More Than Memories: A Second Chance Standalone Romance

by N. E. Henderson

  “We’re leaving.” I don’t have to look behind me to know it was Blake. His tone was harsher than I’ve ever heard it before. It was venous hatred, but hatred toward who?

  I don’t want to leave. Not because of Blake and his apparent temper tantrum, but because it feels wrong; moving from this spot feels wrong.

  I make an attempt to shake his hand off me, but it’s futile. His grip is borderline hurting.

  “Stop,” I whisper, glancing over my shoulder.

  “Release her.”

  Looking back in front of me, I see it’s him. The one that had been playing the guitar when I walked out—the man I want to reach out and touch. And I almost do. I catch myself raising my free arm but quickly drop it back to my side. He’s standing a few feet from me now.

  You know him.

  Maybe, but how?

  My dream from this morning flickers through my mind. Is it him? That voice. I know that voice.

  Could it be . . .

  Anger flares across his breathtakingly, beautiful face, but he’s still just as hot. Anger doesn’t look right on him, though. It looks foreign like he doesn’t get mad very often.

  “Whitney, I said we are leaving. Let’s go!” Blake ignores the guy’s demand to let my arm go.

  I try to pull away again as my own anger starts to bubble up. Why is Blake acting like a dick? I want answers to my past. I’ve always wanted answers—wanted my memory to return—and something is pulling me to the stranger in front of me.

  But something deep inside me tells me he isn’t a stranger at all.

  His eyes flick down to where Blake’s hand is still firmly gripping me. The sight must make him more upset because his blue-green eyes darken, turning into a storm. Then his hands ball into fists at his sides. Does he wants to hit my husband?

  “You should probably let her go if you know what’s best for you.” My eyes dart to the other guy, the one the blond girl was holding onto before. They’ve both walked over too. She’s back to standing next to the younger guy with the tattoos. She has the same stunned expression on her pretty face.

  “Shawn.” The guitar guy warns, breathing out hard through a beautiful set of straight, white teeth.

  “You’re hurting her, so you really need to do what my boyfriend says.” That was the blonde female speaking to Blake. Her expression has changed to anger too.

  “Whitney.” Blake’s tone is seething.

  “Blake, let go,” I demand. “How do you know me?” I question the man in front of me. His eyes instantly soften at the sound of my voice. But then they turn sad. Stricken . . .

  No, don’t be sad. I don’t like sadness on him. My chest constricts, hurting. What the hell?

  “I . . . Oh, Love.” He shakes his head, pain reflecting at me through those eyes.

  “We’re leaving.” Blake squeezes my arm, pulling a yelp from my mouth. “I won’t tell you again.” His grip hardens.

  Hatred, madness, and even disgust wash over the guitar man’s face, right in front of my eyes. He doesn’t scare me, but I may be afraid for Blake the way he’s looking at my husband. I force my feet to step forward. I want to place my palm on his chest to calm him. As I do so, something flies past the back of my head. I’m ripped from Blake’s grip and then pulled toward my left. My face plants into the hard chest of the tattooed guy.

  “Shawn.” His name comes out like scold this time.

  When I look up, I’m rewarded with a mischievous smile. Something flashes in my mind like I’ve seen this same look before. My insides warm, tipping me lips with a small smile.

  Glancing behind me, my husband is face down on the deck. Unmoving. He’s out cold, and I don’t have one shred of sympathy for him. Why is that? Shouldn’t I?

  I turn my head again to see the guy I now know as Shawn, looking sideways.

  “What?” Shawn shrugs, letting go of my forearm and steadying me as he continues speaking, “You would have done the same thing had I not. Don’t tell me otherwise, brother.”

  Are they brothers? Looking back and forth between them, they look nothing alike. Shawn has dirty blond hair with brown eyes. He’s about the same height as the other guy, but Shawn is bulkier whereas the guitar guy is lean. And Shawn has tats down the left side of his arm. Guitar guy has dark, maybe black hair with glowing eyes I have to look away from. Something about him stirs up feelings I don’t understand.

  I shake my head, trying to clear it.

  Something is going on here, and I get the feeling everyone but me knows what it is.

  Why was my husband in such a rush to leave? Why did I start singing a song I’ve never heard? And who are these people that for the life of me do not feel like strangers?

  So many questions are swarming around in my head wanting answers. Needing answers.

  My chest is heavy. I need air. There are too many questions pressing to get out of my head.

  I look to my guitar guy and do something that’s both crazy and stupid.

  “I need to leave.” Panic flashes before me. “Will you get me out of here?” He exhales the breath I didn’t know he was holding, then nods as his body visibly relaxes.

  I turn, looking down at Blake before stepping over him. And as I walk past, I realize I don’t care if he gets back up. What does that say about my marriage?

  Hell, what does that say about me as a person?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Shane Braden

  She’s here.

  She’s here, standing two feet from me, and I can’t even speak.

  I’ve waited for this moment for a long time. A moment to simply be in her presence again—to be able to breathe again. But my breath was stolen the second I heard her unforgettable voice for the first time since the night of our high school graduation.

  It was as though life had flowed back into my body—finally after so long without it—then lost again when realization hit me square in the heart. It’s her, my Whitney in all her beauty, even more beautiful now than when we were teenagers. But she’s married to someone that isn’t me. Someone I want to walk back into Gavin’s house and finish off.

  How is it possible she’s married to him?

  Whit couldn’t stand that jackass any more than I could.

  Her parents.

  It’s the only explanation.

  They tried for so long to fix the two of them up even when we were in junior high school.

  “I don’t mean to rush you, but I want to be gone by the time Blake wakes up.” She looks at me from over her shoulder. “Blake, that’s my husband. That guy, your brother . . . or Shawn—I don’t know if he’s your brother or not—hit.”

  “I know who he is,” my words exit with a bite. I don’t mean for them too. It was always a rarity for me to speak to her in such a way that wasn’t with love. Even when she irritated and pissed me off, I still had a sense of calm around her. I think she was the calm. Her chaos was my calm.

  I look at her with what I hope is an apology. She’s walking backward but staring at me with curiosity in her violet eyes.

  Damn. Those eyes.

  Any look she gives me has the ability to render me at her mercy. I’ve missed them, I’ve missed her more than words can say.

  “You know a lot, don’t you?” Her brows turn inward. “About me I mean. You know more about me than I do.”

  She doesn’t remember me, or anything of her life before I wrecked my Jeep. I knew she didn’t. Had she remembered she would have come back to me a long time ago.

  “What do you know about yourself?” I can’t stop the question from leaving my mouth. “I’m in the Tahoe over there.” I point behind her.

  Turning, she makes a beeline for the passenger side door. Taking my keys out of the front pocket of my jeans, I press the button to unlock all of the doors, then follow her to my truck.

  When I slide into the driver’s seat, she’s clicking the seatbelt into place. I have to look away just to shake the memory from my head; the one that’s on constant replay whether I’
m sleeping or awake.

  If I could just go back and change one thing . . .

  As soon as I start the vehicle, I pull out onto the street, driving silently and praying she doesn’t ask me to take her home. Her home, her real home, should be with me. But it isn’t.

  We’re both quiet for the first few minutes I’m on the road, but when I exit Gavin’s gated neighborhood, she speaks. “Can you explain why I wanted to leave with you—only you—and not my husband?” She doesn’t wait for my response. She was always straight and to the point. “Why I wanted to smile at the sight of my husband lying on the ground unconscious? And why I have no care in the world if he ever gets up again?”

  “Can you stop calling him your husband, please?” I beg.

  “Why? He is, you know.”

  “Because it kills me a little more each time you say it. That’s why.” Fuck, this is hard. I grip the steering wheel harder than necessary. My hands itch to touch her. To pull her close to me. To kiss her.

  I glance over when she doesn’t say anything. There’s confusion marring her features.

  “Get on the interstate and head north.”

  I don’t question her. I just do as she requests. I-55 is close, so that’s the way I head.

  “I have amnesia. I don’t remember anything before ten years ago. I was in a car wreck when I was eighteen.”

  “I know, Love. I was there.” I pull a long stream of air in through my mouth, hating the tone of my voice. I sound bitter, and I don’t want to act this way with her—ever.

  “Wha . . . what do mean you were there? How?”

  I look away from the road, only for a second, to glance at her again. The last thing I want to do is relive the worse night of my life. But for her, I’ll do it. I’ll do anything she asks me to.

  “I was the one driving the car.”

  “The one I hit head on?” she questions.

  “No,” I reply, shaking my head in disbelief. What the hell? “The one you were in. My old Jeep—the one I drove back in high school. The one you flew out of the windshield of because you weren’t wearing your seatbelt.” My voice cracks. I haven’t said those words out loud in years. It’s like reliving that scene over again. I just can’t . . .

  “That can’t be right.”

  “Really?” I bark. “I think I’m the one with the memory here,” I breathe. I’m getting mad. I shouldn’t be getting mad—at least not at her. “Shit. I’m sorry, Whitney. I didn’t mean to sound like an asshole.”

  “You don’t sound like an asshole,” she tells me, but I know she doesn’t believe that. It’s an automatic response that makes me even madder than I already am at the douchebag that yelled at her. The asshole that grabbed her too harshly, probably leaving bruises on her arm.

  I should have hit him myself. But I’m not confident I would have been able to stop had I taken the first punch.

  “I’m acting like a jerk. You know it and I know it. I’m sorry. Okay?”

  “Okay.” She sounds surprised. “Why do you call me Love, and why do you say you were the one driving the car the night I lost my memory?”

  She’s picked up on my use of her nickname. I wasn’t doing it on purpose. It’s simply what I’ve always called her the most. It’s a habit that hasn’t gone away.

  “I told you I was the one driving because that’s the truth. It’s a fact. A fact I wish every day I could change because then you wouldn’t have gotten hurt, and you wouldn’t have lost your memory.”

  I look over once again when she doesn’t say anything. She’s staring at me as if she’s wondering if she can believe me or not. The thought of her not believing me feels like a noose around my neck, choking me.

  Finally, she breaks her silence. “How can that be? My parents said I was driving alone.”

  “Of course they did.” I rush out, regretting the words.

  “Head east on I-240,” is the only thing she says.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “Germantown, Tennessee.”

  “Is that where you live?” Do I want to know?

  Yes, I do.

  “No, it’s not, but it’s close. I live just outside of Memphis.”

  “Is that where we’re heading now?”

  “No. And I’m not planning on going home. Not yet, anyway. My girls are at my parents. I need to get them before my hus . . . before Blake does.”

  I notice she catches herself not saying ‘husband’ like I asked her not to. I like that she did that for me. I also don’t miss the mention of girls, meaning more than one child she has with that asshole.

  They should have been my kids . . .

  I force those thoughts to the back of my mind. Whitney with another man only makes me want to hit something.

  “If you’d have said so sooner I could have driven a little faster.”

  My cell phone goes off from the inside my pocket with an incoming text message. I’m guessing it’s my brother letting me know Blake is awake.

  Carefully maneuvering, I reach into my pocket to retrieve it. I don’t check it though. Instead, I hand it to Whitney.

  “It’s a text. Probably from Shawn, and yes, he’s my brother. Can you read it since I’m driving?”

  “Sure.” She takes it, her fingers brushing my wrist in the process, igniting a fire I haven’t felt in far too long. Fuck, I’ve missed that feeling. Her breath hitches, making me aware she’s felt the same thing. If anything, it gives me a moment of joy knowing she’s still affected by me the way I am her. How much? I’m not sure. “You felt that too, didn’t you?”

  “Of course I did.” I go for honesty. What else am I going to say?

  “We were more than friends, weren’t we?” She presses the round button on my phone, turning the light from the screen on. “That’s why you call me ‘Love,’ isn’t it? What’s the code?”

  “0314,” I tell her, wondering if she’s going to catch the date of her birthday.

  “That’s—” I cut her off.

  “Yeah, Love. We were more than friends.”

  “Will you tell me as much as you can in the next ten minutes before we get to my parents? Get on I-385, then get off on Kirby Parkway. The message says, Blake just stormed out of Gavin’s house.”

  I accelerate, wanting to get her to where she’s asked me to take her, even though all I really want to do is turn this vehicle around and take her home with me instead.

  “If Judy and Martin said you were the one driving and you were alone, then they lied.” It figures as much. They lied to me too. They lied to my parents about Whitney. “After our high school graduation, we had dinner with my parents. After that, we picked up Trent and Kylie, both of our best friends. We were all heading to meet two other close friends of ours, but we never made it there. Another teenager that had also graduated that same day, from a different school, was driving drunk. I swerved to miss him and lost control in the process, hitting a patch of slick dirt on the side of the road. My Jeep slammed into a tree, and you went through the windshield.”

  I breathe hard, trying my damnedest to push back the raw emotions surfacing.

  “Was I cheating on Blake with you?”

  What the . . .?

  “No! Hell no.” I shake my head, only making it throb more.

  I exit onto Kirby Parkway like she instructed.

  “In three miles turn right. My parents’ house isn’t too much farther,” she warns. At least I think it’s a warning to hurry along. “Why would my parents lie to me about the accident?”

  “From the looks of that dress you’re wearing, the color of your hair, and the simplified way you are wearing your makeup, I’d say they saw the perfect opportunity to turn you into the daughter they always wanted you to be. I’d say they succeeded, too.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? What’s wrong with my clothes, my hair, or my makeup?”

  “Nothing is wrong with them. They just aren’t you, Love.”

  She relays the rest of the directions to her pa
rents. Within minutes I pull up, alongside a curb, in front of an enormous sized house. Too big of a house for my liking, but then I grew up in a modest sized one.

  The click of her seatbelt releasing is the only sound inside my truck.

  I look over, waiting for what’s going to happen next. I don’t want to leave her. Especially if that bastard is on his way here. I’m not confident I can drive away from her.

  “I have two daughters in that house.” She points out the window that’s to her right side. “I want to know more. I want to know everything, but I need my girls with me. Can I—”

  That’s not a question I ever want her to have to ask me.

  “Go get them. I’ll wait here unless you want me to come in with you.” She nods, then reaches for the door, but stops.

  “Um . . .” She looks afraid to speak.

  “What is it? You can say whatever you want to say. Never fear telling me anything.”

  “I don’t want to offend you,” she admits, making me laugh for the first time tonight.

  “Since when are you afraid to offend someone? Especially, me?” Her face falls, and my smile immediately vanishes. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “No, it’s okay. It’s just . . . I don’t know your name.”

  “Shane. Shane Braden.” A smile spreads across her face.

  “Whitney. Whitney Lane, but I guess you already knew that.”

  I don’t say I only found out forty-five minutes ago the reason her last name is Lane is because she’s married to Blake Lane. I think I’m more pissed off at myself for not putting it together years ago.

  She exits the car, and watching her walk away from me causes my chest to hurt. It feels wrong. If I’m honest, I don’t ever want to witness her walking away.

  My cell phone goes off with an incoming text, gaining my attention. Reaching into the cup holder where Whitney placed it, I pick it up, seeing it’s a message from my brother.

  Shawn: I filled Gavin in the best I could after that guy left.

  Me: Thanks.