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“Holy shit,” Sam says, not masking his surprise. “That was so weird.”
“What was? What happened?” I want him to keep talking in hopes it’ll spark new memories floating to the surface.
“I could smell the richness of the freshly cooked pizza, and I could taste the herbs, the cheese. I could hear the snap of the crust as I bit into it. It was like I was there,” he explains, baffled.
When he stops talking, I peer over at him to see him leaning with his head back against the rest, his eyes squeezed shut. His lips are pulled into a thin line as he places a hand over his eyes, blindfolding himself. I know he needs complete darkness, to shut him off from the real world and get lost in the past.
“I ate there after my basketball finals. Holy shit. I was fourteen.” His hand drops into his lap as he slowly opens his eyes. “I remember.”
I’m seconds from exploding in my seat, but concentrate on the road. “You remember what?”
“I remember we beat The Scorpions. Ninety-three to seventy-five. I was captain.”
“That’s right, Sam,” I say, encouraging him. “You were. You were captain all through high school. You never left home without your ball. What else do you remember?” Fleetingly looking over at him, I hope it’ll be me.
He stares out the windshield, his eyes never blinking. “A horse. Three horses.”
A strangled wheeze gets trapped in my throat.
“Why do I remember horses? I never owned any,” he asks, his tone littered with uncertainty.
Cleaning my throat, I reveal. “Yes, Sam, you do. We have three horses at home.”
He spins to face me, not hiding his surprise. “We do?”
I nod. This is too much.
“Am I rich?” He sounds genuinely curious. “I know my parents are well-off, but am I? Are…we?”
The fact he just referred to us aswehas me glowing from head to toe. “We do okay for ourselves. You work with your dad on the farm. It’s been a good harvest this year.”
“It’s so surreal,” he confesses, slouching low and shaking his head. “Why can’t I remember any of this?”
I raise my shoulders in defeat. “I don’t know, but you will.” I tug at the necklace around my neck, hoping my good luck charm will work for me. Trigger some kind of memory. It doesn’t.
“You think?”
“Yes, I do,” I reply with poise. “And if any place can bring those memories back, it’ll be your home.”
As if on cue, I turn down a one way, graveled road, the tires crunching loudly over the loose stones. The sound instantly bathes me with a wave of nostalgia. I can only hope it’ll do the same for Sam.
“Whispering Willows,” he says, reading the wooden name plaque attached to the swinging steel gates.
“This is our home,” I reveal, disheartened that he doesn’t remember.
I ascend the pebbled driveway, our beautiful ranch in Big Sky County surrounded by nothing but lush greenery, vast countryside, and rolling hills. The dark wood exterior complements the large bay windows, framed by white panels, which allow the sunlight to stream in at every angle. Off to the right sits our big red barn and adjacent are the stables, housing our three beloved spirited Arabian horses.
The moment I saw this property, it was love at first sight, akin to how it was with Sam. Our neighbors are two miles down the road, much to the delight of both Sam and I. It was one of the reasons we bought this property. Sam and I loved our privacy and Whispering Willows was our own secluded oasis where no one existed but us. Now I’m afraid that seclusion will lead to nothing but uncomfortable silences and complete loneliness.
Pushing those thoughts aside, I switch off the car and gather my wits. I pull up my big girl panties because I’m determined to have my life back. Not wanting to smother Sam, I grab my handbag and exit the car, giving him time to process everything at his own pace. The car door closes as I climb the porch stairs.
My fingers shake as I unlock the door, which is ridiculous, as I have no reason to be nervous. I have to pull it together. Slipping off my shoes, I toss my bag and keys onto the hallway table and make my way into the kitchen for a much needed drink.
Although it’s twelve in the afternoon, I open the wine fridge and hunt for a bottle of Riesling. I’m not usually a big drinker, but lately I have been. Desperate times call for desperate measures and I can’t remember a more desperate time than this.
Hunting through the drawers for a bottle opener, I pause when Sam strolls in, eyes wide and mouth agape. By his surprise, I know he doesn’t remember where he is. “Would you like some wine?” I ask, the need for alcohol even more imperative now.
He scrunches up his face, my offer not interesting him in the slightest. “Do you have any beer?”
