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I gaze at the sea, feeling even more hopeless. “How can I know what I want if I don’t remember anything? What was I to you?”
“You were mine, like I said before. You were my girlfriend.”
My stomach ties itself in knots.
He takes a step forward; I shudder and shrink back instantly. It’s the first time he’s shown any hint of wanting more than just to help me. I know he’s insisted I was his woman, but when I told him I didn’t remember and didn’t want to be touched, he respected my boundaries. He didn’t seem to be in a hurry, certain I’d love him again in time.
“Please, no. I’m sorry I don’t remember being important to you, but for anything to happen between us, I need to get my memories back.”
“You’re being ungrateful.”
“What?”
“I’ve done nothing but be the best man in the world. The best partner.”
I say nothing, stunned, and soon he looks remorseful for his outburst.
“I’m sorry, Taylor.”
“Is that really my name?”
“Yes, Taylor Jarvis.”
“Let me go online. Look myself up.”
“It’s not time yet.”
“Don’t you realize you’re healing my body but harming my mind, William? I’m going insane here.”
He’s silent for several minutes. “You’re right. You’re strong enough now. Let’s go on a cruise. We’ll stop at some islands, walk through their streets, have dinner out. Once you’re one hundred percent better, we’ll go back to the States.”
My heart speeds up. That was one of the few things he told me—that I’m American. “Swear it to God.”
“I don’t believe in God, Taylor. It’s a useless oath. But for you, yes, I swear.”
William
CHAPTER THIRTY
Weeks Later
UNITED STATES
“We need to talk,”Athanasios says, entering my office at our hospital, with L. J. in tow.
I was already set to leave. I’ve been working myself to exhaustion, but to remain the best at what I do, I need rest too. My plan is to come back in a few hours, though—there’s so much to do, and keeping busy is what keeps me moving forward.
“I’m heading home,” I say, with no desire for conversation.
“No. You have to hear us out—or rather, see something.”
I glance at Athanasios, wondering if this is about Brooklyn Foster?1, the patient whose life he saved a few days ago by bringing her out of a coma. As pleased as I am by my friends’ achievements, I’m not in any frame of mind to celebrate. For over a year now, my life has sunk into a deep, dark obsession: finding Taylor.
I see L. J. pull a laptop from his backpack and place it on my desk. Then, after searching through some images, he points to the screen.
At first, I look at a white-haired man in a polo shirt and shorts, walking around a marina, apparently on some Southeast Asian Island. It’s no surprise to see it’s my father. Over a year ago, he filed for divorce from my mother, then vanished off the face of the earth—only calling my grandmother sporadically to check on her health.
My mother, distressed about how New York’s high society would judge her newly single status, has secluded herself in near exile, but I think it’s for the best. She’s been drinking heavily, though, so I do worry a bit.