Part 12 (1/2)

Adam laughs at me, c.o.c.king a brow. ”How many people did you invite to help out tonight?”

I put some of the pens away and blush so fiercely my hair is probably turning red.

Adam turns to my bookshelf, running his long fingers over the spines. He pulls out three or four, and I turn my radio up a little louder.

He makes himself comfortable on my floor between the bed and the window. Back against the wall and knees against my box springs. It doesn't look terribly comfortable, but it's a smart spot. If, G.o.d forbid, my mom decides to pound her way through my reinforced bedroom door, he'll have plenty of time to climb out the window. Or at least slide under the bed.

”You want these?” he asks softly, offering me two books.

Right. I should start researching now. Read things. Write things. Stop staring at Adam.

I walk over to the bed and sit down, taking the two he's handing up to me. I'm familiar enough with the t.i.tles, but I haven't read much of them. At least not that I can remember.

”Um, what exactly should we be looking for?” I ask, sitting down and feeling really awkward.

”Memory stuff,” he says, already nose-deep in a pretty dense-looking tome. ”Something had to trigger this. Maybe if we can find it, it'll help.”

”I don't think I'm going to find a chapter t.i.tled 'Recovering the Six Months You Lost,' you know.”

Adam smirks but doesn't look up from his book.

”You know, you could fill me in,” I say softly.

He does look up then, eyes catching mine above the pages.

I shrug halfheartedly. ”You could give me a Reader's Digest version.”

His smile is mischievous. ”What makes you think I'd know? We're strangers, remember?”

I'm tempted to ask more, but he turns a page and furrows his brow, the very picture of focus.

I open my book with a huff and thumb through the pages aimlessly. This is stupid. I mean, maybe there is a book that might explain some of this, but I doubt I own it. I only own the basics-and whatever the h.e.l.l is wrong with me is as far from basic as it gets. And why won't he tell me anything? Obviously we weren't strangers. We studied together. Raked leaves together. Did things that feel precariously close to cheating on my boyfriend together.

Maybe it's better if I don't know all the details.

I frown, slouching down against my headboard. I scan a couple of chapters in my child psychology book. Unless I'm concerned about the impact of potty training on my future offspring, this is useless.

I flip forward, and my fingers catch on something between the pages. Wait a minute. I find a yellow slip of notebook paper tucked in the middle of the book.

The chapter it's marking is t.i.tled ”Memory: Safe Box and Minefield.” There are a few things underlined in the chapter, but nothing that seems very pertinent. No how-to sections on recovering repressed memories or the kinds of traumas that cause them.

I pull out the paper and unfold it, and the scrawl on the front is immediately recognizable. Because it's mine. The three words seem innocuous enough, but they send a chill from the roots of my hair through the soles of my feet.

Maggie was right.

But right about what?

My clock reads 7:24 a.m., and I'm staring myself down in the mirror like I'm preparing for battle. My combat gear includes a white sweater, dark denim jeans, and just enough time on my hair and makeup to make it clear I'm actually excited to see Blake.

I'm not excited.

I don't think there's any thesaurus out there that lists dread and apprehension as synonyms of excitement.

I stayed in bed for ten minutes this morning trying to think of an excuse to call off. From breakfast with Blake. From school too, really. Or h.e.l.l, from life in general. In the end, I decided to get on with it.

The truth is I'm being a lousy girlfriend. And it's not because my memory's wonky or my study group is suspicious. It's because I'm completely hung up on another guy.

I sigh and tell myself for the thousandth time how Adam couldn't be further than my type. Ridiculously gorgeous? Yes. Nice? Actually, yes. Smart choice? Um, no. I can just imagine me introducing him to my dad. Or even better, my mother. No. No times infinity.

But, G.o.d, I can't get him out of my head.

I'm still sitting next to my front door resolving to get over it when I hear the Mustang pull up in front of my house.

Showtime.

I take a breath and pull on my coat, sliding out the door with a smile plastered on my face. Fake it till you make it, right?

I bound down the steps, tossing my hair because I will be happy today. I will force myself to share m.u.f.fins and to talk about the weather. I will be the best girlfriend Blake's ever had.

”You look just about perfect,” Blake says, opening my door and sliding me into the car.

”You don't look too bad yourself,” I say.

And it's no stretch. b.u.t.ton-down s.h.i.+rt, faded jeans, hair tousled in a way that probably took longer than mine. He should be in a Gap ad selling polo s.h.i.+rts with that million-dollar smile.

”How about Trixie's?” he asks.

”Fine by me.”

Trixie's is five minutes from my house. Even I can come up with enough small talk to fill six minutes. And I don't really have to because Blake turns up the radio and we listen until we pull into the parking lot.

The diner has seen better days, but it's clean and familiar. The white counters are pristine, and the stainless steel trim around the chairs and tables gleams.

Conversation rises from the booths and tables as the blond, busty hostess seats us. She sends an extra smile to Blake, and he returns it but keeps his hand on my back. And then he waits to sit until I do because he's chivalry personified and I'm an idiot to have strayed. Even mentally.

”I'm starving,” I say, picking up my menu. ”I could eat ten pancakes.”

Blake chuckles. ”You'll definitely need to watch your carbs if you don't want to pick up the freshman fifteen next fall.”

I laugh and look at him, but he doesn't look like he's joking. Seriously? I'm not a size 0 or anything, but I'm sure the heck not tipping the scales. I lower my menu to check his expression again, but Blake seems transfixed with the selection of eggs and bacon.

Okay, roll with it. He probably winked when I was blinking or something.

The waitress returns for our order, and I'm just opening my mouth to request a double Belgian waffle when Blake orders first.

”We'll both have the number one, eggs scrambled, with turkey sausage and wheat toast.”