He drives out onto the highway, and we’re off again, only the rumble of the tires against the pavement as I wait for him to respond. “Over what? Noah?”
“Yes but…” I trail off, trying to formulate the right words. “I feel guilty that I don’t remember him like I should. He’s fiction in my head, but he’s real to you. I should know him. Remember him as more than a character in my story. I’m so sorry that I don’t, Ashton. If I did, maybe all of this could have been avoided. My parents wouldn’t have lied. He wouldn’t be depressed, as you say, and he wouldn’t have disappeared on you. And I should really give this necklace back to you.” Panic settles in my chest as anxiety over the situation comes swinging like a wrecking ball to my life. That heavy weighted blanket feeling from earlier cloaks me further. I’m running away with a man I don’t know to find another man I don’t know because my family lied to me. I’m crumbling, collapsing, caving.
I reach to unbuckle the necklace, but taking it off feels like losing a part of me. It’s been a physical reminder of survival. Of hope.
Why, God? Why did I have to get amnesia? What’s the purpose of this confusion and chaos?What am I even doing here? I don’t know him. I don’t love him. What help can I even offer?
“Stop, Esme.” Ashton says, his fingers gripping my hand. “Keep the necklace.”
I drop my hands into my lap.
Conversational silence envelops us as Ashton drives. The rumble of the road grows louder and louder with every passing second. I fear I might have spoken too honest of thoughts when he says, “Esme, you have nothing to apologize for. Life happened the way God meant it to happen. It sucks, yeah. But you’re notto blame. Noah’s a grown man struggling. He’s doing whatever he needs to do, but as his twin, I couldn’t sit on the knowledge you were remembering him even if you didn’t realize you were remembering him. He deserves to know, Esme.” Ashton grins, immediately shifting the mood with him. “I’m glad you willingly agreed. I might have had to kidnap you.”
Why would God mean this to happen? What’s the purpose of it all?Great. I’m becoming upset with God over my amnesia again. I thought I had dealt with that many months ago.
Just push it away for now, Esme,I tell myself.Deal with it later.
“Ashton,” I groan, covering my face with my hands, but the building anxiety begins to ease at his playful tone and my decision to forcibly change my mood. “Not the right thing to say at this moment.”
“Saying the right things is my brother’s specialty, not mine. He’s the one with all the game.”
Preach, my brotha!Noah shouts. I hold in my laugh, deciding I’ll bring this up to Ashton later. It’s just… weird.
“You’ve got some game,” I note incredulously. “Confession time. I developed an immediate crush on you when I first met you. You’re obviously hot; you know that. But the way you stood up to Bryan for me,wow. That was something. Real winner, game-like material right there.”
Ashton rolls his eyes, but I don’t miss his smile as he looks ahead at the road. “Don’t let Noah hear you say that.”
Already heard,Noah grumbles. Okay. Maybe I’ll bring it up now.
I inhale a breath before slowly releasing it and saying, “So, don’t commit me to an asylum, but I sort of hear Noah in my head. He speaks to me. All the time.”
Ashton arches his brow at me. “Like, your book character, right?”
Chuckling, I nod. “I don’t think it’s possible that I’m communicating with the real Noah. That’s stuff of fantasy novels. We aren’t in that genre yet.”
“My characters talk to me, too. I think it’s natural for writers to live with a commune inside their heads.”
I hum, knowing he’s right. But my creative mind can’t help but thinkwhat if…
My stomach churns, the coffee I was drinking earlier choosing violence in my gut. Ashton, for sure, is off-limits. There’s no way he’d make a move when his brother loved—loves—me. And now that I know what I know, I’m beginning to pick up on subtle differences between Ashton and the man who has been living inside of my head. Whereas Noah (my character, at least) is a bubbly, natural-born flirt, Ashton is more reserved. Noah has a wild, carefree abandoned look to him, while Ashton is certified put-together.But there’s something untamed lurking beneath the surface of Ashton.
“Are you the older twin?”
“Yep. How’d you know?”
I grin as if I’ve hit the nail on the head. “You're uptight and take charge. The Noah I wrote about in my book has more of a middle-child complex.”
Ashton snorts. “And that’s true. Branda is the baby.” Then he grows serious. “I meant it when I said you wrote Noah—for everything that he is—into your story. From the way he swings his legs when sitting on a pier to his extroverted ways, such as doing something as ridiculous as volunteering to have a bunch of women paint him shirtless.”
“I had so much fun writing that scene. I thought—” I release a long breath, staring out of the window at the wall of green passing me by. “I thought it was a rather creative scene. But I guess it might’ve just been a memory.”
“Maybe, but maybe not. Regardless, you’re a great writer, Esme. Don’t doubt that. You could write your story down all day long and it still be a load of bull. What you did, however, was bring your story—even your real one—to life.” He pauses, the road rumbling beneath the tires in the silence. “Your prose and imagery. The way you utilize figurative language and other literary devices.” Ashton meets my eyes for a brief second. “Never doubt your skill, okay?”
Numbly, I nod. My head is achingly full of questions that won’t have answers until I meet my mystery man, and even then, it might open a can of worms. I’m not the same woman I was. I’m not the same woman Noah fell in love with. I was probably spontaneous, reckless, and wild while on my honeymoon alone if my book is an indication of the truth about how I acted. I imagine any woman would morph into an uncivilized flirt in need of a romantic escape after being left at the altar by a bland box of crackers. That’s why I wrote Esme the way I did, and that’s who Noah must have fallen in love with, but I’m not her.
Will I only hurt him worse?
Needing a distraction, I reach for the radio and turn on country music. “Is this okay?”
