“That’s the one.” Her face softens into something certain and pleased. “You were wearing your blue coat. The one with the big buttons.”
I don’t own a blue coat. I’m not sure I ever did.
“I love that coat,” I say.
“Beautiful, that coat.” She nods, satisfied. Then, a beat later: “Oh, it was so lovely when you visited. You brought that cake from Delmar.”
The loop. I keep my face still, warm, completely untroubled.
“The almond one.” I say it like it’s new information.
“Yes.” She smiles, and I love her so much I could break in half. “You always remember.”
Her eyes drift again, longer this time. The window. The hallway. Somewhere I can’t follow. I sit with it, watching her face, waiting for the thread to come back. It always does, eventually. Sometimes pulled thin, sometimes knotted, but it comes back.
This time it takes longer than usual. I’m about to say her name when she blinks, and her eyes find mine with sudden, startling clarity. The fog lifts all at once.
“You look tired, my girl.”
“I’m okay.” I smooth my face. “Just a long week.”
“Come see me.” Simple as breathing. “Come when you can. I don’t need much. Just your face for a little while.”
“I will.” The lie tastes sour on my tongue. “As soon as I can.”
She nods, already half-smiling about something else. She’ll forget I said it before the call ends. That’s its own particular grief.
“Don’t forget to eat something,” she says.
“I won’t.”
“And sunscreen.”
Another small grin turns up the corner of my mouth. “I will.”
“Good girl.” That smile, broad, warm, entirely herself. “I love you, Nat.”
“I love you, Anna. Talk soon.”
I end the call and press the heels of my hands against my eyes until I see white.
The only person who ever truly loved me is more than two thousand miles away, forgetting me a little more every day. I can keep her safe, but the thing that keeps her safe is the same thing that keeps me caged.
And for about ninety seconds in that kitchen with Johnny, I forgot all of it.
I should do something productive. Study. Review my notes. Do anything other than lie here and replay the feeling of his mouth on mine.
Instead I curl onto my side, shoes still on, and stare at the framed stock photo of a seashell hanging on the wall. My fingers drift to my mouth before I realize what I’m doing, and I pull them away like I’ve been caught.
I chose something today. For myself. For no other reason than because I wanted it. For one small moment, I was a person who got to want things.
Here’s the thing I can’t say out loud, the thing that makes me a terrible person: I don’t want him to remember. Not yet. Not today.
Because when he remembers, he leaves.
And when he leaves, this house goes back to being a waiting room with an ocean view.
8
