When Ash didn’t reply I couldn’t stop myself from closing the distance between us and wrapping my arms around him, planting a gentle kiss on his cheek. I’d have hugged him forever if he’d let me. “I’m glad you’re home,” I whispered. “I’ve missed you.”
“Good night,” he said, taking a step back as he extricated himself from my grip, looking at me as if he might give my hand a neighborly shake. “And, uh, thank you. For everything.”
I retreated downstairs, listening to the water running as I cleared the table, washed the dishes and wiped the counter. When the shower turned off, I waited awhile before creeping back upstairs, hovering at the top of the landing, out of sight as Ash walked out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. I watched as he headed down the hallway, droplets of water glistening on his smooth, naked back. He’d always been handsome, and he hadn’t changed much, not physically at least. If anything, he’d gained muscle, particularly on his arms and shoulders, which, I noticed as I craned my neck to get a better glimpse, were even broader now. As he disappeared into his room I wondered again where he’d been the past two years, and with whom. Now he was back, what would happen next?
9
MAYA
Back in the kitchen I opened my laptop and switched on the kettle, planning on making an industrial-size vat of coffee to fuel a research-filled night. I’d investigate all causes for memory loss, hopefully finding enough to convince Ash to see a doctor in the morning. As I waited for the water to boil, my mind wandered, thoughts traveling back to when Ash and I had first met.
I’d been twelve going on trouble, a sulky, sullen tween my mother couldn’t work out what to do with. “We were such good friends, little Bee,” she said, using the nickname she’d given me because she’d watched a cartoon called Maya the Bee with her German mother when she was a kid. “Don’t you want us to still be friends?”
I hadn’t bothered answering. On this particular day, the argument had been about my meeting her boyfriend, a word that made me shudder. Mom was supposed to be exactly that, my mom. She shouldn’t be dating, it was gross, but she’d met an English guy named Brad at the eye specialist’s office where she worked as an assistant. For weeks she’d gushed whenever she mentioned him, her face lighting up so bright, we could’ve used it to power the entire state. I’d said I didn’t want to meet him, too stubborn to admit I was afraid of losing her, instead insisting it was because I didn’t care. For once, she’d put her foot down.
“He’s important to me,” she said, hands on hips, her long brown hair flowing over her narrow shoulders as we stared each other down at the kitchen table, and from her tone I knew she’d already won, but I wasn’t yet ready to concede. She’d never talked that way about a man before. As far as I was aware, she hadn’t had any kind of relationship with a guy since my father walked out seven years prior, after unceremoniously announcing he didn’t want the responsibility of the family he’d helped create. “I want you to meet Brad,” Mom continued, her tone gentle again. “I really, really like him, and I know you will, too.”
“I don’t need a dad,” I’d said as I scowled at Mom, crossing my arms over my chest in an attempt to amplify the stubbornness effect, except the only thing it did was remind me I still hadn’t developed breasts as the other girls in my class had. “We’re fine on our own.”
Mom sighed, pulled out a chair and sat down. “Brad won’t try to be your dad, Maya.”
“He will. It always happens in books and movies, and—”
“This isn’t one of your fairy tales.”
“I don’t read those anymore, they’re stupid.”
“But you used to love—”
“No, they’re dumb,” I insisted, launching into my reasoning without letting her stop me. “First, Snow White should’ve known the old hag was bad news. Sleeping Beauty could’ve had the prince arrested for sexual assault. Maybe Cinderella’s sisters weren’t ugly but it’s what she wanted us to believe. Oh, and if I’d been Rapunzel, I’d have chopped my hair off when the witch was in midclimb, so she’d have plunged to her death.”
Mom giggled. “Okay, so they’re a bit outdated—”
“Outdated?” I was on a roll. With any luck we’d continue this debate and she’d forget all about introducing me to Brad. “What about the ‘Someday My Prince Will Come’ song? Ugh. It’s never going to happen, and why hang around for a boy, anyway?”
“Honey, I understand what you’re saying and while I agree with most of it, you must see I’m lonely.” This was typical Mom. Always up-front and direct, never one to hide away her feelings. It was at least partially true what they said about apples and trees. I’d acquired my directness—something teachers called me out on daily—from her and my dad, had received a double dose of the bluntness gene while still in the womb.
“I’m tired of being alone,” Mom continued. “I want to be happy.”
“You’re not happy with me?”
“Maya...” She reached for my arm but I shook her off, stood up so quickly I knocked my chair back, and before she could stop me I fled to my room, locked the door and put on my headphones, ignoring her pleas for me to come out and talk. Still, as I turned up my music and grabbed a pair of chopsticks, slapping them on my desk and pretending I was a real drummer, I couldn’t drown out the fact I didn’t want Mom to be unhappy or lonely. I knew how it felt.
I gave in a day later, and much to Mom’s delighted hand-clapping, agreed to meet
