Repeat(3)

“This is fucked. Actually, it was fucked the first time.” He turns away and finishes the last of his beer. “Jesus.”

I just keep quiet, waiting.

“You have no memories, no feelings about me whatsoever?”

“No, nothing.”

A muscle jumps in his jaw, his hands sitting fisted on the table.

“It’s called traumatic retrograde amnesia,” I say, trying to explain. “What they call my ‘episodic memory’ is gone—all my memories of events and people and history. Personal facts. But I can still make a cup of coffee, read a book, or drive a car. Stuff like that. Things that were done repetitively, you know? Not that I’m allowed to drive at the moment. My car’s sitting outside my sister’s house gathering dust. They said to give it some time before I got behind the wheel again, make sure I’m okay. Also, apparently the part of my brain in charge of inhibitions and social restrictors, et cetera, is a bit messed up, so I don’t always react right, or at least not necessarily how you’d expect me to behave based on previous me.”

“Previous you?”

I shrug. “It’s as good a label for her as any.”

“She’s you. You’re her.”

“Maybe. But she’s still a complete stranger to me.”

“Christ,” he mutters.

This is awkward. “I’m upsetting you. I’m sorry. But there are things I need to know, and I’m hoping you can help me out with some of them.”

Our drinks arrive, the glass of the margarita lined with salt and smelling of lemon. I take a sip and smile. “I like it.”

He reaches grimly for his beer, the ink on his forearm shifting with the muscle beneath. His tattoos cover a variety of topics. A bottle marked “poison” with skull and crossbones set amongst roses. An anatomical heart. A tattoo gun (very meta). A lighthouse with waves crashing below. I wonder if it’s the Portland Headlight, the famous one at Cape Elizabeth. There was something on TV about it the other day. His tattoos are hypnotic in a way. As if, combined, they tell a story, if only you could understand.

Ed pushes his beer aside. “So, because you don’t remember, I should just forget all the shit you pulled and help you? Because that was all the ‘previous you’ and not the girl sitting in front of me?”

“That’s your decision to make, of course.”

“Thanks, Clem.” His voice is bitter, full of a kind of controlled rage. “That’s real fucking big of you.”

I flinch, unused to people swearing at me. Not that he hasn’t been swearing in my general vicinity since the moment we met, but for some reason, this time it has an effect on me. Can’t help but wonder how angry does he get, exactly? The man is taller than me, his shoulders broader than mine. And I’ve already had a small taste of the strength he holds in his hands.

“Shit.” He sighs at my reaction. “Clem, don’t . . . don’t do that. I would never hurt you.”

Unsure of what to say, I down more of my drink.

“You don’t know me; I get it,” he says, voice softer, gentler. “Look at me, Clementine.”

When I do, his eyes are full of remorse and he’s sad now. Not angry.

“I would never hurt you, I swear it. You’re safe with me.”

“Okay.” Slowly, I nod. “It’s a stupid name, don’t you think?”

“Yours? I don’t know. I always liked it.”

I almost smile.

“You’re staying with your sister?”

“Yes.”

“How’s that going?”

“It’s all right.”

The side of his mouth lifts briefly. “You and Frances were always fighting about something.”

“Actually, that makes sense.” I laugh. “Did she approve of you?”

“You’d have to ask her that.”

“Oh, I have lots of questions for her.”

This time, when he looks at me, it’s more of a thoughtful kind of thing. Like he’s processing. I’ve given him a lot of information, and I know it takes a while to sort things out in your head. So I drink my margarita and watch the woman behind the bar, the two men sitting on stools, chatting. Even though their hygiene standards are lacking, I like the place. It’s relaxed.

Maybe it’s my kind of place.

“I don’t seem to have many friends,” I say, a question popping into my head. “Was I always like that, a bit of a loner?”

He shakes his head. “You had friends. But apparently you cut them all off when you left me.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” he says, shoulders dropping slightly. “Maybe you wanted a fresh start. Maybe you just didn’t want to talk about the breakup and shit. Maybe you just wanted to be left alone.”

Huh.

“Give me your phone; I’ll put my details in.” He holds out a hand. “You would have deleted me from your contacts.”

“Oh, I don’t have one. My bag and everything was taken in the attack.”

His brows rise. “You’re walking around without a cell? Clem, that’s not safe.”

“Pretty sure having a phone didn’t make much of a difference last time.”