Page 8 of Back to Square One

Slowly, nods started to occur, little sounds of agreement. “As long as you’re okay,” Justine said.

Rowan crossed her heart and held up her hand in a Girl Scout salute. “Promise. This is just part of my healing.”

That seemed to do it. The group broke up and got busy. The kitchen was cleaned, lights were turned off, and one by one, they all headed to their rooms. Rowan realized she was currently the only one upstairs—the extra bedroom up there was clearly going to be Claire’s if she showed, and Rowan would have to deal with that later—but tonight, she was grateful for that. With each step upward, the mask she’d donned for her friends slipped another inch until she was in her room, slumped on the bed, and could finally let herself cry.

I don’t love you anymore.

She’d fallen off a ladder. Hairline fracture to her skull. Retrograde amnesia. She’d needed months to recover. But it all looked like child’s play compared to those six words.

I don’t love you anymore.

God, how had she survived that?

Chapter Three

So much for seeing the sunrise.

It was almost ten o’clock, and having spent her entire life as an early riser, missing out on mornings was still something she hadn’t gotten used to.

In her defense, she hadn’t actually fallen asleep until after two a.m. Her brain wouldn’t let her. She’d spent hours replaying the memory of Evie breaking up with her, hoping more bits and pieces would slide into place, but they didn’t. All she had was that one clip of a conversation. She lay there in her bed, gazing out at the bright sunshine. She could hear faint sounds of the lake through her windows—seagulls cawing, the gentle buzz of a small boat—and she tossed off the covers, got up, and opened her door so she could step out onto the balcony.

It was already warm. August had come in hot and sticky, but things had eased up a bit. It was humid, though, she could feel it in the air, that thickness, like breathing through wet gauze, and she glanced down to see Jazzy sitting on the dock and Lizzie aboard the pontoon boat she and Justine must’ve towed with them—and she suddenly knew that. That the boat was theirs. They’d bought it on a whim, but she could hear Justine’s voice in her head, laughing as she admitted she hadn’t wanted to spend the money, but she was so glad they had because they were on the damn thing every weekend in the summer. Rowan smiled. Some things did filter back, slowly but surely. Thank God.

A quick shower later, she donned her bathing suit under some shorts and a T-shirt, braided her auburn hair so it fell in one rope between her shoulder blades, and headed down to the kitchen, following the delicious scents of freshly brewed coffee and frying bacon.

“Good morning,” she said to Justine, who was standing at the stove, the way Rowan would always picture her.

“Morning, sunshine,” Justine said with a smile, poking at the bacon with a long-handled fork. “How’d you sleep?”

“Late,” Rowan said with a laugh, finding a mug in a cupboard. She reached for the coffeepot. “Side effect of the noggin crack.” She tapped a finger against her skull.

“Hey, if sleep is what helps you recover fully, then you sleep.” Justine tempered the order with a soft smile.

“I know.” Rowan poured. “I just sometimes feel like I’m wasting time, sleeping so much, like I’m missing things.”

“I get that.” Justine flipped the bacon slices. “But I bet it’s not going to be like that forever, right? Just until your body is fully recovered.”

She was right. It was exactly what the doctors had been saying—not to fight the sleeping, and eventually, she’d feel like normal again. “I was hoping to see the sunrise.”

“It was gorgeous,” Justine said, then grimaced. “Sorry. Hey, maybe set your alarm one morning? You could see it, then go back to sleep.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Rowan said, watching as Justine cracked an egg into a small frying pan filled with glimmering olive oil.

“Hungry?”

“I am.”

“Greek egg?” Justine stepped back as the egg spattered the oil.

And just like that, Justine’s famous Greek eggs, which she’d introduced to her at a holiday weekend they’d spent together not quite three years ago, came flooding back into her brain, as if a dam had broken. She gave a little gasp. “I remember these!”

Justine turned to look at her, and her eyes went wide. “That’s right, I cooked these for you for the first time inside your lost memory window, didn’t I?”

Rowan nodded, grinning like a fool, the way she always did when a memory came back. “You did. Three Christmases ago. You stayed for the weekend.”

They stood there smiling at each other for a moment before Justine had to tend to the egg, spooning the hot oil over the top. With her eyes, she gestured to the round loaf of bread on the counter. “Slice up some of the sourdough?”

“You got it.” Rowan felt almost normal when these things happened, like her life hadn’t spiraled out of control, like she wasn’t walking around with a brain like Swiss cheese, full of holes and empty spaces where memories should be. She continued to grin as she sliced bread. Justine scooped her egg into a bowl, added some of the hot oil, and topped it with salt, pepper, and oregano. Then she added a little more oil to the pan and let it heat up. “You only make one at a time.”