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“The potato bake,” April called out. “But I think it’s still edible, if I cut these burned bits off…”
We sat down to dinner at a dining table that was next to the kitchen. Kyla poured drinks while April served generous helpings of apricot chicken, white rice, and potato bake.
“This looks perfect.” I rubbed my hands together and dug in.
The food was incredible, and the chicken melted in my mouth. The taste of smoke had gone through the potatoes, but it was more than delicious. Especially since the diced bacon was now extra crispy. We ate in silence, savoring the flavors, until our plates were clean.
“Is that you?” Wyatt pointed to a framed photo on the shelf behind Kyla. She looked back and froze, and I immediately realized his mistake: despite the woman in the picture having the same blue eyes, blonde hair, plump lips, and slim nose, itwasn’tKyla.
It must have been her mother.
She was leaning back and smiling over her shoulder, as though she’d just heard the photographer tell a funny joke. The colors had faded over time, but you could still tell that her eyes and complexion were the same as Kyla’s.
“Shall we clean up?” Kyla’s dad asked April, and when she didn’t move, he gave her a nudge.
“Fine.” She took the empty plates and hovered behind us, only leaving when Kyla’s dad called her again from the kitchen.
“She’s beautiful,” I said, still looking at the photo.
Kyla stared at her hands in her lap.
“Everyone who knew her says we look alike, but I can’t remember her face as well as I’d like to.”
Dean scoffed.
“Come on, do you expect us to believe that the woman who memorized an entire movie script without trying can’t remember what her mom looked like?”
Kyla’s eyes were damp.
“I’ve only had a photographic memory since the accident. Before that, I was a normal kid.” She sighed, and a single tear dropped on the back of her hand.
“Like a superpower? Or brain damage?” Wyatt asked, and I kicked him under the table.
“You can’t ask people if they have brain damage!”
Wyatt glared at me and reached down and rubbed his shin.
“It’s okay,” Kyla said quietly. “No, it wasn’t brain damage or a superpower. It was like… if I’d been paying more attention, if I’d been aware of everything going on, maybe I could have done something to prevent the accident. Ever since then, I guess I’ve just trained my brain to remember every detail, no matter how minor.”
“You were a child.” I took her hand and squeezed it. “You weren’t driving. There was nothing you could do.”
“I know, but what if…?”
“We all have what ifs,” I admitted. “You can’t let them hold you back for the rest of your life.” I gave her a small grin and hoped she wouldn’t interpret that as me making fun of her. “Someone very smart once told me that it’s not too late to build a family.”
Kyla moved her hand away from mine.
“What are your what ifs?”
Wyatt and Dean cast their eyes down. They already knew this story — my publicist had done an amazing job of keeping it out of the media, but rumors still zoomed around Hollywood.
“I told you that I threw myself into my career when my marriage was breaking down,” I said quietly, and Kyla nodded.“I was playing an alcoholic in a west end play. I threw myself into method acting, drinking a bottle of vodka every night. I took it too far and…”
I tried not to let myself wander back into the memory, but it was too late. I was there. The streaks of lights around me, the blurred audience, the clatter of instruments when I fell off the stage and into the orchestra pit. I’d injured a violinist, breaking his arm, and felt so awful that I hadn’t touched another drop of alcohol since, even when Charlotte left me.
Kyla sat there in silence, and we all followed her lead. After a few moments, there was the sound of clattering plates in the kitchen followed by an, “oh, shit.”
“Is everything okay?” Dean called out, and April poked her head back through the door.
