She had nice hand towels. I close my eyes and try to remember the color. Was it gray? Or pink? Or purple? Shit, I don’t recall. I’ll buy all three and keep the ones she likes the best. She also had a pretty quilt. That was white with flowers.

Feeling better now that I have a plan, I allow myself to unpack. The bottle of Ciroc is at the top. I debate pouring it out but opt not to. Hart might need it, so I stick it into the cabinet next to the fridge.

The picture of the two of us at the pier, I lay on the counter. I need a frame or a magnet. Frame, I decide. I’m going to hang it on the wall. In fact, I think I’ll blow it up so all she sees when she comes home is a giant-ass picture of the two of us kissing like the legends we are. I grunt with approval at my own genius and add that to the bottom of my to-do list.

A change of clothes and two bottles of cheap vodka are all that remain in my backpack. I’d planned to sleep here, but as I stare at the bare floor, I wonder if that’s a good idea. I check out the bathroom. The shower still works and the water pressure is decent. The landlord said that the place had been repainted and the flooring is new.

I toss my joggers and hoodie on the floor and bed down, placing my head on my backpack and folding my hands across my chest. Tomorrow I’ll ask Ella where to buy all the shit I need.

There might be nothing here that can help Hartley regain her memories, but I still have mine. And we can create new ones, happier ones—ones with her sister, ones with my brothers.

I cling to the hope that tomorrow’s going to be better. Ella told me that once. That if today’s a shit day, I should be glad because even if tomorrow’s another hellish experience, you know that you can make it.

The Ciroc bottle is still sealed. I wanted to drink but I avoided it. That’s a win for me.

Tomorrow’s going to be better.

Chapter 10

Easton

A text from Pash flashes across my phone at a quarter to ten. I sit up and stretch. The floor is killing my back. First thing tomorrow, I’m getting a bed sent over here.

Pash: Kyle Hudson. U kno him?

Me: Nvr heard of him. School?

Pash: Astor

Me: No clue.

A picture pops up along with another message:

Pash: He’s sitting w ur girl and Frank at FT

I zoom in on the image. Both students are sitting with their backs to me. While I can’t make out the thick guy with no neck, I’d recognize that waterfall of blue-black hair on the girl next to him anywhere.

I shoot to my feet. What in the hell is Hartley doing with this guy? Across from both of them is the snake, Felicity. Pash has taken to calling her Frankenstein because she’s a scary motherfucker who’s more monster than human. Hell, calling her Frank’s probably an insult to ol’ Frankenstein.

I haul my jacket onto one arm while trying to text Pash at the same time.

Me: Go over there and make sure she’s ok.

Pash: I’m sitting right behind them w Davey. Davey says Kyle and Hartley are a couple?

Me: The hell they are.

What lies is Felicity feeding Hartley? This is bad. Very bad.

I call Pash instead of texting. “Dude, go over there and interrupt,” I order before my friend can bleat out a greeting. “Her doctor said that if we tell her stuff before she remembers on her own it can mess her up.”

“What am I supposed to say?” he cries.

“I dunno. Tell her a story about how great your castle is in Kolkata.” Pash comes from an old and very wealthy Indian family. A couple of years ago, his grandfather decided to build a new compound, and from all the pictures on Pash’s Instagram feed, the joint looks big enough to house Astor Park and every one of its students. He could waste an hour just going through the first floor.

“Davey’s giving me the eye. If I get up, she’s going to kill me.”

“If you don’t get up, I’m going to kill you,” I threaten.

“Yeah, but I’m not having sex with you. Sorry, gotta go.”

The weak-kneed asshole. I throw myself into my truck and step on the gas. It’s a twenty-minute drive from this side of town to the French Twist. It’s too bad Ella doesn’t work there anymore, or I could’ve gotten her to step in. Unlike Pash, she knows the meaning of loyalty.

I make it in twelve minutes, sweating like a pig from the fear that I would be pulled over by a cop and waste even more time. I throw open the door and scan the small bakery for Hartley, but only see Pash and his new girlfriend chatting over coffee.

He jumps to his feet and waves me over.

“Where are they?” I growl.

“They left like five minutes after I called you.”

“Fuck!” I turn on Davey, who blinks her brown doe eyes up at me. “What did you hear? Word for word. I want every detail. Don’t leave anything out.”

“I didn’t hear much,” Davey admits. “They were talking low. The only thing I heard really clearly was Hartley telling Kyle that they were broken up.”

“I didn’t know she dated anyone but you,” Pash puts in.

“She didn’t,” I say in frustration.

Has everyone’s memory been wiped clean? Did the Men in Black come in here and zap everyone? Hartley dated zero people. She didn’t hang out with the Astor kids. She worked at an all-night diner on the east side of town during her free time, sometimes even skipping class to take a shift. When she wasn’t delivering trays of food and drinks, she was sleeping. Life was serious for Hartley.