I liked. He waved to us. You told me not to worry about what Lyle thought and then I said I’d tell him about us. Then you kissed me and you told me you loved me. I think it was the first time you said it. And then I left. I said I had to go and it felt like it was really important. That I had to leave immediately or something bad would happen.”
“The warehouse,” Sayer says. He’s staring straight ahead at the water. “The warehouse and then the graveyard and then Parker’s show. And that’s how you remembered them? That’s the order?”
“Yes. You said you’d never met me before.”
And then—
“The hospital,” I say.
I feel sick to my stomach. A feeling I’m getting used to.
“At the hospital, when I called you from Lyle’s phone. You said my name. I knew you said my name.”
I realize it’s been a week exactly. A week since Lyle died. A week since I watched Lyle die.
“I’m sorry,” he breathes. “I didn’t want to upset you.”
I don’t know what else to say so I wrap my arms around my legs and hug my knees to my chest and put my chin between them.
“Why is the order important?” I mumble.
“It’s backward,” he says. He looks at me like he wants to comfort me, put his arm around me, but he doesn’t.
I don’t want him to, but I do want him to. I am somewhere equidistant between not wanting him to and wanting him to.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re remembering everything backward. The last time you saw Lyle, right before the accident, was in the warehouse. The time before that was by the graveyard. When you told him about us. That last time you saw me was right before that—”
“When you told me you loved me and I told you I’d tell Lyle,” I interrupt.
“Yeah,” he says.
More facts, Molly.
You have more facts.
There’s a series of memories, right? All the times from my blackouts that I didn’t remember before. And it seems like they all have to do with Lyle and Sayer and my relationship with the two of them.
And I don’t remember the moments, aside from the warehouse and the graveyard and the coffeehouse. I can’t remember any of them.
But somehow, when I blacked out . . .
When I was in them.
I remembered everything.
Like a two-way mirror.
Like a one-way street.
Like a—
Stop, Molly.
Breathe, Molly.
“Molly?” Sayer says.
I look at him. Startled.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry I lied to you.”
“Did you have to?” I ask.
I don’t know where that came from.
I was about to say something awful. I was about to yell at him.
I’ve never really been good at sticking to my guns.
He seems relieved. He seems sort of grateful.
And he seems like he means it.
When he says, “Yes. I did.”
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
THIRTEEN.
Y ou take it for granted. Waking up. Going to school, talking to your friends. Watching a show on television or reading a book or going out to lunch.
You take for granted going to sleep at night, getting up the next day, and remembering everything that happened to you before you closed your eyes.
We take it for granted.
We forget stuff along the way, sure, but mostly it’s little stuff. We forget where we put our keys or we forget to turn the curling iron off or we lie awake in bed in the middle of the night, convinced we left the stove on. Convinced we left the front door unlocked. Convinced we forgot to set the alarm.
And as we grow up, we accept that our memory gets worse. Sometimes we can’t remember what day it is. Sometimes we can’t remember if we washed our hair already. We stand in the shower dripping, unmoving.
We forget to put deodorant on.
We forget our sunglasses on the kitchen counter.
We run out of the house without our car keys. Without our purse.
Older still and now other things start to go. We cannot remember our children’s names. We call them every name we can think of
“The warehouse,” Sayer says. He’s staring straight ahead at the water. “The warehouse and then the graveyard and then Parker’s show. And that’s how you remembered them? That’s the order?”
“Yes. You said you’d never met me before.”
And then—
“The hospital,” I say.
I feel sick to my stomach. A feeling I’m getting used to.
“At the hospital, when I called you from Lyle’s phone. You said my name. I knew you said my name.”
I realize it’s been a week exactly. A week since Lyle died. A week since I watched Lyle die.
“I’m sorry,” he breathes. “I didn’t want to upset you.”
I don’t know what else to say so I wrap my arms around my legs and hug my knees to my chest and put my chin between them.
“Why is the order important?” I mumble.
“It’s backward,” he says. He looks at me like he wants to comfort me, put his arm around me, but he doesn’t.
I don’t want him to, but I do want him to. I am somewhere equidistant between not wanting him to and wanting him to.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re remembering everything backward. The last time you saw Lyle, right before the accident, was in the warehouse. The time before that was by the graveyard. When you told him about us. That last time you saw me was right before that—”
“When you told me you loved me and I told you I’d tell Lyle,” I interrupt.
“Yeah,” he says.
More facts, Molly.
You have more facts.
There’s a series of memories, right? All the times from my blackouts that I didn’t remember before. And it seems like they all have to do with Lyle and Sayer and my relationship with the two of them.
And I don’t remember the moments, aside from the warehouse and the graveyard and the coffeehouse. I can’t remember any of them.
But somehow, when I blacked out . . .
When I was in them.
I remembered everything.
Like a two-way mirror.
Like a one-way street.
Like a—
Stop, Molly.
Breathe, Molly.
“Molly?” Sayer says.
I look at him. Startled.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry I lied to you.”
“Did you have to?” I ask.
I don’t know where that came from.
I was about to say something awful. I was about to yell at him.
I’ve never really been good at sticking to my guns.
He seems relieved. He seems sort of grateful.
And he seems like he means it.
When he says, “Yes. I did.”
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
THIRTEEN.
Y ou take it for granted. Waking up. Going to school, talking to your friends. Watching a show on television or reading a book or going out to lunch.
You take for granted going to sleep at night, getting up the next day, and remembering everything that happened to you before you closed your eyes.
We take it for granted.
We forget stuff along the way, sure, but mostly it’s little stuff. We forget where we put our keys or we forget to turn the curling iron off or we lie awake in bed in the middle of the night, convinced we left the stove on. Convinced we left the front door unlocked. Convinced we forgot to set the alarm.
And as we grow up, we accept that our memory gets worse. Sometimes we can’t remember what day it is. Sometimes we can’t remember if we washed our hair already. We stand in the shower dripping, unmoving.
We forget to put deodorant on.
We forget our sunglasses on the kitchen counter.
We run out of the house without our car keys. Without our purse.
Older still and now other things start to go. We cannot remember our children’s names. We call them every name we can think of
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