Page 27 of Yours Truly, Fall

“We do though.” Biting the inside of her cheek, she drops her gaze as she fidgets with a loose strand at the hem of her shirt. When her eyes lift to find mine again, she says, “We’ve met, but for some reason, you don’t remember me.”

I grin, catching onto the joke. “You almost had me there. Can’t fool me, though. If we’d met, I would remember you.”

“I’m not joking with you. As much as I’m flattered by the compliment, you don’t remember me.”

I’m still chuckling until I realize she’s not entertained at all. “Why would I forget . . .” I shift my gaze to the wood-paneled ceiling while I try to pull something from thin air that seems to be missing. Memories of her. “I don’t understand. Are you saying . . .?” Concern streams through the lines of her forehead. She knows. She already knows the answer. “I have amnesia?”

“You have selective amnesia.” Her voice is too calm for this revelation. But it’s also steady, keeping me from freaking out that I’ve lost part of my memories, and no one told me. Until now. I close my eyes, willing one image of her prior to the hospital to return.

Blue dress.

Flowers.

Those gorgeous eyes set on mine, though there’s no warmth to them.

I open my eyes, and the image is lost. “I thought the only thing I couldn’t remember was when I fell. I remember waking up at the hospital, but the in-between has vanished. So, when you say selective, you mean⁠—”

“I mean, me and the accident. You appear to remember everything and everyone else.”

“That makes no sense.” Running my hand through my hair, I tug at the roots before asking, “I know trauma can pocket events away to protect us, but why would I forget you?”

The corners of her eyes soften, along with a condolent smile that feels temporary at best. “I don’t know.”

“Is that your professional or personal opinion?”

She’s stopped messing with her shirt, and her breathing seems to have regulated as we ease into the details. Although I may be wrong, I think I catch a hint of disappointment residing in her eyes. “Both.”

That same emotion takes hold of me. What am I missing? “I’ve been talking to you like we have no history, no past knowledge of each other existing, but you knew. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“Because I can’t answer your questions without you knowing the full picture. And, personally for me, a fresh start felt like more than just an opportunity to reconnect. It felt like a chance to rebuild.”

It seems the holes in the story are too big to fill even for her. I still stare with more questions popping into my head than time to ask. “What are we rebuilding?” Her hesitation has my stomach dropping, but I’m tired of being oblivious to what she could possibly say next.

Her expression softens into a small but genuine smile, relieving my mind from working overdrive into the what-ifs. “We haven’t been friends in a long time,” she says. “Different paths. Different lives. Different circles until more recently.”

“What changed more recently?”

“You’ve become good friends with my brother-in-law, Dan⁠—”

“Daniel?”

She catches her jaw before it hits her lap. “You remember him? Do you remember my sister, Summer?”

“Of course, I know Summer. We grew up—” How did I not remember, or connect the dots on their surname? “Summer Season. Oh wow, You’re Autumn. I didn’t even put two and two together. I also know your sisters Winter and Spring.” This hits hard. How could I know her sisters well yet not recognize the woman in front of me? I drop my head into my hands, clench my eyes closed, and dig through anything that could possibly lead me back to her. The disappointment she felt makes more sense now. “How do I remember her and not you?”

“That’s what I figured back at the hospital. You can look straight into my eyes, but no memories of me return. It’s like I’m a black hole in your mind. Very odd.”

“Yeah, it is odd.” How did that make her feel? I feel like an asshole for not recognizing her. Maybe it would have been better if she continued lying to me. I only feel worse knowing the truth. I stand, tugging at the sweatpants waistband that is determined to slacken around my hips, and walk to a window to look out again. “Will I ever remember you?”

“I don’t know.” Her voice is faint, as if she’s fading away, but when I turn back to check, she’s still where I left her in the chair. She is looking down, her hair covering her face, hiding it from my view. “I have some ideas to help with the concussion,” she starts, looking back at me, “but I don’t know how to make your memories return.”

“When you said fresh start, I didn’t know you meant literally.” Worst-case scenarios have no problem populating like popcorn, but one word she said keeps returning. Rebuild. A piece of a different puzzle drops into place. “Did I hurt you?”

“Did you hurt me?” she asks, barely above a whisper, as if I’m intruding on her personal conversation. Picking at her cuticles, she exhales loud enough for me to hear where I stand. “We haven’t really talked in a while.”

“Different friends and circles, lives. I get all that, but this is a small town.”

“It sure is.” Glancing back at me, she says, “Too small sometimes.”