Page 200 of One of Those Amnesia Stories

Liam glanced one last time at Michael. “Turns out I have a lot of free time now, Dad. And guess what all my energy is going to go into? Bringing you down. And I swear—on every time you looked at me like I wasn’t good enough, on every moment you made me feel like I didn’t belong in my own family—I will not let you down this time.”

He turned back to Cassandra.

She was still standing where she’d been, one hand pressed to her mouth, her eyes wide and wet. He crossed to her slowly, like he was approaching something that might spook.

“I’m not going to make you come with me,” he said quietly. “I’m not going to drag you out of this house. But I am going to keep showing up. Every day. Until you’re ready.”

He held her gaze.

“I wasn’t there before. I should have been. I’m sorry, Cass.” His voice softened. “I’m so sorry. But I’m here now.”

He turned and walked toward the door.

Michael’s voice stopped him. “Instead of wasting your time with these stupid shenanigans, why don’t you convince your friend that marrying your sister would be good for all of you?”

The words hung in the air. Stale. Repetitive. Michael was a broken record, playing the same note over and over, unable to hear anything else.

Liam’s shoulders tensed. He started to turn.

I moved.

I was in front of Michael before Liam could say another word. Close. Close enough that he had to look up to meet my eyes. Close enough that the rest of the room disappeared.

“There’s construction happening on your street.” My voice was low, meant only for him. “They dug a hole. Pretty deep.” I leaned in, just slightly. “People slip all the time. Fall in. Break their necks. Die alone in the dark before anyone finds them.”

His eyes widened. Just a fraction.

“So the next time you even think about calling my wife names—” I let the pause stretch, let the words settle into his bones. “Remember that hole is still there.”

I straightened, held his gaze for one more beat, and turned. Liam was already moving toward the door. I followed. We didn’t look back.

Liam got into the driver’s seat. I slid into the passenger’s side. He stared straight ahead, both hands resting on the wheel, but he didn’t start the engine. The house was still there in the rearview mirror, but he wasn’t looking at it. He wasn’t really looking at anything. He was somewhere else entirely.

The silence stretched between us. I knew better than to break it. Liam would speak when he was ready. So I waited.

Then, after a while, he said, “My kids will like me.”

I turned my head toward him.

He was still staring straight ahead, his voice quiet, almost to himself. “My kids won’t just tolerate me. They’ll love me. They’ll want to spend time with me. They won’t be scared of me.” He swallowed. “I’ll make sure of that.”

I kept looking at him.

Liam didn’t do quiet. He didn’t do still. He was a person who laughed too loud, moved too fast, filled every room he walked into as if silence were something he had to outrun.

And yet, after his mom died, he’d sat on my couch for three hours without saying a word. Just sat there, staring at nothing, until finally he said, “She used to make pancakes on Sundays.”

That was it. We’d gone out and gotten pancakes and never talked about it again.

The last few weeks, he’d been like this more often. It was because of Cassandra. He missed her. He kept reaching for her, and she kept pulling away, and he didn’t know how to fix it. He didn’t know how to be her brother.

I let the silence hold for another moment. Then, because I knew him, because I knew what he needed, because saying anything real right now would probably drown us both in it, I spoke.

“Kids?” I let my voice go dry. “Don’t you need to find the mother first? When was your last date? And I’m counting things that actually happened, not dreams you had.”

He stared at me for a second, his brain clearly still somewhere in the study, still with Cassandra, still with his father. Then the words caught up with him. His eyebrows went up. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

Then his face cracked. A laugh burst out of him—loud, surprised, real. He shook his head, still laughing, and finally turned the key in the ignition.