Page 121 of One of Those Amnesia Stories

I didn’t look back.

Not once.

Chapter 20

“The cat hates me,” I stated.

I had been taking refuge in Felicity’s apartment for two days, and in that time, I had finally made the acquaintance of the famous Mr. Fitzherbert.

For forty-eight hours, the creature had monitored my every move from various high perches, his fluffy orange face a monument to feline disapproval. He didn’t blink. He judged.

“Oh, no,” Felicity said, setting a bowl of popcorn on the coffee table. “That look? It means he likes you. A lot.”

I raised a brow. “Really? Then this”—I held up my hand, displaying the three parallel scratches across the back of it, a little ‘gift’ from Mr. Fitzherbert when I’d attempted to refill his water bowl—“must mean he loves me.”

Felicity blinked. A faint, guilty flush crept up her neck.

“Uh-huh,” she muttered, suddenly fascinated by a speck of dust on the windowsill before making a swift exit from the room.

I shook my head at her retreating figure just as Naija walked in, a bottle of wine tucked under one arm and three glasses balanced in her hands. She set everything on the table beside the cake I’d baked, then took the seat beside me. A moment later, Felicity drifted back in, her arms laden with more snacks.

For the last two days, I’d done nothing. I hadn’t gone to work. Hadn’t answered emails. Hadn’t made a single decision more complicated than deciding what to stare at next. I had simply… existed in Felicity’s guest room, watching the light crawl across the wall as the hours bled into one another.

Seeing my state, Felicity and Naija had announced a mandatory movie night. They’d also mentioned, casually, that they were craving one of my cakes.

I didn’t bake often. I reserved it for two distinct occasions: true celebrations, or moments when the world felt so weightless and pointless that the precise measurement of flour and the steady rhythm of mixing became the only anchors I had left.

Naturally, I’d baked the cake.

Felicity took her seat, and she and Naija shared a look heavy with unspoken conversation.

My eyes narrowed. “What?”

They looked at me, then at each other, offering synchronized, innocent shrugs. “Nothing.”

I let out a slow breath. “Just say it.”

Felicity’s words came in a rushed, earnest tumble. “I need to apologize. For what happened with your mother.”

My brow furrowed. “Why? That had nothing to do with you.”

Felicity’s brow shot up, incredulous. “Are you kidding me? The only reason she was at your place was because of me.” She held my gaze, her expression full of regret. “She showed up here after the divorce news broke. She wasn’t… pressuring me. She was just standing in the hallway, looking completely lost. She asked if you were okay. Not about the divorce, just… you.”

Felicity shook her head, replaying the memory. “When I told her about the accident, she… broke. I mean, she physically collapsed against the wall. She was hysterical. Couldn’t breathe, couldn’t talk, just this raw, gut-wrenching sobbing. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

She rubbed her temple. “My brain short-circuited. All I could think was, get this woman water, get her to sit down. I left her in the living room for thirty seconds. I was frazzled. I didn’t think she’d… I didn’t think about the spare key on the hook by the door. I didn’t think she’d take it.”

Naija placed a hand on Felicity’s arm. “She’s been wrecked about it,” she said softly.

Felicity’s eyes were bright with unshed tears. “I am so sorry, Alessia. I feel like I unleashed her on you.”

I leaned forward and took her hand. “It’s not your fault.” I gave it a small squeeze. “She would have gotten a key somehow. You know her. It’s not your fault.” I settled back into the couch, the last of my energy draining away. “If anything, it’s my fault for even opening the door.”

That thought had been my constant companion for the last two days.

Felicity shook her head, her eyes still too bright. “Shut up. It’s not.” She held my gaze, willing me to understand. “You just wanted her to be your mom. For once. You can’t blame yourself for wanting that.”

Naija picked up the wine bottle, examining the label with unnatural intensity. “Okay. Blame time is over.” She poured three generous glasses, the rich, glugging sound cutting through the heavy air. She passed them out. “New rule: we drink, we watch something fun, and the word ‘mother’ is banned for the rest of the night.”