My pulse pounds in my throat. I take another step back, and the edge of the counter presses into my spine. “Neither of us is in a position to start something. I need to go home soon. You need to focus on getting your memories back.”
“Nat.” The way he says it, low and raw and careful, almost undoes the entire speech I just gave. He takes one step closer. “Whatever you’re afraid of, it’s not me.”
For a fraction of a second, I waver. I want to close the gap and put my mouth back on his and stop being the responsible one for five more minutes. He’s near enough that I can feel the warmth radiating off his body, and my body is a traitor leaning toward it.
But he’s right, he’s not what I’m afraid of. And that’s exactly why I can’t.
Because this isn’t about his mystery life or his busted head. I’m engaged. I’m a peace treaty in a white dress, and if my father finds out some stranger on a beach is jeopardizing that deal, Johnny won’t live long enough to get his memories back.
He tries again. “Natalia, I?—”
“No.” The word lands flat, and I don’t soften it. He needs to hear it with all its edges intact.
He watches me for a long moment. Something shifts behind his eyes, the heat giving way into something resigned, and he nods once. He moves past me toward the hallway with enough distance that we don’t touch but close enough that I catch the warmth coming off his skin.
The guest room door shuts, and the house goes still around me.
Two plates of breakfast sit on the island, untouched and going cold. I stand there for a minute, maybe longer, then pick up a fork and stab at the eggs. They’re rubbery now. I chew without tasting and stare at Johnny’s full plate across the counter.
I kissed him. I wanted to kiss him. I’d do it again right now if I thought I could keep him safe.
I scrape both plates into the trash and wash them, scrub the pan, wipe the counter twice. When I run out of things to clean, the quiet rushes back in. So I do what I always do when I need the one person who actually gives a damn. I take my phone to my room, sit cross-legged on the bed, and call Anna.
The call takes a while to connect. A nurse usually helps her start the video call when it rings, and I listen to the tinny chime repeat.
The screen flickers. And there she is.
Gray hair pinned back with the tortoiseshell clip I bought her three birthdays ago. The wingback chair by the window. Orderlies passing behind her in soft-soled shoes.
“Irina?” Anna’s eyes search the screen. Hopeful and uncertain. “Irina, is that you?”
The familiar ache. She does this sometimes, calls me by my mother’s name, sees a ghost in my features. I look like her, apparently. I wouldn’t really know. My father didn’t keep photos of her around. I’ve seen one, blurry and faded and tucked in the back of a drawer like something he wanted to forget.
“It’s me, Natalia.”
A beat. Her brow furrows, then smooths. Recognition breaks through like sun through cloud cover.
“Nat!” She beams, creases deepening around her eyes. “It’s so good to see you, sweetheart. How are you? Where are you?”
“Traveling a little,” I say. “Away from the city.”
“Mm.” She accepts this the way she accepts most things now, without pressing, without the through-line of logic that used to connect her thoughts to each other. “Are you eating enough? You look thin.”
“I’m eating. I promise.”
“Good.”
“How are you, Anna? Are they treating you right? Have you scared off another nurse?”
“Not yet, but give it time.” Her chin lifts. Stubborn as ever. “Your dear old Anna will get the best of them.”
I chuckle and her eyes drift toward the window, tracking something I can’t see. The focus slides off her face like water. She’s here and then she’s not, and I’ve learned there’s nothing to do but wait and hope she comes back.
After a moment, she turns back to me. “It was so lovely when you visited last week. You brought that cake I like. From the place on Delmar.”
I haven’t visited. I can’t visit. But I know better than to say that.
“The almond one?”
