Chapter 23

I’m a hostage in Nate’s guest bedroom. He wants to talk about reincarnation. I’m not ready to shatter his hopes of reconnecting with his childhood friend. I know nothing of her except what he’s told me. She doesn’t exist in my head the way he does. If we make the journey back to another life, surely we remember ourselves more than anyone else from our previous life. What happens when he realizes I’m not her? Will the stories end? Will I become nothing more than an imposter in his already stressful life?

I slip on a pair of pajama pants and a camisole top, grab my phone, and plunk down on the bed to call Griffin.

“Hey, I was just getting ready to call you.”

“Likely story.” I grin.

“True story. We arrived about an hour ago. It’s insane.”

“Apparently. I can barely hear you.” I cringe. There’s no need for me to yell and wake Morgan. I’m not the one trying to speak over a party of people mixed with revving motorcycles.

“Sorry …” His voice muffles a bit. “Better?”

“Yeah.”

“I stepped into the bathroom. Well … porta potty.”

“Ew …”

“Yes. It smells fucking awesome in here.”

“Then I won’t keep you. I just wanted to say goodnight. I’m staying at the professor’s place tonight because he leaves so early in the morning.”

“In your own room, I hope.”

I laugh. “I should be offended that you feel the need for confirmation, but I want you thinking about me while you’re gone—while women parade their naked bodies around you, while the booze flows a little too much.”

“Is that a yes that you’re sleeping in your own room?”

“Really, Griff? Do you really think I’m spooning with the professor tonight?”

“I’m not worried about the professor. He’s old, Swayz. Probably needs a pill to get it up. But I’d be lying if I said the thought of you spending the night with Nate doesn’t give me a few moments pause. I told you … he’s been thinking about your mouth around his dick ever since you sent him my text.”

“He’s thinking about someone, but it’s not me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’ll tell you when you get home.”

“Dude! You got the shits?” A man’s voice fills the background.

“Fuck off!” Griffin grumbles.

“Have fun.” I giggle, but my grin falls sober. “But not too much fun.”

“I’ll do my best. I’d better go.”

“Griff?”

“Yeah?”

“Are we good?” Insecurities suck. But they make you fight to keep the important things in life. They’re a solemn reminder that emotions are not a choice; they’re a toxic mix of chemicals running amuck in our bodies, playing roulette with our relationships.

“We’re good. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

He disconnects the call, but I keep the phone to my ear. I want to hug it—hug him. When I’m convinced he’s no longer on the phone, my attention shifts to the stolen picture. It’s bowed and curling at the edges. I shouldn’t carry it around in my pocket, but I have this sane and well-thought-out idea that twenty-something Nate in my pocket might tell me all of his stories. That’s how it works.

Photo Nate talks.

My ass listens.

An undiscovered way of ass-to-brain communication relays the information to my mind.

I chuckle. Stranded on an island by myself? No problem. I’m one hundred percent self-entertained.

Had I found this photo as a teenager, I would have blown it up and pinned it to the ceiling of my room. I would have dreamed about this sexy surfer-looking guy and his contemplative look. I would have convinced my zit-faced, pigeon-toed self that he was thinking of me.

“What is wrong with you?” I toss the photo on the bed beside me and rub a hand over my face.

In need of a glass of water, I slide the photo under the pillow and slip out into the hallway. My feet root to the floor as the sight of Nate rocking Morgan to sleep replaces my thirst. One hand cradles her to his body while the other hand holds Goodnight Moon.

I’m in love.

It’s hard to explain, even to myself. Jenna’s death has brought me here. I’m certain fate played a role. I don’t know what drives fate. And I certainly don’t know what I am to learn from this. But I am in love with the story of Nathaniel Hunt. It’s so tragic, until moments like this that could not be more beautiful.

I can’t stop thinking of this.

It’s a song that loops in my head.

It’s a movie I want to watch until I have every scene—every line—memorized.

It’s my favorite book where all the words have been read and reread in search of something new, something more.

However, this isn’t a fangirl moment over a book, a song, a movie … the love I have for whatever this is goes so much deeper. I’m connected to it in a way that’s the same yet different than my love for Griffin. This love belongs to me too. I’m not merely an outsider looking in—admiring and wishing it were my life.

This is big.

I know it. I feel it. And I can’t let go.

Nate sets the book aside. I move beyond the doorway so he can’t see me.

“I love you, my sweet baby girl.”

I smile, my back flush to the wall as I crane my neck just enough to peek around at him easing her into her crib. His fingertips feather her cheek.

“I need you to be the one to stay,” he whispers.

Stay?

“I need you to live a long life, many years beyond mine.”

“Nate …” I whisper so softly that only the gods can hear me. Blinking away this sudden rush of emotion, I pad to the kitchen for my water.

“She’s asleep.”

I nod, keeping my gaze focused out the window on the halos of solar lights lining the front walkway.

He opens the freezer then shuts the door. I turn toward his narrowed eyes, halting mid step.

“I think you took something that belonged to me.”

The photo.

My back was to the camera. Maybe there’s more than one camera in his bedroom.

“I … I just wanted to look at it.”

Nate steps closer, sending my head back to keep eye contact with him. “Just look at it?” His head cocks to the side.

I nod, swallowing my tongue and some unexpected fear. Why did I take it? Such a stupid move.

“You didn’t want to taste it?”

“Um …” Please don’t let this be about the text. I don’t want Griffin to be right.

No blowjobs for Nate—not even a taste.

No spooning.

No pills to get his cock ready for action.

Nope. Not happening.

“What if I give it back and we just forget I ever took it. It was a curiosity thing is all. It’s eye-catching. My mom is a photographer. I … I don’t know. But—”

“Eye-catching?” He laughs. “Are we talking about the same thing? Because I’m confused as to how you plan to give me back the last ice cream sandwich.”

This is not about his cock. Thank god!

“It will be replaced with a new box by the time you arrive home Sunday night.”

“So you did eat it?”

“I did.”

“After you admired its beauty?”

I clear my throat and lift my chin. “The silver packaging with blue lettering is a great design. I notice things like that.” Someone please shoot me now and just put me out of my misery.

“Did you take a picture of it? Or did you save the wrapper for your mom to take a picture of it?”

“No. I’ll tell her the brand. That’s what she does. I told you this, right? She’s a product photographer?”

Nate nods slowly. “You said she hasn’t picked up her camera since your father died. Are ice cream sandwiches wrapped in silver with blue lettering going to inspire her to get back in the game?”

“Ya never know.”

He twists his lips, failing to completely disguise his amusement. “Well, let me know. I’m going to be on pins and needles waiting to see if my impulse buy inspired something so miraculous. In the meantime…” he jerks his head toward the hallway “…why don’t you help me pick out a tie for my trip.”

“You mean tie it before you pack it.”

“Correct.”

We stroll down the hallway. He shoots me a grin over his shoulder. I divert my eyes to the floor.

Ice cream sandwich. Gah!

“Blue or red?” He holds up the ties.

“Red. The blue one has something on it.”

He flips his wrist and frowns at the dark smudge. “Well damn. I wonder what that is. I haven’t wore this tie in a long time.”

“Probably food. Don’t you tuck it into your shirt or flip it over your shoulder when you eat? That’s what my dad did.”

“No.” He tosses the soiled tie on the floor and snakes the red one around his neck, chin tipped up while he looks down at me.

“You’re serious? I need to tie it for you?”

“I think five grand should include a Windsor knot.”

Taking a step closer, I grab the ends to his tie and tug them. Nate grins. It’s so familiar. If I could freeze time, I would press pause on this exact moment, letting my eyes see beyond the familiar to the absolute, letting the fingers of my mind grasp something concrete. Every day it feels like I’m chasing a butterfly. Sometimes I think I could follow it over a cliff and not feel the loss of earth beneath my feet.

Professor Nathaniel Hunt shares space in my reality. Nate lives behind closed eyes, in the recesses of my memory—haunting my conscience, unraveling my existence.

“It probably should.” I twist my lips, trying to remember what I saw on the how-to video. “But I didn’t tie a Windsor knot, just a simple knot. Is the Windsor knot a requirement for you this weekend?”

He chuckles. “No.”

My gaze remains fixed on the red silk between my fingers, but I sense his eyes on me. The only thing more disturbing than the familiarity I feel toward him is the way he looks at me like he knows all of my secrets—even the ones I don’t know.

“I feel like an enabler. You know the saying about giving a man a fish versus teaching him to fish?”

“You know that saying about the more you know, the more that’s expected of you?”

I laugh, making a quick glance up at his cocky grin. He’s so handsome, especially when his lip quivers a bit as he attempts to control his amusement with me.

“I ate the ice cream sandwich,” I say with a meaning behind my words that’s greater than the actual words.

“Yes,” he says, drawing out that one word into something greater as well.

My focus returns to the tie. “I took something else too.”

“I know.”

“You do?” I whisper, adjusting the knot, feeling the heat of his chest beneath my fingertips.

“Yes.”

“How?”

“Because there’s nothing special about those silver and blue wrappers.”

I’m scared to look at him. I’m scared to not look at him.

“I stole a photo of you.” I inch my gaze up to meet his.

He studies me with the exact look he has in the photo.

Spellbound gaze.

Parted lips.

Vulnerable.

After a few moments, he nods slowly. “Okay.”

Okay? That’s not the right answer. I confessed to stealing something. What photo? Why? Those are the right responses. Not “okay.”

“Don’t you want to know why?”

He shakes his head, a soft surrender in his expression.

“Don’t you want to know which photo?”

He shakes his head.

“Why?” I whisper.

“Because Morgan—Daisy—used to say, ‘If I’m snoopy then you’re Charlie Brown.’”

“I don’t—” As I release his tie, his hands cuff my wrists.

“You said that to me.”

“Professor—”

“No. Not Professor. Nate.”

“What are you doing?” I close my eyes and bite my lips together. Whatever this is … it’s wrecking me from the inside out. I want to pull away, but I can’t because Nate’s touch comforts me in a way that it shouldn’t.

“Do you feel it?”

“No.” I force myself to pull away, turning my back to him. “I have a boyfriend.”

“Swayze, that’s not what this is and you know it.”

My lungs draw in a shaky breath. I don’t know what this is, but it scares the ever living hell out of me. And it hurts. The unexplainable should be miraculous and exhilarating—giving birth to promise and something greater than ever imagined. But this, whatever the hell this is, feels like it’s ripping me apart. Maybe Griffin’s right; I should walk away. But the memories will follow me.

“Yeah, well … I don’t know what this is.” I stab my fingers through my hair, taking a slow breath that fails to soothe my nerves. “I don’t know why I took a picture of you. And I don’t know why I can’t stop staring at it.” I turn. “And you don’t care that I stole something from you. You don’t care that your wife died months ago and now there’s this stranger in your house, watching your child, rummaging through your stuff.”

Creases line his forehead as his gaze slides to the floor between us. “For the record … I care a whole goddamn lot that my wife died.”

“Nate, I didn’t mean—”

His head snaps side to side, jaw clenched. “And I went through the proper process and background checks to hire you. I didn’t pick you up off the street to watch my daughter.” He brings his attention back to me. “Take whatever you need to take to figure this out.”

A stifled laugh breaks from my chest. “Me? What happened to us figuring this out? That day in the garage when I told you about the Spanish test you said we would figure it out.”

Nothing.

All he offers is a long look interrupted by the occasional blink.

“You think you have it figured out.”

“Yes,” he whispers.

I laugh. “Well, you’re wrong. So keep figuring.”

“I haven’t told you what I think. How can you know I’m wrong?”

No. I’m not acknowledging this. The words will not come from my mouth. “Goodnight.”

“Do you know how many times a day I think of the irony of your name being Swayze?”

Fuck him for going there. He’s going to ruin this.

“Yeah? Too bad my parents didn’t give as much thought to my name before they branded me with it.”

“Her eyes were brown.”

Keeping my back to him, I cover my face and shake my head.

“She was feisty and completely incorrigible. You have a meeker personality. That’s what makes you so good with Morgan. But with me … I see the spirited girl. You’re ballsy with me. I guess some things never change.”

“I’m not her,” I whisper to myself. She doesn’t exist in my head outside of the stories he tells me. I’m an extension of his mind. I see a part of his past. My ballsiness with him is me, not Daisy. He doesn’t know me. I’m not meek.

“Can you look at me?”

“Goodnight.”

“Ask me something about her. Anything.”

I’m not her. I’m not her.

“Did you have sex with her?”

“No. Ask me another question.”

He’s baiting me. I need to walk away, but I can’t. This story of their childhood together has become my addiction.

“Do you think she loved you as much as you loved her?”

“Yes. Another one.”

“Did you love her more than you loved Jenna?”

“No. Another one.”

“So you loved Jenna more?”

“No. Another one,” he demands with a bite of anger to his tone.

If my questions anger him, why keep insisting I ask more?

“You loved a fifteen-year-old girl as much as you loved the woman you married? The woman who’s the mother of your child? That’s insane. You were fifteen.”

“We don’t love with our brains, we love with our hearts. We love on instinct. Love is undefinable and resides in all of us. There are no requirements to love someone. Daisy was my first love. Jenna was my last love. Morgan is my forever love.”

I glance over my shoulder at him. “Did you make up with Daisy before she died?”

Emotion reddens his eyes as his Adam’s apple bobs once. “Goodnight.”

Do all the answers lie between his limit and mine? We may never know.