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“Remember the wreck?” He said he was too drunk to—
“No, I…” He takes a deep breath for courage. “I remember you.”
Remember me.
“Like…” I reel, grasping for meaning, but it feels like grabbing at smoke. “The night that we…?”
He nods. And suddenly, I feel like someone yanked a rug out from under me. He remembers our night together.
I step toward him, searching his eyes. Is he for real? And I’m not sure if I’m happy or upset. “When did it come back to you?” Was it last night? This morning?
He takes a step toward me. “Scarlett,” he breathes, almost chides. Relief relaxes his expression as this secret he’s been holding onto frees him. I can tell he wants to kiss me again. Hold me. But he won’t. Not after I left him on the rock. “I never forgot. How could I ever forget you?”
Something inside me cracks; an irrevocable break. I just stare at him, stunned. Wounded. Relieved.
I want to smack him and hug him and tell his ass off. I want to pick apart everything he’s telling me to somehow find reason. To find something that points to untruth, so I can do what I know I still need to do—leave. But I don’t. Can’t.
His earnestness is pinning me right to this spot. And the acknowledgement, the validation that he remembers me after all this time, feels way too good. It’s consuming.
Maddening.
And there’s only one thing in this moment that feels right.
I abandon what’s left of my resolve and rush into him.
