Page 66 of One of Those Amnesia Stories

He let out a humorless breath. “Then I tried to get my car back, but the towing company said they couldn’t release it until the police cleared the mistake and sent over the paperwork. So I said, ‘Fuck it,’ and took another cab here, only to find the elevators were under emergency maintenance.” His mouth twisted into a miserable line. “Twelve floors, Alessia. I just ran up twelve flights of stairs.”

I pressed my lips together, fighting the smile threatening to escape. “You know, you should really write a book on excuses. I’m sure it would be a bestseller.” I held out my hand and wiggled my fingers impatiently. “But forget that. My croissant.”

He stared at me, his face caught between genuine anguish and complete bewilderment. He blinked several times, his brow furrowing deeper with each one, then swallowed before managing to speak.

“You…” His voice faltered. “You asked for tea, Alessia.”

I frowned. “Why on earth would I ask for tea? Look at the time. I’m starving. I sent you for a snack. Specifically, a croissant. Was getting one little treat really too complicated for you?”

“But you—”

My eyes dropped to the empty glass on the desk. “And you drank my water.” I pointed accusingly at the glass. “How exactly am I supposed to take my meds now?”

“I—” His eyes darted to the glass, then back to me, panic taking over his features. “I’ll get you another one. Right now.” He turned so quickly he nearly knocked into the desk.

“Forget it.”

He stopped dead.

I let my voice soften into a weary, disappointed sigh. “Just… please, get me my croissant. I’m hungry.”

He gave a jerky nod, placed the tea he’d fought so hard for on Naija’s desk. He turned and sprinted for the elevator, only to pivot at the last second and vanish into the stairwell.

The moment it clicked shut, I waited.

One beat.

Two.

Then I reached for the tea he had practically risked his life to obtain, took a long, deeply satisfying sip, and turned to Naija.

“You want to go get a snack?”

She glanced at her watch. “I could eat.”

We headed for the elevator together. I pressed the call button and leaned against the wall while we waited.

“The police station?” I asked, turning toward her.

She gave an easy shrug. “I have a very large family.”

“Nice.” I nodded approvingly.

The elevator doors slid open, and we stepped inside.

I kept at it the entire day. Every time Cassian returned, looking increasingly harried and carrying a story more ridiculous than the last, I sent him straight back out with another impossible request. Each errand was more absurd than the one before, and I made sure he had barely enough time to catch his breath before giving him another.

He never complained. He would just stare at me for a long moment, defeat written plainly across his face, before dragging himself back out to chase whatever ridiculous thing I had demanded next. Not once did he ask why.

When the day finally ended, he appeared at my desk and began unloading his trophies. Every item I had asked for was carefully placed before me.

I looked over the bizarre collection covering my desk: a single, wilting starfruit; a jar of pickled quail eggs; a loaf of bread shaped like a llama; a container of durian pudding; blueberry muffins; and, placed neatly beside the Black Forest cake, a Barbie-themed knife.

Where on earth did he find a Barbie themed knife?

My eyes lifted to him.

He stood there grinning, wild, boyish triumph lighting up his face. His hair was a complete mess, his shirt hung untucked and stained, and his chest heaved from whatever ordeal had left him thoroughly disheveled.