica admitted that, though demanding, she loved her job.
“It’s so fulfilling,” she confessed. “I mean, these kids, who have been abandoned in some form or another, have no one to look out for them. That’s where I come in. It’s my job to make sure that they’re safe. I want them to have a fair chance to reach their potential.”
“Yeah, but don’t you get tired of taking responsibility for other people’s children? Don’t you just wish parents would be parents?”
“I do wish people would be accountable for their children, but I feel a responsibility to help,” Monica answered.
For her, it was simple. She was capable of helping, so she did.
“When I was younger, I thought I could save them all. I was stupid. I made mistakes that were covered up by my superiors, swept under the rug with a slight slap on the wrist. It makes me sick now to think of me getting off so easy when this innocent girl paid the price.”
Monica felt tears prick at her eyes. She blinked quickly, willing them away.
“What happened? Is she…?” Rob inquired but couldn’t finish the thought.
Monica shook her head. “She’d had a really rough life already. She lost both of her parents, then she was shipped cross-country. She was only my third assignment. I placed her in a foster home with this couple who seemed perfect. They had a safe home and full-time jobs and an older son who was about to leave for college. They wanted to offer their home to a teenage girl. I put her there. I did that to her.”
The tears rolled down her cheeks now, and she didn’t care to stop them.
“It’s okay,” Rob whispered, clutching her hand in his and running his thumb back and forth in a sweeping motion.
“It’s not okay. They did horrible things to her, Rob, things that you can’t even imagine. It was my fault for not seeing through their lies. It was my fault.”
This had been the subject of nightmares, the cause of therapy, a never-ending black cloud looming over her. No matter what, Monica could not let go of the guilt and shame associated with Josie Banks.
“Can you imagine being responsible for something so horrible?”
“It’s not your fault those people were terrible.”
“It’s my fault she had to live with them, my fault that she was too scared to tell me the truth about them. She’s twenty-two years old now. She uses drugs and sex and God knows what else to avoid having any real relationships. She’s so damn talented, an artist. I check in on her, always trying to guide her toward a better life, to save her from herself. Josie doesn’t want to be saved, though. I guess I’m just being selfish. Because if she turned out okay, that would mean I didn’t fail.”
She broke down again, this time losing all control. She sobbed against his shoulder, painting his shirt in misshapen circles of salt water. Monica clutched his arm, needing to feel and consume his strength. She sighed when she felt his hand rub comforting circles on her back. The feel of Rob’s love made it easier to manage.
“Darlin’, you did what you could. I’m sure she knows you didn’t intend for any of that to happen.”
Monica swiped at her eyes and took a deep, cleansing breath. She forced a smile down at Rob’s worried face, regretting burdening him with such tragedy.
“I know. I do. I just want her to be happy. I almost feel guiltier now that I’ve found you.”
“Monica?” a deep voice called from a few feet away.
She looked up to find her coffee beau, Evan, standing there. She forced a smile and glanced around, trying to figure out where he had come from. Feeling vulnerable, she wondered if he’d overheard any of their conversation. Rob sat up quickly but remained relaxed as Evan approached.
“Hi, Evan. Fancy seeing you here,” she said, shielding her eyes from the sun so that she could look up at him.
“Yeah, I was heading to the museum with some friends when I spotted you. You’re looking much better than the last time I saw you.”
Both Monica and Rob looked around for his friends but found no one waiting.
“Yeah, a day off will do that,” she said. “Oh, Evan, this is Rob. Rob, this is Evan.”
Evan stepped closer, enjoying how he towered over the seated man. He offered his hand in a gesture of forced politeness. It would gain him points with Monica if he remained casually friendly to the boyfriend. Rob gripped his hand and Evan almost grunted from the force of his hold. The corded muscles and tendons of Rob’s forearm were evident as he kept his expression indifferent and his hand crushing Evan’s.
Rob nodded and released his grip from the would-be suitor, hoping that his warning was clear. She’s mine.
“Evan knocked me on my ass the other day in the rain. He bought me coffee to make up for it,” Monica offered, completely unaware of what had just transpired between the two men.
“Did he?” Rob asked.
“It was the least I could do,” Evan acknowledged. He looked around, wringing his hands together before turning back to address the couple. “Well, I’d better get going. It was good to see you again, Monica. Rob, nice meeting you.”
“Likewise,” Rob spat at his retreating form.
When he was out of sight, Monica turned to Rob only to find his gaze still trained to the empty space where Evan had been. His blue eyes were slits and his face was contorted into a menacing scowl.
“Rob? He’s gone, you can stop crushing my hand now.”
Rob snapped out of his jealous daze and released her hand. She smiled at him and shook out her fingers, exaggerating the pain just a bit.
“That guy’s a douche bag.”
“Aww, sweetie, you’re jealous,” she teased. “That’s so cute.”
“No, I’m not,” he denied.
Monica straddled his lap and kissed him on his forehead, then his nose, then his lips.
“Yes, you are, but it’s adorable. The green-eyed monster suits you.”
“You could have introduced me as your boyfriend, you know.”
“Is that what you are?”
Rob shrugged, suddenly aware of their unidentified relationship.
“Boyfriend seems so juvenile. You can be my partner, my lover, my special guy,” she sang in a dramatic declaration.
Rob chuckled, letting his anger slip away.
“Regardless, I don’t like Khaki Pants Church Clothes Evan. I want you to stay away from him.”
Monica laughed and placed more distracting kisses on his face along his hairline. She combed her fingers through his hair and gave him an obedient smile.
“He’s nobody. I’ll never lay eyes on him again,” she promised, though she couldn’t know how far from the truth that statement would prove to be.
* * *
Tristan lay awake for nearly an hour, holding Josie close and memorizing her sleeping face. When she began to stir, he placed a kiss on top of her hair and inhaled. He found her intoxicating.
“Good morning,” he whispered, his lips still pressed into her hair.
Josie hummed in response and squeezed him closer. Perfect, she thought, everything is perfect. She marveled at how soundly she’d slept and how utterly content she felt.
“REM sleep usually only accounts for twenty-five percent of our sleep, but with you it seems much higher. Do you remember your dreams?”
“I used to just see all those faces, yours, my parents’, but now I don’t remember anything. I bet they’re mostly about you.”
“I hope so,” he answered, running his hand down the curve of her spine. “Josie?”
“Yeah?”
“Didn’t you ever want to know about your life before amnesia?”
“I would sometimes think that I wanted to know, but I was too scared to face it. I thought, what if it’s worse than what I do remember? I was happy to leave it alone. That way I could imagine it was a good life.”
