Matt smiled, and it went practically ear to ear.Please don’t let me disappoint him again.
“First thing is the infamous Halloween party. I know I already told you about it, but I think we’re supposed to talk about the experiences multiple times. Plus, I found a picture.” He shuffled through the photos on the table and put one on the top. My hair was whooshed to the side, as was Matt’s tie, and we did look as though we had been hit by a huge gust of wind. We also had that decidedly drunken look—heavy-lidded eyes and disheveled smiles—and were tangled into one another, me tucked into Matt’s arms, his chin resting on my head, our hands holding up a huge bottle of tequila.
Matt snapped his fingers and jumped up. “Hang on, almost forgot.” He disappeared into the kitchen for a minute and came back with a bottle of tequila—same brand as from the photo. He cracked the lid and poured the clear alcohol into two shot glasses and handed me a slice of lime. “Tequila requires lime. But don’t worry, I washed it.”
I had a strange feeling in my belly when I looked at the lime in my hand, but it was gone before I could figure out why. “Thanks,” I said, turning my attention back to Matt.
“So I already told you about that night when you saved my sorry ass from having no costume and we won Most Original and then got very drunk on that tequila right there.” He pointed to the picture. “But what I didn’t mention was that was one of the best nights of my life.” His voice softened, and I felt a lump grow in my throat, along with a twinge of jealousy at how intact his memory was. Matt handed me one of the shots of tequila and then took the other one, clinking his tiny glass to mine. “Bottoms up.”
We tossed back the tequila, which burned all the way down, and chased it with the slice of lime, the sourness puckering my lips.
Matt then proceeded to tell me the whole story again and I listened carefully, laughed and smiled and blushed in all the right places, and did two more tequila shots while staring at the photo. Still, nothing happened.
“It’s okay,” Matt said when I admitted it didn’t seem to be working. “Remember, this isn’t a quick fix, right? I’m grateful you’re even willing to try. I know this can’t be easy for you. Ready for the next thing?”
I nodded, warmed and bolstered by the tequila. “Ready. But I have a feeling I could end up very drunk tonight.” I glanced at the row of wineglasses. “This could get messy.”
“Don’t worry,” Matt said, smiling. “I’ll take good care of you.”
* * *
I did get drunk. Very drunk. There was no spontaneous recovery, but at least the process felt productive. Like we weredoingsomething. And if nothing else, it reminded me I couldn’t wallow in what had happened to me. Moving forward was the best option, and with the sort of clarity one gets from consuming too many shots of tequila and a lot of good wine, I decided that was exactly what I was going to do.Put the past in the past, and embrace the future.I repeated the mantra a few times out loud, and soon Matt joined me, becoming the thing we said prior to doing yet another shot.
Matt took me through a handful of experiences. There was the walking ghost tour in Niagara-on-the-Lake, but we’d visited too many wineries prior to the tour and were so tipsy by the time it started we couldn’t stop giggling, distracting the tour guide and other guests. Then after I jumped from behind a door at one of the supposedly haunted houses and shouted, “Boo!” nearly giving a retiree from Ohio a heart attack, the unimpressed guide took us aside and suggested we might do better with a different sort of tour.
Matt liberally poured wine from what he said had been our favorite winery on that trip, and produced a photo of me making a scary face behind some unsuspecting white-haired tourist, the flash causing my face to go whitewashed and my eyes red. I laughed hard, choked a little on the wine but still couldn’t remember.
He also cooked a meal we’d enjoyed during a trip to Austin—a work trip for Matt but one I had apparently tagged along for to partake in a long weekend. The photo showed me standing in front of a food truck, my hands weighed down by two grocery bags each holding enough food for a small dinner party. Matt said we ordered one of everything, including four kinds of barbecue, blue cheese coleslaw and banana pudding for dessert. Tonight he’d made the coleslaw and pulled pork shoulder—now I knew what had smelled so delicious—even attempting to replicate the sauce, which he had tried to procure but was a well-kept secret and he hadn’t been able to sway the food truck’s owner to share it.
And with every memory Matt recounted, every experience we’d shared, every bite of food and sip of wine that had meant something to us, I hoped it would be the thing that did it. We ate until I thought I might burst and drank until things became blurry and beautifully uncomplicated, but still I remembered nothing.
23
It took me two days to recover from the hangover, and I still wasn’t a hundred percent by Wednesday when I got a text from Matt midday telling me to be ready to go out for seven o’clock and to dress casually, but in warm layers. Also to pack an overnight bag (we were staying downtown somewhere) and to drink as much water as I could stomach to counteract the alcohol we’d be consuming. I groaned at that last part but promised to be ready, warm and hydrated. I also texted,So which T-shirt is my fave?and then with his response packed Matt’s ancient, butter-soft Toronto Maple Leafs shirt into my bag to sleep in. I was going to do everything I could to make tonight a success, even if I had no idea what that entailed.
Dressed and waiting by six-thirty, I set a huge glass of ice water beside me and flipped through my memory confidence list (I added the T-shirt note), wanting to do some work on it before my Friday appointment with Dr. Kay. But I couldn’t concentrate, my mind on what Matt had planned for us. I gathered it had to do with this reminiscence therapy, and expected tonight would be another test I couldn’t prepare for. Like when you dream you show up to a class you aren’t registered for—organic chemistry was always the one in my dreams—and surprise! There’s an exam, but you didn’t study for it because you’re not actually taking organic chemistry and it’s worth a hundred percent of your grade, and with rising panic you realize this can’t end well.
I tried to reassure myself this wasn’t actually a test; I couldn’t pass or fail. But running alongside that mental track was one telling me Matt had probably planned a night full of things I should know—used to know. Of course, there was always the chance something would trigger a memory and I could only hope it would happen while I was with Matt—and beaboutMatt. The last thing either of us needed was for another memory of Daniel to expose itself, taking over valuable real estate in my mind.
I wiped my damp palms against my jeans and tried to decelerate my heart rate. I wanted—no,needed—for this to go well. By 6:50 p.m. I’d worked myself into a mild frenzy, anxious about the date but unable to stop thinking about Daniel. About how much simpler things would be if I were waiting for him to get home instead. The guilt was swift and overwhelming and I needed to alleviate it before Matt walked through our front door. And so I was downing a second glass of wine—the ice water untouched—when I heard his key in the lock.
“Luce?” Matt called out from the foyer. He stood by the front door, unclipping his bike helmet. “Hey there. Wow. You lookhot,” he said, smiling at my multiple layers of clothing—jeans, ski socks and a wool sweater over two long-sleeved shirts. “And I mean that both literally and figuratively.” I laughed, more relaxed now thanks to the wine.
Fifteen minutes later Matt had changed, tossed our bags into the car, and we were on our way. “How was work?” I asked.
Matt gave me a quizzical look but kept the smile on his face. “Good. Nothing new to report since the last time you asked. Five minutes ago.”
I put my hands over my face, the wool from my mittens tickling my nose. “I’m sorry,” I said, my voice muffled with my hands. “I’m nervous!” I was obviously doing a terrible job pretending not to be, so I might as well be up front about it.
He reached over, keeping one hand on the wheel, and pulled my hands away from my face, holding on to them and squeezing. “Don’t be nervous, okay? Tonight is about nothing more than having fun. I promise. No expectations.”
I smiled at him, leaned my head back and closed my eyes. “Was I this neurotic about stuff? Before, I mean?”
Matt laughed, and I turned to look at him. “Honestly? Yes. You’re a bit of a worrier.”
“Good to know.” I laughed, too, still holding his hand. A couple of minutes later we pulled into a Green P lot and I recognized where we were. “But it’s April,” I said, glancing at him as we walked near the waterfront. “The ice is gone, isn’t it?”
“It is,” Matt said. “But we don’t need it. Come on.” He pulled me toward the outdoor rink, which had now reverted back to its postwinter concrete surface, and we sat on a bench on its edge. Matt had one of those reusable canvas grocery bags at his feet, from which he brought out a tall thermos and paper cups, doubled up to protect our fingers from the heat of the beverage. Handing me the cups, he opened the valve on the thermos and poured the dark brown liquid.
