Easton nearly chokes on a mouthful of vodka. “Is that what you remember?” He coughs.

I know I’m bright red, but now that I’ve started down this road, I might as well finish. I can always throw myself off the edge when I reach the end. “No, but there’s nothing here except this stuff”—I jerk my thumb over my shoulder at the bag and clothes—“and that stuff.” I point my index finger toward the weed and liquor.

“You’re pretty good at calculus, Hart, but your simple math skills are questionable. You can’t add up a weekend bag and a miniscule amount of weed and get sex shack.” He finishes his glass and refills it.

“Then what does it add up to?” And how many glasses of vodka is he going to drink? I shift uncomfortably and my foot knocks into something. I look down to see an empty vodka bottle near my toe.

Easton strides over and picks it up, acting as if this is completely normal. But as he bends over to toss the bottle in the trash, I see the tops of his ears turn red.

“When you lived here, you slept on a sofa. I figured I’d sleep there too when I rented the place. I didn’t realize it was empty.” He straightens and tilts his head, studying me for a long moment. He comes to some conclusion—one he doesn’t share immediately—and walks over to pluck the still full glass out of my hand. He pours mine and his down the drain, picks up his wallet, and throws his blazer over his shoulder. “Come on. If we’re not going to drink, let’s get something to eat. You’re going to need something in your stomach.”

Those are somewhat ominous words, but as Easton places his warm hand under my elbow, I realize that out of everyone, I trust him the most.

Chapter 20

Easton

I drank too much. That was my first thought when I opened the door to see Hartley standing on the rickety landing wearing my St. Laurent jacket that I gave her the night she had that god-awful meeting with Kyle whatshisface and Felicity Worthington.

When she walked into the empty apartment with not one of her personal belongings there to jog her memory and all the hope drained into her shoes, I felt that I hadn’t drank enough.

I want to wrap her up in my coat and take her some place where memories have no meaning—a place where only the present is important. Where the lost and confused look that haunts her eyes is chased away with wonder and joy. The problem is I don’t know where that would be.

I wanted to take her skiing on the Swiss Alps or swimming in the Mediterranean, but instead, I’m walking her to the corner store where they sell beer, bags of ice, and stale potato chips. Who knows, maybe something here will jog her memory.

“What are you hungry for?” I ask.

She stops in front of the hotdog roaster. “I’m not sure. It’s weird because I don’t even know if I like hotdogs,” she says, peering into the contraption that rolls the hotdogs over a few heated coils. She tilts her head toward me. “Do you know if I like hotdogs?”

“You ate corndogs and funnel cake at the pier and didn’t seem unhappy.”

She rubs her lips together as she stores this tiny little tidbit into her empty memory slots. I wonder what it’s like, knowing nothing of the past. If you asked me two weeks ago, I’d have said that memory loss is a blessing. You wouldn’t have the feelings of grief or hurt or even jealousy. You’d wake up and life would be this glorious blank slate. After seeing Hart’s anguish, I know that’s not the case. Since regaining consciousness after her fall, she hasn’t had a moment’s peace.

You can see it in the way she’s always looking around, her eyes darting from person to person and object to object, searching for the thing that will jolt her memory and break through the barriers that prevent her from seeing into the past.

Unless what her doctor suggested was true and there are memories she will never retain—that they were literally knocked out of her.

I feel guilty getting mad over seeing her and Bran together at the ice cream shop. Hartley doesn’t know that she’s supposed to be by my side. That thought sends a spear of pain through me, which answers the dilemma from earlier. I haven’t drank enough, because if I had, the alcohol’s lead blanket would’ve prevented that shard from piercing the skin.

“Do you want a hotdog?”

“Sure,” I answer even though I don’t. I’d prefer the forty ounces of beer staring at me from behind the glass.

“Anything on it?”

“Mustard.”

She carefully applies a thin zigzag of the condiment, wraps the hotdog carefully as if she’s done this a million times before, and hands it to me. “This seems familiar. Did I work at this place?”

“I don’t know. You waited tables at a diner. They could have had hotdogs there, but I can’t remember.” I paid more attention to eavesdropping on the frantic and disturbing conversation between Hartley and her older sister than the menu.

“I worked at a diner?” Her eyes grow wide and her voice gets a little high. “Which one?”

She has that same panicked look she had earlier when she first looked around the apartment. I have no idea what she’s thinking.

“The Hungry Spoon. It’s about a mile or two that way.” I jerk my thumb over my shoulder.