“Of course you remember it,” I say. “One of your favorite things to eat. The first meal we kinda shared.”
His gaze narrows, as if he’s searching for the thread I’m unraveling, and I force myself to smile, even though the memory feels like a knife lodged in my chest. “It was our first meal together, sort of. Not exactly a date—because, well, I was just the newbie intern and you . . . you were Keane Stone. Not that I knew it at the time. I honestly believed you were my competition.”
He’s looking at me as if he’s listening, but also trying to remember. “I had no idea you were on your way to becoming a rock god. Do you remember that?”
Keane blinks once. “So you remember your music?” He blinks three times in response.
“What’s that, a new thing? Like some morse code to tell me abso-fucking-lutely, but I’m foggy about it?”
He blinks once. “Progress. Maybe tomorrow when the speech therapist arrives things will start clicking better.”
He sighs and tries to move his hand, probably to run it through his hair in frustration, but he can’t do that much.
“Okay, so let’s keep going down memory lane.”
His expression doesn’t change much, but his eyes stay on mine, and it feels like permission to keep going. So I do.
“I was a sophomore in college,” I say, almost to myself now. “Nervous as hell. It was my first internship, and all the musicians recording that week were treating me like I didn’t exist. Unless they needed me to run errands. I was invisible. Except for you.”
I glance at his hands, at the subtle tension in his fingers, like he’s trying to move them more but they won’t obey. My throat tightens, but I push past it.
“You were recording late,” I say, letting the memory unfold like a movie playing in my mind. “Everyone else had gone home, but I was stuck cataloging equipment and running errands because—surprise—I was the lowest on the food chain. I was exhausted, frustrated, and honestly one coffee spill awayfrom quitting. They promised social media training, public relationship things, and . . . well, it wasn’t Pria’s fault. She trusted her assistant would do the right thing but they didn’t.”
I lean back on the chair. “In any case, that night you walked in and said, ‘Let’s get some dinner, it’s on me for saving my ass.’” I pause, studying him, hoping for some reaction, some spark of recognition. “I thought you were joking, so I said, ‘If you’re trying to flirt, it’s not working.’ And you just grinned—this stupid, cocky grin that I’ll never forget—and said, ‘Who said anything about flirting? I’m starving.’”
Keane blinks, his brows knitting together slightly, like he’s trying to piece together the memory. My heart aches as I watch him struggle, but I keep talking, determined to help him find the pieces.
“We ended up at that late-night pizza joint a few blocks from the studio. The one with the broken jukebox and the sticky floors. You ordered plain cheese, and I remember looking at you like you were insane. I asked, ‘No toppings? Not even pepperoni?’ And you said, ‘Why ruin perfection?’”
His fingers twitch again, and this time, I know it’s deliberate. My pulse stumbles, and I bite back the tears that threaten to rise.
“You spent the whole night teasing me,” I say, my voice trembling slightly. “Telling me I didn’t look like an intern, that I was way too put-together for this job. You said I’d quit by the end of the summer because musicians chew up people like me and spit them out. And I told you you were an ass, that if you thought I would let you take the job, you’re crazy. But you just laughed and said, ‘Maybe. But I’m not wrong.’”
A faint noise escapes him—soft, almost imperceptible—but it’s there. It feels like a laugh, or maybe just a breath catching in his throat. Either way, it’s enough to make my heart ache.
“You were wrong, though,” I say, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. “I didn’t quit. I stuck it out, worked my assoff, and made it through. But that night . . . that stupid pizza night . . . it stuck with me. Because for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel invisible. You saw me.”
I swallow hard, my vision blurring as I reach for his hand, my fingers brushing lightly over his. “I don’t know if you remember any of this,” I whisper. “But I do. I remember everything. And I’ll keep remembering for the both of us until you’re ready to take it back.”
His hand flexes beneath mine, and when I glance up, his eyes are glistening, locked on me like I’m the only thing anchoring him to this moment. The knot in my chest loosens just slightly, and I smile through the tears I can’t stop.
“It’s okay,” I say softly, my voice shaking but sure. “You don’t have to remember everything right now. We’ll get there. One slice of pizza, a song, and maybe a memory at a time, okay?”
A single blink. Slow, deliberate. I squeeze his hand, hoping that I’m giving him something back, some of the things he lost after that accident.
It’s not everything. But it’s something. And for now, it’s enough.
Chapter Thirty-One
Haydn
You knowwhat I’m hating the most? Every time I’m near them, she’s telling Keane how much he meant to her, recounting an old memory like it’s a lifeline. Her words are soft, reverent, like she’s piecing together the fragments of their story in a way that makes it feel alive again.
And me? I’m in the background, the muted tones of a story she isn’t telling.
My fear—the one I keep trying to tell myself isn’t real—is that as she remembers him, as she continues walking down memory lane with him, she’s forgetting us. Forgetting me.
Is this an unfounded fear?
