“Only you, Drew. Twice now.”
“Evie—”
“That’s the only kiss I properly remember.” I’m not counting that horrendous experience from Year Nine.
What makes things true? I can imagine a whole world of experience missing from my memory, but if I don’t remember it, did it ever happen? Aren’t we meant to be the sum of our experiences? Surely that works only if our memories are intact. Piled up over years, shaping us into the people we become.
He’s looking at me like he doesn’t know what to do with me. Or with us. Up until now, he seemed in control of this situation, but I’ve blown that up.
“We can’t do this,” he says, shifting me from his lap, standing up and walking to the edge of the deck. “For … so many reasons.”
“Because Oliver is dead?”
“Yes.”
“Because of the amnesia?”
“God, yes.” He’s leaning back now, against the railing, trying to push more space between us, perhaps.
“Drew, that kiss wasnotnothing. Not even close.”
He fails to argue back this time. Just looks at me, with some sort of hopeless acceptance.
Whatever the two of us had back then, it was special. This is years of chemistry, safely contained. Explosive agents sitting beside each other on a shelf, not allowed to mix until now. And this no longer feels like it’s just about our past. It’s about our future.
It’s as if the loss of the last thirteen years doesn’t matter at all, and we could just start right here, on this deck at sunrise.
66
Drew
Evie’s not rememberingentirelywrong. She’s just not remembering her half of it. She never looked at me that way. The first time we did this, it barely got off the ground, because she realized it was a mistake and put a stop to it almost immediately.
The sliding door opens and Bree emerges with a second macchiato, caffeinating for a difficult conversation after a long night. She’s a mere two steps onto the deck when she clocks Evie looking even more disheveled than before—cheeks flushed, pulling at her pajama top—and she stops still. Evie faces up to her best friend’s experienced scrutiny and doesn’t have to say a word. Bree’s lips curl into a smile, which she hides behind her coffee mug, clearing her throat.
“And how are things going with you, Drew?” she asks, a glint in her eye.
How does it look, Breanna?
“Exploding head emoji, I think he said …” Evie responds.
“Having the time of my life,” I assure Bree sarcastically. “And you?”
She smiles. “Actually Iamhaving the time of my life.” She puts her coffee mug down and gets a photo up on her phone to show us both.
“Who’s this?” Evie asks, admiring the professional headshot of a woman with a flawless bronze complexion and a thick mane of dark ringlets, brown eyes sparkling despite the serious smile.
“This is Ivy. She’s a cellist with the Chamber Orchestra.”
“TheChamber Orchestra?” Evie asks. “The Australian one?”
Bree laughs. “Yes, but you’re missing the central point!”
“Is she your new best friend?” Evie is trying to get on board.
“EVIE. This is Ivy, my partner!”
As the realization dawns, Bree doesn’t get the reaction she was hoping for, because Evie just starts crying. Sobbing, actually. In fact, she absolutelylosesit. “I’m sorry!” she cries, jumping up and throwing her arms around Bree. “I’m so sorry, Bree. I didn’t know. I am theworstfriend!”
