My Better Life

But I shake my head and motion my hand. “Come on.”

When he does, he slaps my back, as stiff as ever, which makes me grin. “I don’t know how Jessie puts up with you.”

He shoves away and frowns at me.

I shrug. “Not that I can fault her.”

Will takes the dishes and carries them to the sink, the smell of crisp chicken and the sweet scent of cornbread slathered with butter following him. He clatters them down on the counter and then turns, “Coffee?”

I shake my head. “No. Honestly, I just want to know where this psychic lives.”

Will leans back against the counter, stretching out his legs. He looks so much like me, but so different. Our dad used to say that Will was the smart one, I was the dumb one, Will was the staid one, I was the fun one. That if he could combine us into one person, he’d have the perfect son.

Thinking about Elijah, Tanner, and Shay, I can’t imagine ever doing or saying the things that he did. Each of them is unique and perfect exactly as they are. Years ago, I’d wondered if my dad was right, if there was something missing in me. Now, having spent time as a dad, I know there wasn’t any excuse for what he said or did. If my adult self could see me at age nine, I’d tell him, “You’re a good kid, you’re just as you’re meant to be.”

“I’m assuming you want to ask about the redheaded woman?” Will looks at me curiously.

“Jamie.”

Will nods. “You never did tell me what happened. Why you didn’t let us know where you were. Why we found you in clothes that looked like a ninety-year-old farmer wore them.”

I snort and then cover it with a cough. Thinking back on that, I figure I was wearing Grandpa Allwright’s clothing. He was pipe-smoker, and that smell clung to the clothes even after twenty washings.

“You were working on a lumberjack beard, and it looked like you had a wife, three kids, and a fat old dog. I imagine you didn’t actually acquire a new life in a month. Right?”

I drag my hand over my clean-shaven jaw and let out a sigh. “It’s complicated.”

Will shrugs. “Uncomplicate it.”

I take in a deep breath, my brain latching onto the cornbread smell, wishing the sparkling kitchen were a little more worn, a little more cozy, and say in one breath, “I hired Jamie to make Lacey a glass sculpture as an engagement gift, I didn’t like it when she delivered, it shattered, I refused to pay her, then I fell off a cliff, hit my head, got amnesia, Jamie picked me up at the hospital, pretended I was her husband, and that the kids were mine, I fell in love, wanted to spend the rest of my life with her, make more babies etcetera, etcetera, then you showed up, I remembered, and voilà, here we are.”

Will’s brow furrows, and he lifts his finger, connecting imaginary points in the air, like he’s trying to connect the dots. “Amnesia, wife, kids, lumberjack beard, fat old dog. Huh.”

I cross my arms. “Will.”

He nods. “Okay. Okay. I have one question.”

I swallow painfully. “What?”

“How much money did you owe her?”

“Are you kidding me? I tell you I had amnesia and fell in love with a woman who lied through her teeth for a month straight and you ask about the money?”

He shrugs. “I am who I am.”

I grin at him. “Yes you are.” Then I admit, “Nine thousand.”

He lets out a laugh. “She was having you work off the money?”

“By cleaning port-a-johns.”

Will bends over at the waist, he’s laughing so hard.

I glare at him. “It’s not funny.”

“It’s sort of funny.”

“It’s not funny at all.”