“I’m trying to understand the man in these messages.”
“You.”
“The man who knew you.”
“He was still you.”
“He felt things I don’t remember feeling.”
“That does not make him more real than you are now.”
Noah closed the gallery.
“I still know what I’m attracted to.”
“Physically?”
“Yes.”
“That is common. Skills, tastes, desire—those can remain even when personal memory is disrupted.”
“Dr. Whitcomb told me.”
He looked at me from the corner of his eye.
“Apparently I still like broad shoulders and men who become stern when they’re frightened.”
My pulse stumbled.
“Was that also in Dr. Whitcomb’s explanation?”
“No.”
A smile pulled at my mouth before I could stop it.
Noah saw.
“Do not make this significant.”
“I would never.”
“You are making it significant right now.”
“I am sitting silently.”
“You’re doing it smugly.”
The banter loosened something between us, but the heat beneath it remained.
Noah returned to the photographs.
The apartment appeared in pieces.
The kitchen with its mismatched cabinets.
The narrow hallway.
The living room windows overlooking the harbor.
