Page 18

Dylan

T he scent of churned earth and blooming grass hit me as soon as I stepped out of the SUV.

Somewhere nearby, a tractor chugged along in rhythmic puffs, the sound blending with the call of a rooster who clearly hadn’t gotten the memo that morning had long passed.

This was the kind of place I would have driven past without stopping before.

Now I was leaning against a sun-warmed fence post, watching Jennifer charm the hell out of a farmer who’d been explaining the psychology of corn mazes like he had a PhD in labyrinth warfare.

God, she was radiant. Camera in one hand, notebook tucked under the other arm, nodding intently while the farmer gestured toward a flagged path running through a planted field.

Bethany stood next to her, visibly enthralled, a huge pair of sunglasses on her head.

She asked a dozen questions in a row—about soil rotation, about why one of the flags was orange instead of red, and whether he had ever built a maze in the shape of a lobster.

The farmer—a square-shouldered guy named Rick with a baseball cap that had more patches than cloth—just grinned and answered everything like she was his favorite niece.

Beside me, Steven exhaled hard through his nose, and we stepped away.

I didn’t need to ask what was bothering him. His eyes scanned the field like we were standing in a war zone instead of a corn maze in progress. It wasn’t the goats. It wasn’t the children giggling near the produce stand. It was the openness. The unpredictability.

“Relax,” I said, watching Jennifer crouch to get a shot of an old boot Rick claimed had been eaten by a combine. “I don’t remember you being so jumpy.”

“Well, you don’t remember much so that’s not saying anything,” Steven muttered.

“Low blow.” I turned to him. “We’re twenty minutes from my house. There are three cars in the parking lot. One of them is ours. What are you watching for?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just kept looking out over the field, like danger might rise up from the soil itself.

“Steven.”

His glare was jolting. “I wish you would just fucking remember.”

I tensed at that. “Remember what?”

With a shake of his head, he growled. “I’m playing this game by your rules, not mine. Do you want to know? I’ll tell you. Do you want to remember on your own? I’ll protect you until you’re able to protect yourself. Pick a lane.”

“If Jennifer is in danger, how I feel doesn’t matter. Tell me everything.”

Steven ran a hand through his hair. “You say that, but I already feel bad enough. I refuse to carry the guilt of you never getting your memories back.”

Frustrated, I growled, “Then why did you offer to tell me everything?”

“You were supposed to say you didn’t want to know, then we could drop the subject.”

Muscles bunching with tension, I said, “That plan backfired, didn’t it?”

“Apparently.”

Neither of us spoke for the next few minutes. Eventually, I said, “When I look in the mirror, sometimes a face looks back at me that is me, but not me. Does that make sense?”

Steven froze.

He looked down, then away. “That’s not as crazy as it sounds.”

I glared at his profile. “You’re as helpful as a bee sting.”

Steven turned toward me, eyes storm-dark.

“You’re healing. You’ve got Jennifer back.

Your goal for the week is to not have an aneurysm.

When I feel that you’re ready for more, if you haven’t remembered on your own, I won’t hold back.

Or you could do us both a favor and realign your synapses or something. ”

“Realign my synapses? Well, at least I know you’re not an undercover doctor.”

“And you’re nothing like this normally.”

That cut deep. “What are you saying?”

Steven rubbed a hand over his face. “Listen, I don’t know anything about amnesia, but I do know you. In general, you’re a good person, but you’re also kind of a dick. You’ve been home for a week. I don’t think you’re doing yourself or Jennifer any favors by pretending to be someone you aren’t.”

“I’m not pretending.”

“You know what I mean. What’s going to happen when your cutting sense of humor returns? When you go back to having a resting bastard face?”

“Normally I’m a dick? Like an asshole?”

“You’re impatient. Arrogant. Fucking rude a lot of the time.”

“Wow. You sure that’s someone you want to protect?”

He made a face. “Right? I can’t believe I miss that side of you, either. At first, I was happy to see you smiling for once. But you’re too fucking happy. It’s getting on my nerves.”

That made no sense. I glanced over to where Jennifer was laughing and filming Bethany squatting next to a large dog bowl full of water and baby ducks. “Sorry. Not sorry.”

Steven followed my gaze, and his stance softened, just barely. “Those women don’t need people like us in their lives.”

My head snapped back. “Hold on, I’m horrible at talking shit out, but if I had to guess—you’re not annoyed with how happy I am—you’re annoyed with how happy you are.”

“This isn’t real, Dylan. As soon as your memory returns you won’t want any of this.”

I couldn’t believe that was true. “And what about you? What will you want?”

He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Not the cute little house with a wife and kid. Been there, done that, ruined it, don’t need to learn that lesson twice. I’m not the family type.”

“Okay.”

“Nor are you, Dylan. Jennifer is here because I was certain she was enough to bring you back, but she’s not enough to change you.”

Scratching the hair on the back of my neck, I looked over at Jennifer again. “You’d make a shitty therapist, Steven.”

“You need someone in your sphere to be real with you. This isn’t your life, Dylan. This is who you’d be if you weren’t you.”

Those words lingered long after Steven and I stopped talking.

Jennifer rounded the corner of the farmhouse with Bethany beside her, both of them beaming like they’d discovered buried treasure instead of whatever fresh insanity the farmer had handed them.

They were dusty, windblown, and perfect.

Steven straightened from where he’d been pretending not to be sulking and crossed his arms like he was about to fend off a storm... of what? Happiness?

“You won’t believe what we just learned,” Bethany called, as she practically floated toward us.

“I already don’t,” Steven muttered.

Jennifer’s smile was as wide as Bethany’s. “They have hay bale tunnels.”

“Right.” Bethany waved her arms with theatrical flair.

“So, Rick—the farmer—builds his corn maze with escape lanes . And then, throughout the maze, he runs actual tunnels. For kids. Made of hay bales. Crawl spaces with lights and mystery clues. It’s like a mini escape room built by a man who probably uses duct tape as currency. ”

“I love him,” Jennifer added, flopping against the fence beside me.

I chuckled and pulled a piece of hay from her hair. “Did you crawl through them?”

Jennifer shook her hair out and shimmied closer to me. “Of course.”

Bethany grinned. “Just once. You know—for content.”

Steven nodded toward hay that was on Bethany’s shoulder.

She gave him a confused look.

He pointed toward her shoulder again.

She glanced down at the piece of hay then away as if she either didn’t see it or didn’t care about it. Even though this appeared to agitate Steven, Bethany’s smile didn’t waver.

Steven frowned and turned away.

Jennifer and Bethany exchanged a look. Then, to me, Jennifer gushed, “We got amazing footage. And guess what else? He designs his mazes to reflect emotional patterns, working with architects and psychologists to determine exactly how much frustration the average person will tolerate before giving up. And then, he makes the ending easy, so they leave feeling accomplished.”

I dipped my head down near Jennifer’s ear. “Is that how we’ll feel when we get to the end of Bethany’s instruction packet?”

Jennifer blushed, but she winked and said, “Hope so.”

I blinked. Hell, yeah!

Not having been privy to our side conversation, Bethany said, eyes bright, “In the beginning, you have what it takes to make it through, you’re just kind of wandering around hoping you’re doing something right—then BAM, you’re out.”

“Or in,” I murmured. “I’d rather be in.”

Jennifer playfully swatted at me, careful not to connect. “Be good.”

“I’m trying to be,” I tossed back with a grin.

“Then he showed us the baby goats,” Bethany said. “Quick, someone tell me I don’t need one.”

“You don’t need one,” Steven said deadpan.

Bethany rolled her eyes. “I don’t mean to be harsh, Steven...”

In a whisper, I said to Jennifer, “Nothing good ever starts with those words.”

Jennifer’s eyes widened comically, and she hid her face in my shoulder. My arm naturally went around her.

Bethany continued, “But if you were any less fun, you’d be a rock. Not a pet rock, more like the pebble that gets stuck under your toes when you’re wearing flip-flops.”

“I’ve never worn flip-flops in my life,” Steven asserted.

“Exactly,” Bethany said with a sigh. “You’re one of life’s cruel jokes: tattooed muscled body of the bikers I like to read about with the personality of—”

“A pesky pebble.” A corner of Steven’s mouth twitched as if he might smile.

“Yes,” Bethany said with a flounce, turning her attention back to the farm.

“I do have a motorcycle,” Steven muttered.

Bethany spun back around. “What did you say?”

“Should we give them a moment to sort this out?” Jennifer asked with a quick laugh.

I eased off the fence and took her hand. “That’s probably a good idea.”

“Would you like to see the baby goats?”

Did I like goats? No. Would I normally have any interest in a baby one? Also, no.

Did I say, “Lead the way,” cheerfully? Absolutely.

It was impossible to say no to Jennifer when she looked at me with so much love I questioned if I wanted my old memories back.

I liked who I was without them. Not that I could remember who I’d been with them, but if Steven’s description of me was at all accurate it didn’t sound like I’d like the real me.

Jennifer was glowing as she led me through the barn and introduced me to the farmer.

He thanked her profusely for a wonderful afternoon and for allowing him to share his stories.

His kids were grown and tired of them. His wife was sadly gone.

But his mazes... they were how he kept her with him.

She loved designing them and he knew she’d love that he continued the tradition.

I couldn’t look away from Jennifer as she spoke to that old farmer like he was someone important to her... someone the world would love. No camera recording. This was her and why people enjoyed her content. She genuinely liked people and celebrated them.

It was one of the many reasons I’d originally fallen for Jennifer and one that had me falling even harder for her now. Steven’s warnings came back to me.

I don’t want to be a dick.

I want to be this version of me—the version that chooses this life over whatever the hell I thought was more important.

A memory came to me then. I was being held down and beaten. Certain I would die. Part of me wanted to. Part of me wanted to live long enough to stick it to everyone who hadn’t believed in me.

There was a blissful silence that followed the beating and then a cold settled in. I couldn’t move. There was pain, but fury too. I was at rock bottom and losing, but I swore that I wouldn’t be there long.

I’d fight my way back.

Alone, but not by choice.

And I’d show everyone that I didn’t need them.

The memory faded, but not entirely. The adrenaline that had rushed through me during it remained. My breathing was shallow, and I swayed on my heels beneath the weight of the realization that Steven might be right. There might be no way to dam the darker side of me.

“You okay?” Jennifer asked with concern.

I forced a smile. “Yeah.”

She searched my face. “Tired?”

“No.”

“Let’s head back,” Jennifer said, standing. “I was thinking we could drive through Millridge on our way.”

“What’s there?”

“We don’t have to. We can do it another day.”

“Jennifer,” I said firmly. “If I’m too tired to go, I’ll tell you. Now, what’s in Millridge?”

Her smile was tentative. “I’ve heard there are old mansions from when the town was rich from the textile industry. The architecture is supposed to be amazing, and I’d like to see if the mills are still standing.”

“Let’s do it.” Anything to push back the feeling of dread that had descended on me.

“Some have burned down,” she offered. “But even their remains are interesting to see.”

I tugged her to me. “I don’t care where we go as long as you’re with me.”

She raised a hand to cup the side of my face. “Did you just remember something?”

“Nothing about us.” That much was true. “But I would have preferred to start off with something happier.”

Her eyes darkened. “I’m sorry.”

I shook my head. “Don’t be. Even a bad memory is progress, right?”

“What did you remember?”

“Surviving a physical altercation with several men.”

“I’m so sorry that happened to you.”

“I wasn’t scared, I was angry.” I debated how honest to be with her. The humor I sprinkled in my next question was meant to soften it. “This will sound like a crazy question, but I have to ask it. Did you take out a hit on me? Because for some reason, I feel like I blamed that fight on you.”

Her mouth rounded. “Do you think I would do something like that?”

Did I? “No. My mind is currently jumbled.”

She looked as if she was about to say something, then changed her mind. “Let’s go see how many of those mills are still standing.”