“I’m not sure I’d go that far,” I say uneasily. “Forgetting your past is a really big deal.”
“Maybe.” She pauses, crossing her arms over her chest.
I take a deep breath, preparing myself to say what I came here for. “About that day… the day you…”
“Threw myself out the window,” she finishes for me bluntly.
I nod. “Yeah… I wanted to say…” I fidget with the sleeve of my shirt. “I want to say that I’m sorry. I should have never left you in that house.”
“You left me?” she asks. “Why?”
I shrug. “You were frustrating me because you were obviously upset about something, yet you wouldn’t talk about it—you never would. You wanted to shoot up heroin instead and I didn’t want you to.”
She tucks her hair behind her ear, her analyzing gaze boring into me. “You told me not to do it?”
I nod. “A few times, but I should have tried harder. I should have made you stop.”
“How would you have done that?”
“I don’t know… ripped the needle out of your hand or something.”
She thrums her fingernails on the armrest, considering something. “You know, if I’ve learned one thing through this whole ordeal it’s that sometimes you can’t make things happen, even if you want them to. You can’t change things or make people do things they don’t want to do or can’t do.”
I swallow hard, understanding what she’s saying. “But I could have tried harder.”
“And in the end I’m sure I still would have put the needle in my arm,” she says. “And probably went out the window.”
“Maybe not though.”
“But maybe.” She pauses. “But we’ll never know. And it’s not for you to feel guilty when I can’t even remember you.”
I shake my head. She’s still so London and it’s crazy. “I guess so.” I get what she’s saying. I really do. But it’s hard to accept because we’ll never know what might have happened or might not have happened if I’d just gotten her to put the needle down.
“I don’t want to talk about me anymore,” she says dismissively. “I’m always talking about myself—with my mom, the doctors, everyone I come across who used to know me. I get so sick of it.”
“What do you want to talk about, then?” I ask, leaning back in the seat, feeling a little lighter and at the same time a little sadder because I know this is it. This is how things will always be between us and I can’t change it.
“You.” She crosses her legs and stares me down so hard I swear she’s trying to burn a hole in my head.” Tell me, Ethan Gregory, this girl who’s the best you’ve ever had, do you love her?”
“Love?” I ask. “You want to talk about love?”
She nods. “I do.”
I shrug, feeling uncomfortable under her scrutiny. “What the fuck is love anyway?” Giving your heart to someone completely? Saying here, take it, I’m yours? Letting them love you, hug you, own you? Yell at you and tell you you’re worthless? Hold you and tell you you’re important? What is the definition of love? How can you tell?
I open my mouth and decide to just go for it, letting the first answer that pops into my head slip out. “I think I do.” My mind is flying about a million miles an hour with the declaration and it’s hard to process, especially since I just said it for the first time in front of my ex-girlfriend who has amnesia.
She tilts her head to the side, studying me. “Did you love me?”
I think about her question, knowing the real answer, but it’s hard to admit it. “I think I did, but in a different way.”
“What do you mean?”
“Our love was kind of chaotic and careless and we really didn’t know each other enough to actually completely love each other.” I reach into my pocket and retrieve the bracelet London gave me, the one with our initials intertwined. “But I think in some way or another we did have some kind of love for each other.” I lean over the table, holding my hand out to give her the bracelet.
“But not as much as this other girl?” she asks, taking the bracelet from my hand. “What is this?”
“You made it for me,” I say, leaning back. “You said it would always help me remember the time we spent together.”
She runs her finger along the leather. “Was I going to break up with you when I gave it to you? Because it kind of sounds like I was.”
I shrug and then shake my head. “You could have been thinking about it, but honestly I don’t know. Half the time I never knew what you were thinking.”
She grins as she looks down at the bracelet in her hand. “And now you’ll never know.” Leave it to London to have a sick and twisted sense of humor about the whole thing. But she’s right. I’ll never know what she was thinking, how she really felt, how I really felt, because we never got around to telling each other. I was so afraid of my feelings that I held them in and now the chance to tell her is gone. She’ll never know whether I loved her or not. How much I cared for her. I’ll never know if she felt the same way, whether she loved me so much she’d hang on to me if something happened to me and I was no longer part of her life. I will never know a lot of stuff about our relationship and there’s no changing that. It’s done. Final.
“I guess not.” I offer her a small smile.
She continues to stare at the bracelet, looking sadder with each passing moment. Finally she sighs and sets it down on the table. “So tell me something happy,” she says, shifting her mood in the amount of time it takes me to catch my breath. “And not about my past.”
I take a deep breath and start telling her about the last few years of my life, which aren’t really happy or sad, just neutral, because I’ve basically been stuck in the same mentality, never moving forward, always thinking about the past. Except in this very moment, I want to be moving forward to the other side of the country to be with some else. By the time we’re done talking, it’s midafternoon. My flight doesn’t leave until the morning, but the idea of waiting until then seems impossible. I need to see Lila now and I need to tell her how I feel so I don’t miss my chance again.
Chapter Seventeen
Lila
“So I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m becoming a very bad influence on you,” Ella says as she roams through my old room in my parents’ three-story mansion located up in the greener, more luxurious side of town. The ocean rushes toward the shore from outside the window and the sun beams brightly against the pale pink walls.
“I guess so.” I open my closet and walk into it, the immense space almost overwhelming because it’s been a long time since I’ve seen it. So many memories overwhelm me, ones filled with loathing from my parents and self-loathing from myself. For a moment, I swear to God the damn walls feel like they’re closing in on me again.
I run my fingers along the fabrics of each dress and shirt, remembering what it was like to have an endless amount of clothes, money, anything of material value. I was showered with things, and in return, I was not showered with affection and love. I would trade anything, live on the streets in a soggy wet box, just to have my parents genuinely love me.
Ella steps up behind me and evaluates my closet. “Are you sure your maid’s not going to tell your mom or dad we snuck in here?”
I shrug as I sift through the dresses, the sight of each one making me sick to my stomach, because each one carries a memory of a time I wish I could forget. All the horrible things I’ve done in them, all the horrible things I felt. “I doubt it. She hates my mother and father almost as much as I do. It doesn’t really matter, though.” From the back section, I select a dress that flows to the floor. “I mean, what are they going to do? Kick me out?”
“How about make you stay,” she says from behind me. “I know you don’t want to be here.”
“I don’t.” I glance over my shoulder at her, forcing a smile. “I guess you’ll just have to owe me for this big
