Charlotte Had A Boyfriend : 12

By Iolanthe Portmanteaux

 

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"I've got to find out what happened. I guess I must have had a bump on the head in the auto accident."

— Erle Stanley Gardner, The Case of the Glamorous Ghost

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Barney drove well. He drove with confidence. With a casual sense of control. Aside from the initial vroom! vroom! he navigated the streets safely and calmly. He didn't speed. He didn't challenge other drivers; he was, in fact, courteous to a fault. Aside from the occasional glance in my direction, he kept his focus on the road ahead.

"That's a hell of a bump you've got there," he commented, pointing to a spot on his forehead, above his right eye. "Is that from the accident?"

"Yep."

"And that's supposedly the cause of your amnesia?"

I gave him a bit of side-eye, but he didn't notice. "Yes, I guess it is," I answered, drily.

"Does it hurt?"

"Only if something touches it. It's getting smaller every day. It was double the size when I first got it."

"Hmm. So once the bump is gone, you won't be able to claim to have amnesia any more, right?"

"What? No! It's not as though the bump is full of amnesia. It's just a bump!"

He smiled in mild amusement, then asked, "What about the bruises? They must hurt like hell."

"They're a little tender, yeah, but it's not bad. The look a lot worse than they feel. I wish they weren't such a weird green color. Another week, though, and they should be gone."

He nodded.

"No broken bones, though, right?"

"Right."

"No internal injuries?"

"No."

"You were lucky there."

"Yeah."

"So... the bump is real, the bruises are real. It must have been a bad accident."

Real? Of course they're real! I sighed, silently, internally. "It *was* a bad accident, yeah. One of the drivers is still in serious condition. The car I was in flipped all the way over, twice."

"Twice?" his eyebrows lifted. "How do you know that?" he challenged.

"I was there," I replied, a little testily.

"But you had amnesia." He said it in teasing sing-song, as if he'd caught me in a lie.

"I saw the wrecks *after* the accident. It was clear what had happened."

He lapsed into silence for a minute or two. Then he took to nodding his head. He gave a quick three nods before turning to study my face. He kept his eyes on me for so long I nearly shouted Eyes on the road! Eyes on the road! His gaze returned forward, but a few moments later he did it again, staring at me as if he'd never seen me before.

"What?" I asked. "Why are you looking at me like that? Is there something on my face?"

"Something on your face?" he repeated, as if I'd said something funny. "No, in fact. You don't have something on your face. It's just that— uh— Hey." Abruptly, strangely, his demeanor changed. He flipped from being cocksure and arrogant to being cautious and hesitant. He gave me the strange impression of being afraid of me. "Now, don't get mad when I ask you this—" he continued, shooting me quick, uncertain glances— "it's just a question, okay? Because— You always look great, okay? But, this— uh," he scratched his cheek nervously. "This, uh, no-makeup thing. Is it a new look you're trying out? For good, like? Or is it just temporary? You know, like, part of your amnesia shtick?"

"Shtick?"

"Routine? Uh... scheme? Uh—"

"I get it," I told him, interrupting. "It's not a scheme. Come on, Barney! I have amnesia. For real. I don't remember anything. I don't remember you, or Cameron, or Sheba, or my own mother. I don't know who I am or how I got here."

He twisted his mouth in doubt. "And you don't remember how to put on makeup? Seriously?"

"I guess I don't! Makeup? I haven't thought about makeup even once. This is the first time anyone's even mentioned the word! Do I usually wear makeup?" I didn't mean to get riled up — but I could hear myself talking louder, more forcefully. Barney took a few quick breaths. He seemed unnerved.

"Oh my God!" he exclaimed. "I'm a guy! How can I answer that? Makeup? I— I don't know!"

"You don't know whether I usually wear makeup?"

"No— it's not— that's not— Look, don't back me into a corner, okay? I don't know what I'm supposed to say! I don't want to say the wrong thing and piss you off!" Then carefully, as if tiptoeing through a mine field, he said, "Look: I just... I mean, I notice that right now you're not wearing any makeup. Okay? Which is fine. It's just that you look different without it. And so... You say you have amnesia, and yet and still you know how to walk and talk and how to put on your clothes. I assume you know how to tie your shoes, right? So..." He gave me a glance, to gauge my mood. "You just look different, is all. That's all I'm saying."

I remembered Barney saying Talking always gets us into trouble. Here, now, we were probably at the shallow end of that "trouble." And it wasn't about anything important! In a measured, even tone, just asking for information, I quizzed him: "How much makeup do I usually wear? Right now, do I look good different? Or bad different?"

"Oh, fuck me, I'm not going to answer that! Remember: *I* didn't say 'bad different'. *You* said 'bad different', not me," he stated defensively, sounding as though he suddenly found himself standing in the middle of a lake, on thin ice, hearing cracking noises all around him.

The sudden change in Barney threw me. A moment ago I was talking to a man in charge of things. Now he seemed a hen-pecked husband. What did that make me? I wasn't pecking at anything! "Barney, What's with you?" I asked. "Why are you freaking out, all of a sudden?"

"Oh, my God," he said. "See, this is what every man dreads. It's like... you're damned if you do and you're damned if you don't."

"If you don't what?"

"Look— look— the classic example is: a woman asks her husband, Does this dress make my butt look big?" He shot me a look, to see how his explanation, his example, had landed.

"Chill out," I told him, laughing. "I'm not going to ask you about my butt. I don't mind your telling me about... my face, or whatever. I need to find out about me. I don't know what I usually do. I'm trying to put together a picture of who I am, or who I used to be. Does that make sense? All I have to go on is what you and my family tell me." A sudden thought hit me. "Hey — what about my friends?"

"What about them?" Barney face still had that haunted, bewildered look.

"I do have friends, don't I?"

"Sure you do. Of course you do. Why are you asking me?"

"Because I don't remember," I replied, with some emphasis.

"Oh, boy," he muttered.

"Would they be in my phone?" I asked.

"Oh, fuck me," Barney said. "Can we change the subject?"

"Why? Why can't you just tell me? Why are you all defensive?"

Barney groaned. "Because this is all girl stuff! Makeup! God! Like I know anything about makeup! And now you want to talk about your friends? Okay, I'll tell you about you and your friends: One week you're all super BFFs, all happy together, and the next week nobody's talking to—" he paused, unwilling to name a name— "one of you. Okay? The week after, that one's back in the mix, and somebody else is on the outs." He scratched his head. "I can't keep track. I don't understand how it works. If I tell you a name, I'm sure it'll be the wrong one, and then you'll be angry with me. That's all I'm going to say."

Am I really such a bitch? Obviously that was another question I couldn't ask, but the answer was: apparently so. I flashed to that video of our fight by the dumpster.

"Huh," I said, trying to find my way around his objections. "How about this: we can go through my contacts, and you tell me who's who? I can take it from there."

He looked completely uncomfortable. "Why didn't you do this with Sheba or Cameron?"

"I didn't think of it until just now."

Barney muttered something I almost couldn't catch. It sounded like "Fuck my life and then some." After that, we kept an awkward silence until we got to the hotel. He simply drove, without talking or looking at me. I scrolled through the contacts on my phone, reading the names. Silently, so as not to frighten Barney. None of the names meant anything to me. Of course I had questions, but for the moment, I kept them to myself.

At the same time, I did keep an eye on the streets as Barney drove, and I noticed that we kept crossing the river. As it turns out, Robbins has four bridges spanning the river, and Barney took us over each of the four, first to one side, then back to the other. Was this the scenic route? Did he want to take in these views of the river? Or... did he do it for my sake? So that *I* could take in the view of the river? I tested my last guess by thanking him for hitting all the bridges. He smiled, but didn't speak.

When I saw him smile, I felt Whew! Talked him down off that ledge! He'd lost that harrassed, bewildered look, thank goodness.

Unfortunately, of all places, he pulled into the parking lot of the Good Old Inn and turned off the engine. "This place?" I exclaimed, involuntarily. Honestly, it was a bit of a shock.

"Why?" he asked. "Is something wrong with it?" He grinned and teased, "Don't tell me the little guy with the drill brought you here."

"Oh, stop it," I answered. "It's just that this place..." I paused. "One of the men who disappeared stayed here."

He looked at me. He took it in, nodding. "Okay," he drawled, stretching out the word. "It's just a coincidence, Deenz" he assured me. "I didn't know. This was the most economical choice and it's actually a lot nicer inside than it is outside. You know, when I came down here, I wasn't sure you'd even want to see me, let alone come back to this place. And I had no idea that one of the missing guys stayed here. But, look — if this place creeps you out, we can go someplace else. Okay?" He waited a moment for my answer, and when I gave none (I didn't know what to say!), he declared, "Hell, why not? We'll go someplace really nice! Spurge a little! Celebrate your amnesia! What do you say?"

I opened my mouth to answer, but he cut in, settling the decision for both of us. "We'll go someplace else."

He ran inside to check out and to retrieve his bag. While I waited, it occurred to me that I had tacitly agreed to stay the night with Barney, a man I'd met only moments ago; a man I had doubts about. What was the point of getting a nicer hotel room if I wasn't staying the night? But then again, it was Barney who made the assumption.

On the other hand, his assumption was perfectly natural, from his point of view. After all, we're engaged, aren't we?

Then again (backtracking, trying to justify myself here) I hadn't explicitly agreed to stay, so I could exit the scene at any time — (I sighed at my own misleading behavior). Yes, I could leave Barney flat-footed, just as I had with Sheba. My amnesia gave me that much license. Didn't it?

Still, even if amnesia gave me that license, it didn't mean I had to use it.

Then too, staying together in a hotel didn't necessarily mean having sex together in that hotel, right?

I'll admit that my it doesn't mean sex argument was pretty thin and not very convincing. Not even to me. Sure, it was true, in a literally sense, in a theoretical sense, but it was pretty damn unlikely. Especially given Barney's nature and my physical response to him.

For a moment, I wished I could confer with Thistlewaite, but then again, I doubt he'd be of any real help. The problem — and I'd already told him this — is: how much can I trust myself? My perceptions, my motives... Was any of the old me in there, subconsciously directing, leading me one way or another? Or was the old me gone? Under a haystack, fast asleep? Were all my responses, decisions, perceptions, truly new? Were they ex nihilo or ex materia? (Another phrase for my little book; one that only compounded the question.)

What puzzles me is that I don't remember Barney at all. Or Sheba, or Cameron, or my two little nieces. I'm not talking specifically about the effect of amnesia here. What I'm saying is that I don't find in myself any residual feeling toward any of them. Not a scintilla. I'm a pot that's been scrubbed clean. But — shouldn't there be some sort of visceral memory? I'm not sure what I'm even trying to say here, but feel I ought to have memories of touch, of smell, of the sense of being together? I remembered the sensation of that scratchy blanket, didn't I? Was that just a one-off? Or are all of those functions, those senses, do they all fall under the same department... are they too complex to persist? Or are they all susceptible to being coated with, covered over by, amnesia now?

For Sheba and Cameron (and Cameron's little girls), I'm sure that all my feelings for them, about them, developed after the accident.

What was my problem, then? My problem is the way I find Barney so easy to be around. Super-easy, in fact. It's true that he irritated me when we first spoke on the phone, but from the moment I walked down the stairs to his car, I felt a sense of relaxed, casual familiarity. Barney is easy to talk to, easy to tease and be teased by. What do I make of that?

To be safe, I had to suppose that this was just Barney being Barney. That he would be this way, and I would feel this way, even if I'd never met him before today.

Or was I at ease with him because he keyed into old memories, habits, vibes?

This is where amnesia gets to be a huge pain: when you try to sort out the old from the new.

I'd have an easier time of it if Sheba and Cameron hadn't warned me about Barney, if they hadn't spoken ill of him. With their distaste for Barney in mind, they'd given me another puzzle, another problem: I couldn't understand why I don't see what they see? Are they wrong? Are they simply not susceptible to Barney's charisma?

A further wrinkle, that I blush to mention, is I can't help but wonder what sex will be like with Barney. I had a feeling it would be good. Deep-down good. Wade was great, but I was willing to bet Barney would give him a run for his money.

Of course, I don't want to give the impression that I'm a woman of loose morals, or to go so far as to call myself promiscuous (even if Cameron had already told me I am). The thing is, while I'm still without my memories, I feel as though I'm living in a lawless state, an interregnum, a space and time in which the normal rules of my life are suspended. Here, now, ignorance is bliss, and there are no real consequences. Of course, I don't mean that I could go so far as to kill someone and think I'd get away with it, but up to a certain point people can't hold me responsible... at least, not for the things I can't remember. As far as holding myself to account, I'm keeping track with a very light pencil, so I can go back and erase my bad deeds later, if need be.

To put it simply, I was setting my reputation on the shelf for the nonce. At least for the night, while the prospect of sex with Barney was in the cards. I just had to be sure to not wear that ring when it happens.

 

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Barney woke me from my daydream when he opened the trunk and tossed in his suitcase with a loud thunk!

"Sorry I kept you waiting," he told me with a grin, after he slipped behind the wheel. He leaned in toward me, tugging his seat belt around himself, and lifted his face toward mine for a kiss. Probably something we often do — a move that was both efficient and cute — but I missed the cue and left him hanging. He kept his head there, poised toward mine, looking a bit hurt.

Fumbling, I met his lips with mine, just as he was pulling away. It wasn't the kiss he expected, the kiss he meant it to be.

"Sorry—" I began (about to explain), but he waved it away.

He drove out of the parking lot, and kept to the riverside until the Inn was well out of sight. Then he parked the car and climbed out. "Let's stretch our legs a bit," he recommended, and went to lean, elbows resting on the wall, his back to me, overlooking the water while he checked hotel-room availability on his phone.

Getting out of the car wasn't as easy for me as it was for Barney: he was wearing pants, after all. The car was so low-slung, I was practically sitting on the ground. It took a bit of twisting. I planted my feet on the ground, then used my arms to haul my backside out of my seat. Once my hips were over my feet, I lurched forward and stood upright. And I managed it all without exposing myself — quite a feat!

The mis-timed kiss bothered me. It bothered me more than it should have, but I understood why. As I approached Barney, I had a vivid image in my mind: Sheba's baffled, angry, hurt expression, when I refused to get into her car. Sure, I had/have amnesia, and that ought to give me some leeway, but at the same time it didn't amount to a license to kill. I don't want to run roughshod over the feelings of everyone I know. I don't want to foul the nest I might want to return to. I couldn't treat Barney like a complete stranger.

Sheba expected a welcome. She counted on an emotional payoff. Cameron, on the other hand, made things easy for me: she took me as she found me. She adapted to the new me.

Barney struggled, the way that Sheba had stuggled. He was a confident person, but I kept tripping him up in his attempts to reconnect.

I have to say, though, that Barney has something that neither Sheba nor Cameron have.

He has an aura. He gives off this... I don't know what. Do men have pheromones? Can you tell when a man has lots of testosterone? Barney wasn't tense, or pushy, or demanding. He wasn't a macho guy, thank God! He didn't wear desire on his sleeve, or on his forehead. Even so, the man was sexy. He effortlessly radiated sex. He was clearly ready, but not randy: he wasn't vulgar or crude. Well, maybe a little. Maybe more than a little, but not too much. Even so, as odd as it sounds to say, Barney's approach, his attitude, toward sex struck me as very *zen*. His vibe, as far as I could tell, was that he was always ready for sex. He wanted it, and he'd take it when he found it, or it found him, but he didn't force the issue.

Which only added to his charm.

Barney's acceptance of the moment made it easy to be around him. I stood a little closer to him. I rested my hand on his shoulder, and watched him work his phone.

The Good Old Inn — cancellation confirmed.

Hotels near me...

 

---

 

"Here, look," he offered, pointing to another hotel, swiping through photos of the room, the lobby, the view...

"It looks nice," I agreed.

He punched a few buttons, said, "Okay, done! We're booked. It's got a great big tub and a welcome basket."

"A what?" I asked. "Why?"

"Amenities," he commented, with a grin. "Amenities are the spice of life."

"Oh, Barney," I groaned, and gave him a playful shove. He grinned back at me, an open, happy grin. It warmed my heart to see it, but at the same time I was 100% sure that no, I didn't remember him, not at all, but wow, it took no effort to be with him, none at all. I figured I might as well tell him, 'fess up to everything.

"You know," I said, beginning my confession, "I really, honest and truly, have lost all my memories— of everything before the accident—" Here he gave a cocky half-smile that wasn't hard to read. It meant that he didn't believe a word I said, but he'd play along, considering there was likely to be sex after... "—but you are so likeable and easy to be around—"

"I've got charisma, baby," he declared, with arms outstretched and an open-mouthed smile. "Everybody says so!" He paused. "Well... almost everybody."

"—and you're not full of yourself, are you!" I groaned, grinning, shaking my head, as if scolding him.

"What can I do?" he muttered, chuckling. "This is me!"

"It's like— I mean, it's almost as though we've always known each other."

He stopped. His smile fell. He was taken aback. "But we have always known each other," he protested in a small, weak voice. "Come on. Don't do this. We have always known each other. From when we were kids." He studied my face for a few seconds, hoping for me to backtrack, to admit that I was only pretending. When I did neither, he gave up and turned to look at the river.

I don't know what Sheba and Cameron have against him, I found myself thinking. He seems so senstive, so sincere! I placed my palm on his back, between his shoulder blades, and moved my hand in a soft, small circle.

That's when I caught myself. I'm falling for this guy! I realized, shocked. Am I that much of a sucker? I don't know this man. I don't remember him; I don't know him. Not at all!

"I took tomorrow off," he informed me without turning around. "We can sleep late, have a relaxing morning, and head back to Mariola whenever we're ready."

"Oh, that," I responded, taking my hand from his back. He said the magic word that broke the spell: Mariola.

And he knew he had. Barney rubbed his face, frustrated. He took a breath and said. "Fine. Let's see what tomorrow morning brings. How does that sound?"

"Ah—" my voice cracking "—it sounds okay?"

He caught all the uncertainty in my voice. He read the meaning in my incomplete responses. He watched the river for a few beats. He blew out a big breath, then turned to face me. He set his hands on my hips and looked into my face. I looked into his eyes, but I didn't move. I didn't rest my hands on his shoulders, which somehow I knew is what he expected.

"Okay," he said at last, dropping his hands, resigned. "Let's check out our gift basket."

 

---

 

In retrospect, I'd forgotten something that stood in the background of all my interactions with Barney today: our fight by the VFW dumpster.

It was foremost in Barney's mind because he actually remembered it; the experience still vibrated in him. He came to Robbins not knowing what sort of reception he'd get. He half-expected that I wouldn't want to see him.

For my part, I knew that our fight had happened, but it was almost like something I'd seen on television. Other people fighting.

Barney interpreted all my moves, all my words, all my tiny facial expressions and missed timings as fallout from our fight.

I'd look at him at times and wonder why he was sad, or confused, or why his confidence slipped. For me, the fight was something I had to remind myself about.

Something else I'd forgotten was the gift basket. I'd been so absorbed in my thoughts and my observations of Barney that I didn't know for half a minute what he was referring to, but I didn't ask. He noticed, though, and it nettled him.

At the hotel, a valet took Barney's car, nodding in approval as he gripped the key, "Nice ride, man, nice ride!" Barney grinned and slipped him a tip — I couldn't see how much.

Their exchange put me in mind of the engagement ring. The ring — expensive. His car — expensive? I guess so. The valet seemed impressed. And this hotel — it was nothing to sneeze at. But then again, last night he'd gone for the Good Old Inn, which was more a motel than a hotel, and — as he said, "the most economical choice."

A question for later.

The bellhop took Barney's bag and gave me an enquiring look. Barney sidled up next to him and gesturing with his chin in my direction, told the young man in a confidential tone, "She doesn't have a bag. She doesn't need a bag. She's going to be buck-naked the entire time we're here." He nodded seriously and sagely.

The bellhop knew better than to respond. For a moment, he gaped at me. Then he quickly averted his eyes, looking down at the floor, and he swallowed hard. I'm sure he knew I was blushing. Barney chuckled silently to himself, nodding at me and the bellhop.

When we got to the room, the poor boy fumbled with the key card, putting it in upside down at first, then backward. He dropped it, caught it, fumbled, and finally got the door open — whew! and tripped over his own feet once inside the door. He caught himself before he fell.

He set Barney's bag on a low bench, and shot me a glance — a wistful x-ray glance, trying to divine how I looked underneath my clothes. He was blushing more furiously than I.

Barney gave him a tip and walked him to the door, his hand on the bellhop's shoulder. He muttered something to him, and the boy responded, "Yes, sir."

My cheeks were burning. "What did you say to him?" I asked after the door closed.

"What?"

"You said something to him at the door just then. What was it?"

"Oh," he shook his head, blowing out a breath. "Nothing consequential. I told him to have a drink on me. That's all." He smiled.

I didn't know whether to believe him. No, that's not true. I didn't believe him. "You made me feel like a two-dollar whore!" I exclaimed, with no idea where I'd gotten that phrase.

"Did I?" he asked. A smile played across his lips. "It's fun to make-believe sometimes, though, isn't it?"

"Oh, Barney!" I groaned, and found myself laughing in spite of myself.

"There she is!" he called, smiling when I smiled, and walking over to embrace me. He held me, and we looked each other in the face.

Then he pulled in close, his cheek pressing mine. He murmured a word in my ear: "Amenities." Then, again, "Amenities, baby."

"Amenities?"

"You're the best amenity there is," he quipped, giving my butt a quick, light pat. "But let's see what the hotel provided."

What indeed! There was a large gift basket resting on the table, wrapped in clear paper and gauzy white and blue paper, and a knock on the door brought us a bottle of honest-to-God Vueve Clicquot in an bucket of ice and water. Barney wrestled the champagne open, poured two glasses, and set to ferreting through the basket, as if he was looking for one thing in particular. It was (as I said) a large basket, packed with fruit, nuts, chocolate treats, cheese, crackers, ...

I grabbed a cylindrical tin filled with macademia nuts and started noshing.

"Here it is!" Barney exclaimed, holding up a small bottle of bath oils. "This has your name written all over it! What do you say to a nice bath?"

"For the both of us?" I asked warily.

And yes, I realize how stupid, naive, whatever, that sounds, given the fact that I'd already tacitly agreed to spend the night, but honestly, I wasn't thinking about sex at that point. My goal here was to find out whatever I could about myself. I wanted the insights, memories, facts, that Barney alone could provide. I wanted to know what our argument by the dumpster was all about.

I wagered he was a lot more likely to talk to me here, than... well, than anyplace else.

"No," he answered. "Soaking in a hot tub is not my thing. Watching YOU soak... now that is my jam! This little bottle is for you. Only for you." He frowned a little at my reaction — or lack of reaction. "What's with that face? You love baths! And hey! This is probably good for your sunburn. How about that? Look: it contains Vitamin E oil. That's good, right? And fragrant whatevers, as well. Rose-something. Moisturizing... healing... This shit is right up your alley!"

He carried the little bottle to the bathroom and ran water in the tub. I munched the macademias. Took little sips of the bubbly. I scratched my left clavicle, absent-mindedly, until I realized that itching could be the harbinger of general peeling. Not that peeling is such a bad thing. Who cares, anyway? Everybody understands peeling.

I wandered to the window, stared at the river, and listened to the tub filling in the next room. Is this the sort of life I'd have with Barney? I wondered. I shouldn't alienate the guy before I really knew who he is. I didn't want to toss out the man with the bathwater.

"Barney? What do you do for a living?" I called.

"What?" he responded in a loud voice. "Are you talking to me? This water is pretty loud! I can't make out what you're saying."

I tilted my face back and tipped my glass high, emptying it. They were little glasses, anyway: champagne glasses. I refilled it, and went to stand by the bathroom door. Barney was on one knee, his hand in the water, mixing. "I started of with just hot water, you know, to heat up the tub itself, so now of course, the water's way too hot," he explained, "but it's getting there. Almost bearable." He held his hand, red, parboiled, under the cold water from the tap. "The bath oil smells pretty good, though, doesn't it? All those fragrant whatevers and such?" He smiled up at me. "So what were you saying to me?"

The mirror above the sink had fogged up. So had the glass in my hand. The bathroom was warm and steamy, but not unpleasant.

"I asked what you do for a living," I told him.

The smile on his face fell apart, leaving a look of disappointment. "Come on," he said softly, in a tone of reproach. "Are you kidding, right now? Do you really have to stick with this amnesia shit? With me? Now? When we're alone?"

"It's not an act!" I protested. "I don't know who anybody is, least of all myself—" I would have continued, but he raised his hand in a gesture of STOP. He looked tired.

"I don't need this," he said, standing up, looking down. Behind him, the tub continued filling. "I don't care if you pretend to the rest of the world. I'll be right there with you, backing you up, saying what you say. But when it's just you and me... come on." He looked me in the face. "I mean, seriously. Can't you just—" He let the words fall, unsaid. Then turning, reaching down, he shut off the tap, abandoning the regulation of the water temperature.

"I came all the way down here, hoping to patch things up," he told me. "I sat through all that bullshit with the police, just for you."

"I appreciate that," I assured him. "I really do."

"You really do?" he repeated with a scornful laugh. "Listen to how you talk! How do you do that? I never knew you were such an actress! You make it sound like you don't know who I am. Like you and I never met before." He sounded glum, looked glum, at the end. He pushed past me and went to stand at the window.

I stepped out the bathroom, which was by now too steamy for comfort. "I don't know how I can prove it to you," I told him.

He tilted his head a little to the side and seemed to analyze me. Then he grinned and, changing tack, said, "Okay. Let's play your game. I don't mind a little roleplay. You'll be the girl with amnesia and I'll be the... oh! you won't know WHO I am, right? Or, I guess, I could be the boyfriend you don't remember? Or... am I?"

"Uhh—" I wasn't sure how to reply.

"Because you're not 100% sure that I am who I say am, but at the same time... you don't leave, because you want something from me," he proposed, pitching his story line.

"Information," I offered, truthfully. "I want information."

"Mmm, I like that," he agreed. "Information. And what will you do to get it?"

I took a breath. What *would* I do to get it?