Instead, it triggers a memory… Dylan stands in a doorway, his voice urgent. "Nikita, it's not that big of a deal."
"Don't ever call me that again!" I slam the door, shaking the pictures on the wall—pictures I can't see clearly in the memory.
What do they know that I don't? Were we lovers? My heart threatens to break my ribs. Given how sex felt, I think I really was a virgin.
I force a slow inhale, counting to three, hold for three, then exhale and hold to a six count. One of the nurses at the hospital taught me this box breathing. It steadies me.
These men radiate safety, their touches giving me pleasure and security. Yet if I trust that the memory was more than a figment of my imagination, they're not being honest.
Did I flee them for a reason? Why didn't they look for me in the week I was in the hospital and shelter?
Dylan's snores rumble soft and even. Toby's chest rises and falls steadily under my cheek. I slide my leg free from Dylan's, careful, then lift Toby's arm from my belly. I slip from the beanbag pile, padding to the bathroom. I ease the door almost shut, avoiding making any sound.
My jaw throbs. I unclench it, rubbing the tension away, and draw more box breaths. Why haven't they said anything?
I know them. The certainty awakens inside of me as another memory surfaces. In it, I’m peering out a window above a swimming pool, I watch Toby and Dylan lounge by the water. A thrill sparks. I dig out my tiniest bikini and strut downstairs to join them. Their heads snap to me, eyes widening.
We shared a house? Or were they visiting? I'm flirting but not overtly, as if they're off limits but I can't resist. They seem to share the distance I feel. Their attraction is clear but controlled.
Who are these men at my swimming pool?
The memory offers a tease, just as I did, and then it's gone. I lean against the bathroom counter. Am I making this up? Is my brain creating a memory, or trying retrieve my past?
I turn and face the mirror in the dim lighting. Whispering, I say, "Mirror, mirror, on the wall, can I trust these memories at all?"
And can I pick and choose, only accepting the pool scene, not the argument?
A simpler flash follows. The dining table, remnants of food left on plates as if we just finished. Toby and Dylan sit across from me. We've had dinner together.
An older man is at one end of the table—my dad. A warm fuzzy feeling overtakes me. My heart swells as I get a clue to having a family.
The niggling question about why none of them found me after my accident brings up more questions. How old is this memory? Is my dad still alive?
A cool chill from the other end of the table sends a shiver up my spine. Sitting opposite my dad, logically this is my mom.
A dish full of tiny pie-looking things is passed to me. I don't take one, just pass it to my dad.
Mom's voice stops me cold. "Just eat the damn cookie."
"I don’t like apples."
She scoffs. "It's not going to kill you."
"Dad," I plead. Yes, confirmation of who he is.
His mouth opens to say something, but she chastises me. "It’s one cookie. It won’t make you fat."
The memory vanishes.
I glance at my flat stomach in my reflection. Did I obsess over my weight? That feels wrong. I tried an apple at the hospital and the texture made me want to barf.
I don’t like apples, even when they're baked into a cute apple pie cookie. It has nothing to do with my weight. How does she not know that?
Oh no, I forgot all about the cheesecake and sparkling cider, but that’s the least of my worries.
Who are Dylan and Toby, and why were they having dinner with my parents and me?
More box breathing anchors me. A new memory surges. The five of us are in a photography studio. The parents sit in the center and I stand at my dad's side. Toby and Dylan stand beside mom.
