Page 35 of From Square One

Aaron blinks in astonishment. Then he twists to face the tub, folding his arms on the ledge, observing me meticulously. “Do you want me to wash your hair or anything?”

The thought induces hot redness in my face, but I indulge his obvious change of subject. “I showered this morning, so no.”

“I’ve done it before.” Aaron’s smile spreads into his face, his teeth as porcelain pale as his skin. “You fall asleep on my shoulder eight times out of ten.”

I’m about to steam alongside the water I’m swallowed in. “You’re not lying?” I ask warily, because it doesn’t sound like me. I’ve been uncomfortable with my appearance my whole life. Gaining weight has been an issue since birth, and my skin is always too pale or too yellow. Being in my swimsuit in a low-lit pool was almost too much to handle, so I can’t imagine willingly putting myself unclothed in a bathtub with him.

“Do you want proof?”

“You took pictures of me naked in my sleep?” I squeak in horror.

“We were concealed by the water. I’m not the type to take nudes of my partner, surprising as that may sound.” His eyes drift toward the ceiling in contemplation. “Well, we were both naked, technically, but—”

“Don’t tell me more!” I interrupt, raising my hands and accidentally splashing him. Unfazed, he blinks it out of his magnificently long lashes.

“Can I show you the picture? It’s cute.”

I scrunch my face in annoyance, but I’m curious. I’ve scoured my phone for pictures of Aaron and me, seeking physical proof of our relationship. Either I never took any, or Logan deleted the ones that existed to help me rid myself of him. Aaron, though, probably has moments like this documented mere inches away. I haven’t asked to see them because I’ve been anxious to witness myself in places and situations I can’t remember. He hasn’t offered to show me any until now, either, probably because he doesn’t want to overwhelm me.

“Show me,” I say, hoping I don’t regret it.

Aaron draws out his phone and thumbs through his gallery. He must find what he’s looking for, because his eyes sparkle brighter, like icicles caught in dawn sunlight, and he flips the screen.

There we are. I’m concealed from the neck down by swirling colors—we must’ve used a bath bomb—but Aaron’s cryptid legs don’t fit, so they’re bent up, his knees poking above the surface. His left arm is draped along the ledge, and his right is elevated to take the picture. I’m nestled against his chest, seated between his legs, my head leaning in the crook of his shoulder and pressed up against his pale neck. My skin looks healthy. Even next to his. It’s probably his bathroom lighting.

An unfamiliar sensation settles over me. I don’t see anything, but I can feel it. A moment like this. The dampness of Aaron’s smooth skin against my back. His arms wrapped around me, hands crossed over my waist, the water cooling. We’ve been sitting there awhile.

His voice.

“Five dollars. Hand it over, sunshine.”

I hear my own disgruntled response, but it’s warbled and distant. I have the feeling I bet him I wouldn’t fall asleep this time. I try clinging to the memory scrap, but the harder I focus on it, the faster it slips through my fingers, until it’s barely an incoherent whisper. Soon, it will be lost entirely.

No. I can’t let this one get away. It’s an actual memory—an extended one!

Suddenly, I panic.

“Get in!” I choke out, and I swat the phone from Aaron’s hand, anxiety clouding my senses as I seize his overall straps and heave his weight over the side of the tub. Aaron splashes into the water on top of me with a squawking noise, and the resulting wave sloshes onto the tile floor.

“Riley?” he yelps as I wrestle him beneath me.

“Spread your legs!” I order.

“What?”

“For God’s sake, Aaron, do I have to do everything myself?” I demand, and I seize his soaking wet overalls by the knees, folding them up and wrenching his legs apart. I flip so my back is to his chest and lean against his soggy clothes, angling myself like I was in the picture. I seize his wrists and wrap them around my front until we’re in position, then close my eyes, letting the seconds pass in silence.

Come on. Come on, memory. Come back.

It doesn’t. It’s gone.

Which means I just dragged Aaron Beckham into the bath, fully clothed, for no reason.

“I’m so sorry,” I choke out, trying to pry myself away from him, but he merely folds his arms tighter around my midsection, hugging me.

“You’re trying to torture me,” he says, his low voice scraping my ear and causing little bumps to spring along my neck.

“I didn’t…I’m sorry…I was remembering something,” I say, his breath on my skin overwhelming. I’ve been frigid all day, but now I feel like I’m battling a fever. “I wanted to reenact the picture and grab the memory before it disappeared. It didn’t work.”