I don’t remember celebrating New Year or Christmas, Princess, in nearly two decades. But I’m looking forward to next New Year. We’ll celebrate it together.
He calls her Princess, which she is, but because of that, I’ll never call her that.
At the bottom of his reply, her hurried words are there:
Liar liar liar. You're a bloody liar. I hate you.
Half the journal is filled with her sweet, romantic letters about her daydreams and how much she longs for their next meeting. After that, only two more pages are written.
One of them is so wet it’s like water was sprinkled over it, but I know it’s her tears. And only one thing is written on the whole page.
Please come back.
Fifty-eight fucking times.
The other one is more like a suicide note:
I'm tired, Salvario. I don't want to wake up one more day only to search for you and wait for you to come when I know that won't happen. You're not coming back. You've really left me to die little by little every day. What wrong did I do to you that you'd punish me like this? Is it because I lied about being Avi? I'm sorry, please stop punishing me. I can't take it anymore. I don't have any more strength left to fight this emptiness that's consumed everything I could hold on to live.
This page is also filled with smudged ink—from her tears.
I close the journal and put it back on the nightstand. I read it for the first time this morning, and ever since, a thought has been coming to me every few minutes.
I can never replace this man.
She loves him so much that it’s impossible to remove him from her. I’ll have to live in his shadow for a long time, maybemy whole life. Even if this is the cost to make her mine, I’m ready to pay it.
???
I open the back door of the SUV, and her dogs bolt out, startling the people around us as they sprint toward her the moment she comes through the terminal doors. She’s wearing a long light brown coat, and under it, pale pink sweatpants and a sweatshirt—her comfortable travel outfit. Her shoulder-length wavy brown hair frames her round face, glowing under the colorful Christmas lights that reflect off her porcelain-smooth skin.
She drops to her knees and lets them lick and sniff her aggressively while she tries to hug them. It’s not easy to hug them as they jump all over her, and she’s giggling, looking as beautiful as the summer sunrise that breaks for the first time after the icy winters in Greenland.
I frown at my thoughts. Out of all the places, I have to think about Greenland, the very place where that motherfucker used to live. I’ve never even seen pictures of it. Maybe I went there once or twice before losing my memory, to know what the sunrise there looks like.
Logan and I don’t have episodic memories, but our semantic and procedural memory is intact, except for language. We recognize certain languages as familiar, but we cannot understand or speak them. English is the only language we can comprehend and use.
She slowly gets to her feet once the dogs have had their fill of her. Her eyes finally settle on me. The feeling of déjà vu hits me, but I lose it instantly when she starts walking toward me. My chest locks up, my heart pounding against my ribs like it’s trying to break free and get to her first. My palms ache with the needto touch her. I stand straighter as she reaches me and hugs me. I wrap my arms around her, breathing deep that rosy air.
How can a hug feel like getting the whole world?
“Merry Christmas Eve.” Her muffled voice, pressed against my chest, fills it with warmth.
“Merry Christmas Eve,” I murmur.
She pulls away, tilting her smiling face up to meet my eyes, her body still pressed against mine. “You’re looking like you missed me a lot.”
A smile finds its way to my lips without me realizing, and she grins. She reaches out and pokes my right cheek. “I love your dimple.”
I just stare at her, desperately—no, hungrily—committing the sight of her to memory. I know I’ll see her smile often in the future, but there can never be enough of these moments. Each one is equally precious.
“Are you planning to keep staring at me standing here all night?” she teases, pulling herself out of my arms. I don’t like the emptiness she leaves behind.
Is it possible to glue her to me?
I don’t think so.
I take her hand, it’s the second-best option right now. I pick up the bag she dropped before hugging me and lead her to the passenger side, opening the door for her. She slips inside, and I lean in, setting the bag on her lap before drawing the seatbelt across her body and locking it in place.
