Why can’t we go back to that point two weeks ago, when my brother was conscious and Hartley remembered me? I gulp down another big swig and then another until the sharp edges of the day are whittled soft and the blackness becomes a swirl of color.

Chapter 19

Hartley

I decide to go to the library. It’s busy despite the late hour.

“We close in thirty minutes,” a gangly teen says in a snippy tone. I nod and hug my jacket closer around my shoulders.

Actually, it’s not my jacket. It’s Easton Royal’s. He gave it to me the other night after Felicity and Kyle ambushed me at the French Twist. I haven’t returned it. I don’t have a phone, but this is Bayview. Everyone knows the Royals and it would be easy enough to find out where he lives. I could drive there right now and lay the jacket on the front porch.

I run a finger over the zipper and sniff the collar for the hundredth time. The scent is growing fainter with each time I pull it on, but I can’t stop wearing it. I’ll return it. I will. Just not tonight.

I tug the leather close around my chin and type in the name of the medication Dylan was forced to take. The web results say it's to treat bipolar disorder and migraines, and that if she takes too much she can die. I try not to be concerned, because on the Internet every symptom eventually leads to death. Medical websites are the grim reaper decision trees. Did you take a pill? If yes, you’ll die. Did you not take a pill? If yes, you’ll die.

Still, I’m worried, so I dig deeper, trying to absorb as much as I can in the short time I’m here. I can feel the hostile eyes of the library worker lingering on my shoulders.

As I read the description of bipolar disorder, a lot of Dylan's actions begin to make sense to me. She probably does need the medication and if she hadn't taken any today then the number of pills she swallowed isn't dangerous. Still, Dad scared the shit out of me. I think the solution here is to make sure Dylan takes her meds. That way Dad doesn’t have to lose his temper and Dylan doesn’t suffer the intense and debilitating mood swings.

The information makes me feel marginally better.

“We’ll be closing in five minutes.” The announcement comes over the loudspeaker.

I tap my fingers restlessly on the keyboard. Do I check the messenger app and see if my cousin, Jeanette, has responded? I wonder—No, I’ve made up my mind not to wonder any longer. Besides, I don’t want to piss off the library worker. I wrap that excuse around me like Easton’s leather coat and scurry out to my car.

When I start the engine, I realize the thought of going home makes my skin crawl. But nothing in Bayview feels familiar to me. Maybe that's partly due to my lack of memory, or maybe it has to do with the fact that I haven't lived here in three years. There’s no place where I put my roots down, no place that has my stamp on it, no place to hide, or vent, or celebrate.

The image of the pier flickers in the back of my head, but it’s not a memory of the past, just a memory of the picture I saw. Of Easton holding me so tenderly—his big frame bent over my body as if he could shield me from the rocks that life pelts at you. I run my tongue across my lips wondering what it felt like to be kissed by Easton Royal, to have his hand wrapped around the back of my neck as he held me steady for the press of his mouth. Was that our first kiss or our last?

A strange, hollow ache develops in my chest and despite the distress that invades the empty spaces in my mind, I welcome it. It’s something.

I start the car, turn off my brain, and just drive. I drive down Shoreview, the frontage road that runs parallel to the shore. There are endless white fences and Magnolia trees interspersed by the occasional gate or long drive. None of them strike any chord with me. I drive on until the streets get narrower and the lawns grow smaller and smaller until there aren't lawns at all—just concrete and dirt and gravel.

On the east side of town, the buildings are short. Some of the windows are boarded up. The cars on the street are old and the fresh ocean scent is replaced by gas, fried oil, and garbage.

I end up in front of a small two-story house with an outside staircase that looks like it's about to fall away from the frame of the home. The place is lit up from top to bottom. The odor from the alley beside the house is strong enough to penetrate the car’s windows. A balding man is sitting on the porch wearing a barn coat and rubber boots, and smoking a cigarette. I don’t know why, but I get out.

"Hey there, girl," the man greets me between puffs. "Thought you weren't coming back."

It takes a second for his words to register, but when they do, I nearly trip over my feet in an effort to reach him.

"I got in an accident," I tell him. “I got in an accident and—” I stop right before admitting that I had lost my memory. What if he's dangerous? Why would I know him? Is he my...? I can't even think of the right noun to put at the end of that sentence.

“Yeah, I know all about that, girl.” He takes another long drag, then blows out a cloud of smoke. “Got your apology cash, ’member?”

I frown. “My apology cash?”

He lifts a brow. “For wrecking my car? Your friend dropped off the fat envelope you asked him to deliver. Don’t know where you got that kind of cash, not gonna ask, either.” He winks. “That Volvo wasn’t worth half what you gave me for it. And if you’re here to see him, go on up. He’s home.”