Make Me Forget: an Enemies to Lovers Romance

by Monica Corwin

  See you on the other side,

  Mara

  It hit me all over again, and I folded myself on the couch. She’d lost her memories of us and clung to one she thought meant something from before. It did. Her message had finally given me the courage to actually talk to her. Maybe she’d known that too.

  Now, I’d blown my chances for good.

  Or had I?

  I sat up on the couch and checked the postmark on her envelope. Heartsville. About three miles up the road.

  If I went after her, would I regret it? She might throw me back under the bus, where I admittedly deserved to stay. I didn’t let myself think about it too long. I packed a bag and headed to my truck at a jog. The Heartsville post office also housed the bus station. Maybe they could tell me where to find her.

  I pulled up and parked quickly, barely getting in the door before they locked it. The lady in the ticket booth appeared to be in her nineties, and I had to yell to get through the glass pane.

  “I’m looking for a woman who might have been here a few weeks ago. She has short hair, a scar on her head.”

  The woman smiled broadly and stuffed a piece of paper under the window. It read Millennium.

  If she headed toward Millennium, I was in for a drive. Ten hours at least. I waved at the woman and backed out the door. Ten long hours to think about all the ways I screwed this up and all the ways I’d make it up to her if she’d let me.

  I drove straight through until two in the morning and parked outside the bus terminal unit. It opened at 5 a.m. On only a few hours of uncomfortable sleep, I probably looked like a bum entered the building. I talked to every ticketing agent available and asked about Mara. No one remembers seeing her. And they likely wouldn’t, being the biggest bus hub in the area.

  I spun in circles until I got back to my truck. For the nine-hundredth time, I tried to text her cell phone number. No answer and no read receipt either.

  No phone calls. There was a creeper line I refused to cross. She left. She didn’t want me back. Finding her to plead my side of the story was one thing. Stalking the women via her phone was another.

  I tossed the device on the seat next to me and found the nearest hotel which didn’t appear to house rats. The night caught up to me in a haze, and I succumbed to a dreamless sleep.

  When I woke, the bright light beat through the partially closed curtains. My entire body ached from the drive and from not having moved from one spot the entire time slept.

  A knock brought me out of the daze, and a short yell of housekeeping altered me to a woman entering. “No thanks,” I called, and she retreated easily.

  I could sleep for another day, go home, and see if I could get my bar back. I could run off to Peru, or California. While I’d never considered myself outside of our hometown, the prospect of freedom intrigued me. If only Mara were there to share it with me.

  I didn’t do pity parties. Well, at least this week, I was trying to go straight.

  Instead of wallowing, I hauled myself in the shower, and even there, I kept thinking about her. So many regrets. Would this be my life from now on? Turning thirty and spending all my time mourning the one who got away?

  It could be, unless I made it more interesting.

  Once I dressed, I went back to my truck and started driving west. Along the way, I stopped at any place that looked good or fascinating. Taking pictures on my phone. If I ever got the chance to see her again, I wanted to show her…if I could find myself after losing her, then she could find herself again too.

  For the next year, I travelled back and forth across the mid-west, staying in hotels, eating bad food, running outside when the weather permitted to help stave off the effects of an awful diet and long driving stints. Without the bar to keep me in shape, I needed to make an actual effort toward health.

  On the road, many women offered me hotel room keys with a drink and a smile. Mostly older, married women. And still my brain refused to consider anyone but her.

  Weeks began to merge together, and all I seemed to do was eat, sleep, run, and read. Anything I could carry in my pocket while I wandered little town after little town. I told myself I wasn’t looking for her. Over and over, I repeated it in my head, all the while scanning the horizon for black leather and beat up boots. Even in one-hundred-degree heat.

  Once the urge to wander settled, I sat at my worn out map I acquired in Millennium. I kept it in my glove box and used it to find my way instead of my phone’s GPS. I circled the paper with my finger and closed my eyes before laying it down. A spot with a name: Ridgley Pines.

  It sounded like a soap opera name, but the map gods spoke, so I heeded. The drive would take about seven hours. Maybe this time, I’d find a reason to stay.

  The town looked exactly how I imagined on the trip. Matching brick, pruned and groomed trees everywhere. A movie set was less well tended than this sleepy little town apparently known for its antiques.

  I parked in a lot near a hotel and stretched my legs as best I could. Once I showered and slept, another run would help ease the ache in my thighs from being stuck up under the steering wheel so long. I hated the driving most when it came to the longer treks.

  I couldn’t see myself stopping anytime soon. The hotel had plenty of room, and I booked a suite for a week. Plenty of time to see what Ridgley Pines had to offer a tourist.

  As I walked down the sidewalks, I noted all the couples. Two by two everywhere I went. This had to be some Stepford thing. It creeped me out, and I hightailed it over to the farmers market to get some food before returning to my hotel to hide.

  The fruit stands were great. Fresh, locally grown, and organic. I stopped at the exit and stared into space. What kind of man had I become? Someone worried about their mile time and fresh organic fruit. Damn.

  Maybe I did need to go home. At the same time, I’d never had a hobby outside the bar, and running fell into the exercise/hobby category. Runner’s needed to eat healthy. I tried to reason with myself, trading in lies to keep from breaking down from one day to the next. Keep my eye on the road and don’t look back, the motto I adopted and attempted to stick to.

  I went straight to my truck, avoiding the sundress wearing, husband wielding moms eyeing me from across the street. The lock stuck, and I cursed this old beast. She had 300,000 miles on her. In actual reality, I probably needed to get a newer model. Something with better gas mileage. It seemed obscene to junk her while she still sputtered to life at the turn of the key. The rust in the door locks…an entirely different story.

  As I fought with the lock, trying not to break the key, a tingle went down my spine. I glanced up and looked around. Nothing out of the ordinary, but the lock gave in, and I threw myself in the truck and locked the door.

  I wasn’t a superstitious man, but I also didn’t take unnecessary chances.

  You’re Already There

  Mara - One Year Later

  Seeing him again hurt. Just staring across an empty parking lot as he tried to fit his keys into the door of his beat up old truck stung. I warred with crossing the black concrete, new and smooth as water. Would he want to talk to me? After everything that happened? After what we meant to each other and what we—I—lost?

  He exited the lot and headed toward the hotel. I followed on my bike down the road until he climbed out of the truck with a curse and a bag of fruit. In the year we’d been apart, he’d definitely grown surlier. Doubtful he’d recognize me either.

  I swept my long hair into a bun at the top of my head to keep it from sticking to my neck. I’d gained about ten pounds of muscle from riding a bike around town, and I no longer had a sallow, sickly look about me. More importantly, in the sunny heat of the south, I changed my denim and leather to long skirts I could tie up to ride in and tank tops.

  Would he like the changes in me? More importantly, why did I care so much?

  The reasons I left, I was in a bad place then, and instead of talking things out with him, I ran. He had every right to assume I might
do something to hurt myself. Hadn’t I considered it for a moment before deciding against it? Too close for comfort, my doctor would say.

  I rode up to the cute little boutique hotel and strapped my bike to the wrought iron decorative framing on their cafe window. Checking to make sure Murphy was long gone, I sidled up to the check in desk to smile at my friend Marisol. She was the manager of the local inn and one of the few people who could stand my dry wit.

  “Hola, Marisol. I need a favor.”

  “Aye, chica, you always need a favor.” She leaned in, her dark eyes glittering. “Tell me.”

  “That guy, the stranger in the truck who just walked through here.”

  Marisol fanned herself dramatically, and I waited for her to finish so she could fully appreciate the eye roll I gave her. “Tell me what room he’s in.”

  She eyed me with a nod of respect. “Girl going after what she wants. Get it.”

  She wrote a number on a slip of paper and handed it to me before loudly proclaiming, “Certainly Madam, the water dispenser it one floor up right off the elevator.”

  I gave her a wink, waited ten years for the elevator to come down, and took it up to the fourth floor where Murphy stayed. Only four rooms up there, all suites. It would seem he upgraded his taste in the last year.

  Instead of charging out, I slipped my head into the hall and made sure no one would catch me. Then I walked up to his door and lifted my hand to knock.

  Just as my fist would make contact with the wood, I froze. Doubts chased each other through my head, each worse than the last. What if he hated me? Thought I was fat now? Didn’t like my hair this way?

  I stood in paralyzed fear before rationality slipped back in. This town had embraced me in a way my home town had not. If Murphy stayed or left, I’d still have a home. I was dependent on no one. On that thought, I squared my shoulders and knocked hard on his door.

  A few second passed, and I caught the sound of socks scuffing on carpet before he wrenched the door open wide.

  He gaped at me for a heartbeat.

  Then two.

  Complete silence I couldn’t let stand. “Hi.” Damn I hoped he remembered me…I hadn’t changed that much.

  He seemed taller somehow, still rocking the five o’clock shadow and bed hair, his bulky built frame stretched to a long and lean frame of a runner or a swimmer.

  I let him drag his eyes from the tips of my red nails to my low messy bun. “Oh no, they got you too.”

  Not the greeting I expected.

  He dragged me in the room by the wrist and pinned me against the closet door. Also not the greeting I expected.

  “This place reminds me of the town in that movie where they turned all the wives into robots,” he said it in a whisper, the words and air trapped in the tiny spaced between our chins.

  A few seconds passed, and he swallowed heavily before stepping back. “It was a joke. You look different.” He turned and headed back into the room. I suspected he wanted me to follow him.

  His suite was huge and overlooked my little town. I crossed to the window and peered out at the sun baked streets. A pang of pride hit me before I forced myself to turn and face him.

  “How did you find me?” he asked, his mouth flopped open like he wanted to add more, but resisted.

  “I just saw you when I was crossing the street as you came out of the farmer’s market.”

  “You just saw me,” he related blankly.

  “And why are you here? It’s a long way from your bar.”

  He cleared his throat and stood up so he could move around the room. I watched him with a strange pressure in my chest. “I sold the bar.”

  If he smacked me across the face, he wouldn’t have surpassed me more. “You…what?” The Murphy I knew would never sell his bar. Not ever.

  I must have said the words out loud as he dropped to his knees in front of me and hung his head. “I need to ask you to forgive me.”

  This particular man on his knees in front of me should not be rearranging my insides. “Um…for what?”

  “For how I acted, how I treated you. I’ve gone over it in my head a million times. All I can come up with is maybe I wasn’t the paragon of mental health to be casting around blame. We were both vulnerable, you more so, and I betrayed your trust.”

  He looked up, his chin pitched high, his neck long as if he only held his face up out of sheer force of will. I leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. “You don’t owe me an apology. We were both pretty screwed up. Neither of us had any right to be anything for one another.”

  The warmth of his skin, now tanner than I remember, reached my fingertips as I grazed his cheeks. Still so beautiful. Murphy Wilcox.

  “If you don’t want an apology why did you come here?” he asked climbing to his feet.

  I shrugged. “Once I saw you, I couldn’t keep myself away.”

  An arrogant smile spread across his beautiful mouth. “Is that so? Can I take you to dinner?”

  I shook my head. “No, sorry.”

  His shoulders drooped a little, his smile dimming as well. He didn’t see my own smile.

  “I thought I could order dinner out. I know all the best places around here.” I said it, but didn’t look him in the eye. I hoped it still counted as coquettish that way.

  He stepped forward to close some of the distance between us and reached out a hand. I gently slid mine across his fingers first. With his other hand, he enclosed my one between his two and squeezed gently. “I’ve missed touching you.”

  “Is that all you missed?” This time I did meet his gaze, and the spark that lit there as my words filtered in was worth witnessing.

  He let go of my hand, snaked an arm out, and dragged me into him. Our bodies aligning elicited a noise from me I hardly recognized. I clamped my hand over my mouth, and Murphy broke out into laughter. “So you wear dresses now?”

  I shrugged. “They are comfy and a lot cooler than jeans especially with my job.”

  “What do you do?”

  “I deliver care packages to the local elderly and mentally ill. I can’t do a lot of them as I am governmentally stamped as disabled, but it gives me exercise, fresh air, and the chance to feel helpful. I really like it.”

  He nodded. “You look happy.”

  “And what about you. If you sold the bar, what do you do?”

  “Travel the country, explore, wander. I haven’t done much of anything besides read all year. I’m thinking about checking out other countries next.”

  “That sounds like an adventure. You take to it well.”

  “Well, Ms. Williams. I suspect by your very forward dinner invitation, you missed me for more than my bar side banter.”

  I mocked at being affronted. “Why, Mr. Wilcox, I am shocked. Shocked I say.”

  He laughed, drew me in tighter, and found my mouth with his own. I went home all over again. In Murphy’s arms, a puzzle piece inside me slipped into place completing a picture I’d been working very hard on for a long time.

  I savored the taste of peaches on his lips before he drew back. “You smell like the beach.”

  “You taste like peaches,” I countered.

  He ducked his head again and nibbled on my bottom lip. It was better than my first kiss. Now, healthy, medicated, I could see the gift he offered in a new light. Not a doubt entered my mind. I could say the word and keep this man forever.

  He trailed his lips to my neck, and I started to melt in him. His arms gripped me tight and solid. A few seconds of bone bending arousal, he lifted his head, his eyes serious now.

  “What is it?” I asked, cupping his cheeks again.

  “I looked for you. All over the country. I didn’t wander 5000 miles because I found it enjoyable, I did it to find you. I can’t believe I have you in my arms right now.”

  He released me and stalked to his suitcase, whipped back the top, and dug around until he found a velvet black box.

  I fairly tripped over a bench to get away. He stalked toward me and
knelt at my feet. “Murphy,” I pleaded. “I don’t know…”

  He locked his eyes on mine and split the box open. Inside the box lay a slim cold band, plain, worn even on one side. Now I felt foolish. “What is this?”

  I took it out and stared down at it. “It’s the wedding ring your grandmother wore when she married your grandfather, and the ring your mother wore when she married your father. I found the answer to your question. When you asked me to tell you how you killed your mother, I didn’t know much besides how your mother died.”

  I sat on the bed, barely keeping myself from sliding off the edge as I listened. “Your mother died of a drug overdose, which I know you found out. What you don’t know is that you put her in the rehab facility. You admitted her and took over medical power of attorney. Once she got inside, it wasn’t 24 hours before she got her hands-on a stash, overdosed, and died.”

  How could that be it? I wracked my brain for a detail I missed. “But my journal. I wrote a lot about feeling guilty for killing my mother. From this side of the situation, I don’t see it that way. Of course, I feel awful she died like that, but I don’t feel responsible.” I faced him and nocked my knees against his. “Does that make me a bad person?”

  He flipped the end of my chin with his thumb. “No. But I think when you were serving, you suffered from depression and PTSD at least. From what I read on the subject since…everything happened…you were feeling to blame because of your illnesses. Now you’re in a more healthy frame of mind, you can see the situation more clearly.

  I nodded and pulled the ring from the box to star down at the tarnished gold. I slid it onto my right hand ring finger. A perfect fit. “Thank you,” I whispered. “I can’t repay you for this.”

  He got down on his knees again and shuffled until I opened mine to allow him between. “All I ask in repayment is you consider giving me another chance. I’m not the same man I was in high school. I’m not the same man I was a year ago. But one thing hasn’t changed. I still want you more than anything in the world.”