“Did anything else come back?” he asks. He sounds gentle, but there’s a tension under the words, like he’s measuring every one.
I shake my head. “Just flashes. Nothing sticks.”
He takes a long breath, then slides his phone across the counter so I can see the screen.
It’s an email, open to the body text. The first line says: UPDATE – RE: SUBJECT “DAISY”. The rest is a wall of text, but my eyes snag on the words “dissociative fugue” and “trauma-induced amnesia.”
I don’t want to read it, but I do.
…Subject continues to display evidence of classic dissociative fugue; the new identity is stable, but signs of stress or trauma (including but not limited to sudden changes in environment, accidental reminders, or re-exposure to water/immersion) may act as triggers for memory recall. In clinical experience, water is both a trauma cue and a comfort object for the subject. Recommend minimizing high-stimulus triggers unless under controlled circumstances…
I stare at the screen, then up at Hunter. He’s looking at me with an odd mix of worry and hunger, like he wants to both fix and devour me at once.
“Is this about me?” I ask, dazed.
Hunter nods. “I talked to a psychologist, and asked them to do a quick rundown. They know your name is Daisy, but they think it’s code for someone else. Anyways as you can see, they think you have this illness called dissociative fugue.”
My throat is tight. “So I’m broken.”
He’s quick, fierce. “You’re not broken. You’re just rebuilding your memories, that’s all.” His fingers reach for mine, and I let him. His hand is warm, big, callused in all the right ways. “You’re safe here, Daisy. For as long as you want to be.”
I smile weakly. “Thanks, but you saw the email. Maybe I should stay away from the pool for a while, otherwise I’ll totally combust.”
Hunter smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Or maybe,” he says, “we should try something different today. Like a walk.”
“A walk?”
“Fresh air. Less white space,” he says, looking around the kitchen as if it’s part of the problem. “There’s a place I used to go as a kid. Lake Harriet. It’s beautiful, even in winter. You ever been?”
I search my memory. Nothing.
“I don’t think so,” I say.
His smile is brighter this time. “You’ll love it. And if you want to talk more, we can. Or we can just walk and watch the geese be assholes to each other.”
That makes me laugh, and the weird heaviness in my chest loosens a little.
“Okay,” I say. “A walk. Let me just—” I look down at the bacon grease on my shirt, the flour dust on my thighs. “Let me get dressed first.”
“Take your time,” Hunter says. “I’ll clean up.”
I leave him in the kitchen, my heart a confused tangle of relief and fear and something I’m scared to name. After all, what will happen when I figure out who I really am? Am I married? Do I have a worried husband or boyfriend to go back to? Oh my god, what if I have kids waiting at home?
But then, I remember that’s impossible because I’m a virgin. Yet sadness permeates my frame because I’ll almost definitely have to leave Hunter to return to my former life. I’ll have to go back to being the old me, although I don’t even know who she is.
Distressed, I go to the closet, peel off my shirt, stare at my reflection in the full-length mirror. The girl there is a stranger and not a stranger: hair wild, cheeks flushed, blue eyes huge and haunted. For a second, I see her in the yellow kitchen, older, angry, but then the image slips away.
I wipe my face with the back of my hand, grab a sweater, and pull it over my head.
When I go back to the kitchen, the counters are spotless, the air thick with coffee and the faintest whiff of maple.
Hunter is waiting, phone back in his pocket, keys in his hand.
“You ready?” he says, and there’s a tenderness in his voice that makes me want to cry.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m ready.”
We leave the penthouse together, and the whole way to the elevator, Hunter keeps his hand at the small of my back. Not pushing, not guiding. Just there. Like a reminder that, even if I fall apart again, there’s someone who knows how to hold the pieces together.