“Sit anywhere,” I say from behind the counter with a flippant wave of my hand, trying not to sound like the dejected woman I am. “I’ll be right over.”
After I finish making his drink, I grab a few leftover cookies from the case then make my way to him.
I stop in my tracks when I see where he’s sitting.
It’s like time has stood still. The booth may have been re-covered and the window behind him may have a new etching, but in this moment, all I see is the thirteen-year-old boy with the amazing blue eyes who brought me to this very same booth on our very first date.
I stride over with shaking hands, set down the drink and the cookies, then turn. “I need a minute.”
Rushing behind the counter and into the back, I press my spine against the wall and sink down to the floor where I try to control my breathing and keep from falling apart. Because the man on the other side of this wall has absolutely no idea what he’s doing to me when he looks at me with those same blue eyes that used to sear into me and worship me. Only now, those blue eyes are vacant. Not full of life. Of passion. Ofus.
“Ava?”
His voice isn’t as distant as it would be if he were still in the booth.
I wipe a tear. “Yeah. Coming. I just need to use the bathroom.”
It’s a lie. I need a minute. I needallthe minutes. Because I’m just not sure how much longer I can take facing him and looking into those eyes without breaking.
I still don’t understand how his brain isn’t allowing him to remember. How can he not know about the booth?
I sit up straight. Then I stand. Then I run upstairs and get my diary. If he doesn’t remember, and he doesn’t want me telling him, maybe I canshowhim. Just as I did with the letter he wrote.
“Hey,” I say, walking over and taking the seat across from him.
He doesn’t know how it kills me to sit across from rather than next to him. I keep the diary in my lap, not wanting to push him too much too soon.
He lifts the cup. “It’s good.”
“It’s your favorite.” I catch myself, because if I’ve learned anything over the past few days, it’s that he doesn’t want people telling him who he is. Who he was. “Or… it used to be. I can make something else if you want.”
“No. Like I said, it’s good.”
There’s an ocean of silence between us. It’s sucking all the air out of the room. It’s such an odd feeling, not being comfortable with the man I’ve loved for two decades.
“Um, so what did you do today?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Worked on the car a bit.” He holds up his arm with the cast. “It’s kind of hard with this thing though. I walked one of the trails. And I looked at some photo albums.”
It’s the last sentence that has my curiosity. “Really?”
“It’s not that I don’t want to know who I was. Who I am. I just don’t want it crammed down my throat. I feel like I’m walking around on eggshells. What if I say something someone doesn’t like, or do something I’m not supposed to do? Honestly, I did a lot of sleeping. And hoping that this nightmare will just end.”
“Is that what it feels like to you? A nightmare?”
He nods. Then his eyes flutter closed before he looks at me again. “I know it must be for you, too. I’m not trying to be difficult.” He looks toward the back room. “How come you ran back there?”
I swallow, and it hurts, because his question brings back so many memories. Memories that are painful because now I’m the only one who knows them.
“This was the same booth we sat in on our very first date.”
Now he’s the one swallowing. It’s like he wants to know about it, but at the same time, he doesn’t.
“Do you want to move somewhere else?” I ask.
He runs a hand along the edge of the table then looks up at me. “Do you?”
“I love this booth. I’d never want to sit anywhere else with you.”
