Repeat(17)

“Sorry for making things awkward with your friends,” I say.

“Thought we weren’t going to say sorry anymore.” Arms crossed, he stares off into the distance. “You and Tessa used to be close.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. That’s why she’s so mad at you. Mostly.”

I don’t know what to say.

In this part of the city, at this hour of the day, it only takes three minutes for my ride to arrive. I climb into the backseat, still searching for words. Something to take the edge off what happened. I should thank him, I should . . .

“Take care,” says Ed, shutting the car door.

And we’re done.





Chapter Four


“Amnesia chick?”

The barista grins, handing over my drink with this new nickname scrawled on the side. What a fucking comedian. I guess having a seizure on the café floor has made me mildly famous. Whatever. At least the coffee is good here; they don’t burn the beans.

“Thanks.” I meet his grin with a small smile. Nothing to do but take the nickname in relative good grace. I take the cup over to the side to pour in some sugar. Let’s face facts: I need all of the sweetening up I can get.

It’s been over a week since I last spoke to Ed. I try not to think about him. Try not to remember the way he looks and the sound of his voice. Definitely try not to dwell on everything he’s ever said to me. Though given the silence, I’d say he’s far better at ignoring my existence than I am his.

Also, the bank broke up with me this morning. No more job. The good news is, the small amount of holiday pay I’m owed, combined with severance, means there’s more money in my account.

So mostly my life has consisted of me attempting to be useful and keeping myself occupied. I clean my sister’s small ranch-style house, cook most of our meals, read books, go for walks, and attend doctors’ appointments. Everyone (the good doctor and Frances) says to take things slow. To let myself heal. But I feel like I’m stagnating and it sucks. No past and no future.

Apart from the occasional headache, I suffer from acute anxiety. Just because I can’t remember the attack, apparently doesn’t mean I’m not dealing with the trauma. It’s a bitch because you can never quite tell what will set it off. The crowd in the coffee shop, for instance, is not great. People bumping into me, all of the noise . . . the sooner I get back outside, the easier I’m breathing.

“Clem?” a woman asks with a wary smile. She’s smallish, has very short hair, and is vaguely familiar. “Clementine?”

“Yes.”

“I, um . . . this is weird. I don’t know what to say.”

“Why don’t you start by telling me who you are,” I say, taking a sip of scalding-hot coffee.

“Right.” Her smile widens. “You won’t remember, of course, but we used to be friends. Good friends.”

I just wait.

“My name’s Shannon.”

“You’re from Ed’s shop, right?”

“Exactly. I’m the receptionist, assistant, whatever’s needed really.” She bops on her feet with excessive energy. “I didn’t get to say hi when you came in the other week. I mean, none of us even knew this had happened to you. It was such a shock.”

“So you and I were friends back when I was with Ed?”

She nods. “Yeah. When the breakup happened . . . well, it was messy. You just kind of needed time out from everyone attached to him. I understood completely.”

“Right, okay. Ed had mentioned something like that happened, but it’s good to know for certain.”

“Yeah. When I heard what happened to you, and I just wanted to reach out and see that you were all right.”

“That’s nice of you.” I tip my head. “Do you live in the area? I haven’t seen you here before.”

“No. I was driving to your sister’s place and happened to see you heading in here, so I just . . .”

I nod.

Her smile finally waivers. “Should we grab a table? Have you got time to sit down for a minute? I’d really like to know how you’re doing . . .”

“Sure. Outside would be good.”

I lead the way, finding one at the end situated against the shop window. There are a couple of men in work clothes. Probably belonging to the French Town Electrical van parked nearby. Some women in athleisure wear. Several of them look askance at Shannon’s shaved head and tattooed limbs. Ah, life in the suburbs.

“So I met you through Ed?” I ask, carefully prying off the lid to my coffee and blowing on the liquid to try to cool it down.

“That’s right.”

I just wait. When the amnesia first struck, and I was around people I was meant to know but didn’t, I’d often stay silent because I had no idea what to say. But it turns out keeping your mouth shut is actually a good technique for getting information out of people. If you wait for people to fill the silence, they usually do. They just can’t help themselves.

“It was sad, I mean . . . you and he tried so hard to make it work, but there were just some fundamental differences, you know?”

“Not really. Why don’t you tell me?”

“God.” She giggles and rolls her eyes. Like my lack of memory makes her uncomfortable. “Whatever you want to know.”