Page 217 of One of Those Amnesia Stories

“You think you and Cassian are meant to be, right?”

Behind me, I felt Cassian’s hand settle on my back.

Cassandra’s gaze flickered to him, then back to me. “We are meant to be,” she said, and there was something desperate in her voice, something clinging. “You don’t understand. You weren’t there. You don’t know what we were supposed to—”

Liam stepped forward, his mouth opening. Cassian moved too, a breath away from interrupting. I waved them both off without looking. They stopped. Waited.

I nodded at Cassandra. “Okay. So you know him, then?”

“Of course I know him.” Her chin lifted, defensive. “I’ve known him for years. I’ve been there for him. I’ve—”

“Okay.” I cut her off again. “When he drinks coffee, which hand does he hold it with?”

Cassandra blinked. “What?”

“His coffee. When he’s standing, talking to someone, not sitting at a desk. Which hand?”

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Her eyes flickered to Cassian, then back to me. “His right. He’s right-handed.”

I shook my head. “He holds it with his left. So his right hand is free. So he can shake hands. So he can be ready.”

Cassandra stared at me.

“In a restaurant, when the food comes, does he eat first or wait?”

She didn’t answer.

“He waits. He waits until everyone at the table has their plate. Every time. Even when he’s hungry. Even when no one’s watching.”

Her face was pale now. Her hands were shaking.

“Next question. What’s his order at the hot dog cart across from his office?”

“I don’t—”

“Classic. Extra relish. No onions. He eats it the same way every time.”

Cassian’s hand moved on my back, a slow, almost unconscious stroke. I didn’t look at him. I kept my eyes on Cassandra.

“Okay,” I said, softer now. “Different questions. Does he drive with both hands on the wheel or one? What’s his tell when he’s lying? When he’s nervous? When he’s happy?”

A tear slipped down her cheek. Then another.

“What’s the worst meal he’s ever had? What’s the song that makes him turn the volume up when he thinks no one’s watching?”

Her breathing had changed. Shallower. Faster.

“You don’t know him. You’ve been chasing a version of him that doesn’t exist.” I stepped forward. “The one your father built. The one who was supposed to complete some plan, fill some hole, give you the future your father decided you were meant to have.” I paused. “He’s right here. The real him. And you’ve never once asked him who that is.”

She was sobbing now, her shoulders shaking, her hands pressed to her mouth like she was trying to hold herself together.

“You don’t know him at all.”

She sank to the floor, her hands covering her face, and the sob that escaped her was raw, broken, the sound of someone who had just realized they’d been living a lie for years.

I moved ahead and crouched in front of her.

If someone spent your whole life telling you something was true—was it their fault for telling you, or yours for believing them?