Ten Below Zero(67)

“Because he can’t remember it,” Robert said, gesturing towards Everett with his whiskey. “We spent a week touring the southwestern states and after the surgery, poof!” He gestured an explosion with his hands. “It was wiped from his memory.”

I let that sink in. And then I turned to Everett. “That six months you lost?”

He turned his head, nodded. Everything was starting to make sense. Everett had lost the memories from that trip. And he was experiencing it again, anew, with me. His eyes were concentrating on mine. My hand that was on my lap moved to his thigh and I squeezed and nodded my head once, indicating I understood.

Before I could move my hand from his lap, his hand laid on top of it. And then he squeezed, three times. Like he had outside the tattoo shop.

I turned my attention back to his parents. Robert was focused on his drink, but Patricia had clearly watched our exchange. “Tell me about yourself, Parker,” she said kindly.

“There’s not much,” I answered. And I bothered by that. Bothered by knowing there wasn’t much. I’d seen more of living in the last week since meeting Everett than I had in the last three years. I cleared my throat. “I’m a waitress. Or,” I frowned, “I was a waitress. I’m going to school for anthropology.” And that was it. That was all that I was.

Everett squeezed my hand under the table again. “She’s funny,” he said to his mother, but looking at me. “She’s really stubborn and smart.” He lifted his free hand to brush my hair from my face. I couldn’t breathe. His blue eyes penetrated mine. “She’s clumsy, but she’s strong.” His hand on mine squeezed again. My chest was tight, aching. “She’ll tell you she doesn’t care, but she does. It’s just deeper than the surface.” The hand that had brushed away my hair was resting on my shoulder. “That’s what’s so great about her. She’s not artificial. When she feels, it’s real. She’s real, down to the bone.” His eyes were soft, warm, and it hurt to keep looking into them. He squeezed my hand a third time. “She’s the warmest person I know.” Under his gaze, I was transparent.

Everett smiled, but it was a sad smile. I blinked rapidly, trying to chase away the liquid that had formed in my tear glands. And I looked away, over my right shoulder, inhaling a deep breath. When I turned back to the table, Patricia was staring at me with what I could only describe as elation. It felt like another obligation to me, however. Once you made someone happy, you were obligated to keep them that way. It was a responsibility I didn’t want. I didn’t want to own a piece of anyone’s happiness.

Nothing would come of me and Everett. He said I was stubborn, but he was more so. He’d rather die than live. And that realization caused me to excuse myself from the table.

I first went to the restroom, thrust my hand in the cool water from the sink, trying to cool any part of my body. But then I felt like I couldn’t breathe. My chest hurt, my head hurt. The dress was too tight, the air was too recycled. I was breathing in air that had been inhaled and exhaled repeatedly. I needed real, honest air.

I stumbled outside, into the dark parking lot. My ankle was still a little swollen from the fall at the canyon the day before, and walking on gravel that needed repair in heels was not exactly smooth sailing.

I walked all the way into the parking lot, out to Everett’s Jeep. It was parked near the back, so I hobbled my way to it, intending to change into the flip flops I’d left in the backseat. I peered in the windows of the Jeep, unable to see my flip flops through the darkness.

It was at that moment that I felt something, something in my brain that warned me to pay attention. I turned around, looking over my shoulder. There was a man watching me from about twenty feet away. I couldn’t make out his features because he was standing between two vehicles, shadowed, watching me. I braced a hand on the Jeep, feeling the warmth of it under my hand. And then a memory came through.



I was looking in my car windows while unlocking the door when he came up behind me. I couldn’t see his face. Only the reflection of his hooded head facing the window I was looking into. I spun around, hitting him with my purse. He moved away for a second and my eyes scanned the parking lot, looking for help anywhere.



My eyes focused from the nightmare to real life. The man standing between the two vehicles was staring at me. His features blurred. All I could see what a hoodie. I screamed and the memory came back to me in stunning clarity.



“Get away from me!” I screamed. My voice sounded unnatural, animalistic. I felt the heat of my car at my back as I held my purse up, ready to hit him again. My hand trembled, the surge of fear and adrenaline mating in my veins rendering my unstable.

“You won’t be doing that again.” His voice. Oh god, his voice. It sounded like he swallowed sandpaper. It was deep, and there was no mistaking the threat it promised. That’s when I saw the glint of what he had in his hand. He held it up, the one small light in the parking lot reflecting off of the knife. “Give me your keys. Get in the car. Shut up, or I will cut you open.”

A sob tore from my throat and my knees shook so hard I fell onto the concrete. His arm grasped mine and he took the keys from my fingertips. The next thing I knew, he’d hauled me to my feet and shoved me from the driver’s door to the passenger seat. It had to be a nightmare, I told myself. I willed myself to wake up. But this wasn’t a nightmare. This was reality. My entire body was shaking. I couldn’t process what was happening. Fear was prominent, it was keeping me from feeling anything else.