“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I sound like a sulking teenager.
He arches a brow but doesn’t press.
Releasing my knees, I pull myself up and stand beside him at the rail. “That first weekend we met, did I tell you about how much I wanted to open a bakery?”
“You did.”
I have to ask. “And you wanted me to do it?”
“I told you I thought you should.” A frog sings in the distance, filling the silence. “You have talent.”
“I love it, you know. Every time I walk in, I smile.”
“Glad to hear it.” There’s a rough, pained edge to his words.
“And you made sure I had a chance,” I say matter-of-factly.
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
Clearly he’s not interested in changing the “anonymous” part of our arrangement, and I’m too grateful to push the issue, but I can’t help the sigh that slips from my lips. “I feel like everyone knows more about my life than I do.”
He looks out over the water. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything,” I whisper.
“Why?” If an open wound has a sound, it’s the sound of his voice right now.
“You have no idea what it’s like to be missing pieces of your memory, to feel like your own body is failing you.”
He grunts. “Do you remember anything from our time together?”
“Nothing.”
“Will it come back?”
The wind shifts, and a cloud blocks the moon and cloaks us in darkness. I’m standing in the dark with a man who’s a stranger to me. I should be uncomfortable—cautious at the very least. Instead, my muscles relax incrementally. There’s something comforting about darkness, about not being seen.
“The doctor says it’s hard to say at this point,” I say. “Maybe, maybe not. The closer the memory is to the time of my accident, the less likely I am to remember it. Maybe I won’t ever remember you. Maybe if you hadn’t climbed into bed with me two weeks ago, I’d never have known about us.”
“My life’s biggest regret,” he murmurs.
I wince. If he’d slapped me, it would have hurt less. “I’m your biggest regret?”
“No.” He growls the word then takes a breath. “I’m not this great guy. I’ve made a lot of mistakes. Done a lot of shitty things, made a lot of selfish choices. But in the end, it’s all worked out.”
I wish I could see his face, read the nuance of his expression. Instead, he’s only a silhouette in the night, and I’m left with nothing but his words and the low rumble of his voice.
“I don’t regret much,” he explains. “But I do regret crawling into bed with you when I came to town.” He looks to the sky. “Your amnesia was a gift that I fucked up.”
“You wanted me to forget you?”
His chest expands on his inhale, and I have to fight this irrational desire to lean my head against him. To comfort him with my presence, despite what he’s saying. “It would be…easier.”
“I’m not going to bother you, if that’s what you’re worried about. I won’t be the girl who runs to the tabloids to tell about her hot night with Nate Crane.”
“Hanna.” He takes my shoulders and turns me to face him. He studies me for a beat. Two. Like he’s trying to solve a puzzle and the answer is in my eyes. Then he drops his hands and turns away again. While he stares out into the stillness of the night, I’m left to guess what he might have been about to say.
“I might not remember what happened between us, but I feel something…” I make a fist and press it to my chest. “Something here. Every time you’re close.”