Page 37 of Given Our History

PRESENT

Reagan’s blond hair is fanned across her pillow. I resist the urge to chuck the bag of McDonald’s at her head, instead opting for setting it on her nightstand. Am I not merciful? Actually, I’m not, because I proceed to throw open the curtains, admitting the blinding gray of an overcast morning into her bedroom. She groans in protest, tugging the quilt up over her head.

“I don’t think so.” I yank it back down, and she doesn’t have the strength to fight me. She scrunches up her face, throwing an arm over her eyes instead. I jostle the fast-food bag to get her attention. “I brought you McDonald’s.”

She lifts a lifeless arm just enough for one bloodshot eye to squint at the nightstand. “I’m on a diet.”

“I don’t want to hear it.” I take the bag and shove it at her. “You probably drank, what, a thousand calories’ worth of alcohol last night? And McDonald’s is the perfect hangover cure.”

“Why can’t you let me sleep?”

I drag her desk chair and position it beside the bed like I’m about to give her Last Rites. She probably thinks the McDonald’s is a peace offering, but I like to think of it as buttering her up before the impending interrogation. “Be glad we’re having this conversation now and not earlier.”

Grumbling, she props herself up against the headboard and begins rifling through the bag with half-lidded eyes. After shoving a few fries into her mouth, she gropes in her sheets—probably searching for her phone, which is currently on the kitchen counter, where she left it last night after I forced her to down a couple glasses of water. Giving up the search, she blinks at me, bleary-eyed. “What time is it?”

“Eleven thirty.”

“What time did I get home? How did I—” She stops in the middle of unwrapping her Big Mac to stare at me in horror. Last night’s eyeliner is smeared across one of her cheeks. “You picked me up last night.”

“Her memory returns,” I announce to the barren room. Aside from the odd teapot or moth-eaten armchair from the local antique mall, I haven’t bothered decorating much of the house, but Reagan’s room is the most neglected. Just a twin-sized bed, a thrifted rolltop desk, and a nightstand, the lot of which she’s accented with fairy lights and haphazardly strewn laundry. She’s lucky there are curtains—they came with the rental.

“Where’s my Jeep?”

“Safe and sound where you left it. I’ll take you to pick it up later today.” I eye her, wary. “If you’re not still drunk.”

“I’m not still drunk,” she protests through a mouthful of hamburger.

I’m not convinced, but we’ll see how things are looking after the McDonald’s. In the meantime, I have bigger Filet-O-Fish to fry. “So, you don’t remember anything else, I take it?”

Reagan must note the edge in my voice, because she lowers her Big Mac, chewing slowly. Biding her time. When she swallows, she asks tentatively, “Was Professor Harrison with you?”

Okay, so she does remember. I’m not sure if that makes it better. “Now you call him by his actual name.”

Her eyes widen. “Oh my god. I didn’t. Did I?” When I neither confirm nor deny, the panic sets in. Her Big Mac lies forgotten on her lap, and she scoots closer to the edge of the bed. Closer to me. “What else did I say?”

I take a deep breath. I can do this. Relay the events. Just the cold, hard facts. No emotions involved. It’s all in the past, right? Reagan might have unintentionally dragged a few memories out of storage and shaken the dust loose, but it’s not like any of those things matter now, well over a decade later. So I’m not going to take my frustration out on her. I’m going to handle this like an adult.

“Get off me,” Reagan wheezes from where her cheek is smooshed against the bed.

The quilt and sheets are tangled, collateral damage from the struggle that ensued after she told me that I should thank her for giving me an easy opening with Teddy last night. What with her hangover, it took less than a minute for me to gain the upper hand, and I promptly secured my victory by sitting on her back, flattening her against the bed. “Apologize first.”

“You’re going to make me throw up!”

“You won’t throw up if you just say sorry.”

She sighs, her body deflating beneath me. “Fine. I’m sorry I told Professor Hottison about your stupid crush.”

“Former stupid crush,” I correct her. “And I’ve told you to stop calling him that.”

She groans. “Whatever. Now let me up.”

I relent, and she gasps like I’ve been dunking her head underwater. Which, now that I’m thinking about it, sounds like a great punishment for the next time I have to babysit her like this.

“I’ll be back in a couple hours,” I say, “and then we’ll see about going to grab your Jeep.”

Rubbing her chest, she manages a glare. “Where are you going?”

I don’t feel like getting into details, so I just say, “I’m meeting up with someone.”