But I think of the look on the man’s face when he met my eyes—I miss you—and it’s no longer about being brave enough to go in. I want to.
The moment I walk in the doors, I spot him. He’s impossible to miss with those big shoulders and the sleeve of ink down his left arm. He has a half-empty beer in his hand and a bag of carryout boxes beside him. Did his girlfriend send him to pick up dinner? Are they staying the night?
I’m surprised when I catch myself walking toward him. What do I think I’m going to say? How do I even start this conversation? How are you? How do you know me? Can you tell me what happened?
What if Mom’s wrong and he is here to hurt me? To finish what Colton McKinley started?
The question flits away like a bit of nothing from my mind. I’ve been out of the hospital for two weeks and put off a trip to Jackson Harbor to collect my things because I’m scared of what I don’t remember. Yet here I am, walking deliberately toward a man who was a part of that life. But this man doesn’t mean me any harm. I feel that as surely as I feel my own heartbeat. If anything, the constant fear I’ve lived with since waking up in the hospital propels me toward him. He wants to protect me. I believe it. I know it.
Nathan, an old friend from high school, is working behind the bar tonight, and calls for me when he spots me walking toward him. “Ellie!”
“Hey, Nate!”
The dark-haired man spins around, and the intensity in his eyes hits me harder than it did this morning. Like a belly flop into an ice-cold pool. “El?” His voice is soft, and it tugs at my chest, unlocks something in my mind.
“You have no idea how much I want to kiss you right now.”
The words are a blip—gone the moment they appear. I want to grab on to them—examine them from every angle, analyze the tone
and the shimmer of butterflies they let loose in my belly—but they evaporate before I can grasp them, and now they feel more like fantasy than memory.
His eyes search my face before dipping lower. He scans my body as if he’s looking for evidence of my injuries. I stand still under his appraisal—too curious to leave, too scared to move forward.
No. Not scared. Nothing about this large man scares me—even if it should. I’m not scared. I’m unsure—of him, of myself . . . of us.
He doesn’t move toward me, and I don’t move toward him. We just stare at each other, the space between us charged with my questions and his dark intensity.
“Want me to start a new pot of coffee for you?” Nate asks from behind the bar. I’ve come here with my sister a few times since being released from the hospital. He knows I don’t drink much. I’m too worried about the consequences of mixing alcohol with the pain meds I don’t take.
I shake my head. “No, it’s late. I’ll never sleep.” And sleep is hard enough to come by as is.
“Club soda with lime?” he asks with an arched brow. He waves me closer. “Come on, El. Stay a while.”
I force a smile, trying and failing to ignore the way the dark-haired man is looking at me. “That would be great, thank you, Nate.” I walk to the counter and lean my elbows against it, leaving one barstool between myself and my stranger.
“Are you going to act like you don’t know me?” he asks softly.
“Sorry,” I say, then take a leap and add, “Jackson Harbor just feels like another lifetime at this point.” Not a lie.
His jaw hardens. “Right.”
I’m not sure why I don’t tell him the truth—that I don’t remember him—but I tuck it away. I’m missing years from my life, and if he knows that, he might feed me lies. I can’t risk that from this man. Not when those eyes make me want to climb into his arms. If pretending I remember means I’ll get the truth, then that’s what I’ll do.
He cuts his gaze to his beer. “That’s why you didn’t return my calls?”
“I don’t use that phone anymore.” The police seized my phone at the scene but returned it after they were satisfied they’d gotten everything off it they might need. I haven’t turned it on since. Just one more tie to the life that almost killed me.
I wanted to cut all ties with Jackson Harbor, but the fact that this man is here shows it’s not going to be that simple. The fact that I don’t want to walk away from him proves no one can make a clean break from their past.
He brings his dark eyes back up to meet mine, and I see anguish written all over his face. I don’t understand the emotion or why it tears me apart inside. “I thought we were going to lose you,” he whispers. “And then you lived. And we lost you anyway.”
“Can you blame me?” I search his face, looking for answers, trying to figure out what I mean to him. “I almost died.”
Those words seem to hit him too hard, because he closes his eyes for a beat. What is he thinking? Is he feeling sorry for the poor girl whose boyfriend beat the shit out of her? “Can you remember any part of that night?”
I shake my head, not wanting to say more.
I was right. He doesn’t know about my amnesia. I was still in a medically induced coma when Mom had me moved to a hospital in Chicago. It’s possible no one from Jackson Harbor even knows about my condition. We haven’t advertised it. If anything, we’ve been extra private since I was discharged. Colton hurt me, and if he’s still out there, I don’t want him knowing anything he doesn’t have to.