Page 59 of Go Back to December

“Thank you. For taking my side,” he murmurs.

When he looks at me, I can only manage a nod, accepting this strange truce. “It feels like I’m making the tension between you and your family worse.”

“Only because we’ve forced you in the middle of it. But that’s my fault. Not yours. It’s my problem to work.”

Two days ago, he was steadfast against having anything to do with his family. That he’s considering it feels like a victory. And makes me more ashamed of the fact that we’ve been lying to them.

“We should come clean,” I say. “Tell them we’re not dating.”

He stiffens. “Why?”

“Because they’ll find out eventually, and I don’t want the fact that we’ve been lying about all this to make things worse. I would hate to be a wedge that drives you all further apart.”

“It’s my problem to work,” Baz repeats softly, almost to himself. “I’ll handle it.”

Reaching into the pocket of his high-tech trousers, he removes a glint of metal and places it on the coffee table. It’s a single key. The keychain has no tracker on it, only a J shaped out of enamel pottery.

“Tomorrow we’ll go through the files and sketch out some options for the café,” he says.

“What about those explanations you’re working on?”

He blows out a breath. “I’ll try.”

Not a true concession, but I’m already caving.

I take the key and caress the cool glaze and the handmade indents of the pattern on the ceramic J. I’m betting it’s one of the Sebastian Johnson originals Peter mentioned.

And Baz is trusting me to keep it from breaking.

Chapter Fourteen

Manny told me about a theory in neuroscience called body memory.

It claims our perceptions of events in the past aren’t just stored in our brains. We carry them in the rest of our bodies. Amputees, for example, feel the experience of limbs that are no longer a part of them. It’s not merely a mental memory; they physically sense the limb there. According to the theory, the body can form a habit, independent of the mind. Since your mind controls your body, this theory is exceptionally hard to prove.

When I wake at 4:29 on the morning of December 27th—exactly as I have done on this day for the last eight years—I would swear that body memory is real.

As soundlessly as I can manage, I creep to the kitchen. It’s unacceptably early to wake Baz with the scents and sounds of brewing coffee, but my stomach demands sustenance. I toast some whole-grain bread and slather it with the expensive imported raspberry jam in his fridge. Honestly, he spends half my paycheck on condiments.

I take the toast back to the spare bedroom and nibble on the sweet-tart bread as I stare out the window at the dark street below. The snow didn’t accumulate, but there’s enough on the ground to make the streets messy and slick. An occasional passing car whooshes as it navigates the wet roads; the morning commute won’t be pretty.

The prospect of being trapped here with Baz on this day ratchets up my anxiety. When I agreed to our deal in the hospital, I had blocked out the fact that he’d still be in the boots on December 27. Yesterday’s drama at the funeral distracted me from focusing on it—ironically—and I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’m used to being on my own with my grief today. I’m not sure if I can handle being around another person. Especially Baz.

My phone buzzes. As I reach for it on the bedside table, a dollop of jam drops onto Baz’s Egyptian cotton sheets.

Craig

Morning Mallow.

Time difference, jackass.

Don’t pretend you weren’t already awake.

I would have called, but I was afraid I might wake The Guy.

He’s currently medicated, in restraints, in another bedroom, so everyone’s safe.

That does not make me feel better.