by Tia Siren
The journals were eventually found by Clint. They were in the bottom drawer of her dresser, tucked away behind some knick-knacks. I had already looked in there but must have missed them.
"And the lord said, let there be journals. And there were, and he saw that they were good," Clint joked as he piled them onto the bed. There were five altogether. They were old and worn looking, like they had been opened and used over a hundred times.
I picked one up, flipping through it without reading it. Really, I had no desire to read it. I didn't want to know what she used to think of me, and besides, I was already cheating her so much, there was no way I could add to the mess I had created. But Clint didn't have that same reservation.
"Boy she was not happy with you," he said, flipping through one of the journals. "She was really not happy.”
"Hey!" I said, going to snatch the book from his hand, only for him to jump out of the way.
"Seriously. She is a great writer, though. Some of the language she uses here. Very colorful. Although slightly exaggeratory. I wouldn't say that you had horns growing out of your–woah! Come on I was kidding."
I leapt forward, snatching the book from his grasp with a snarl. "Don't read that."
"What? We can break in and steal them, but reading is where you draw the line?"
I didn't answer. Instead, I fixed him with an icy glare that all but told him my answer. I was aware of the morals, or lack thereof, around my actions. But, as said, I was doing it for a higher purpose, and keeping that in the forefront of my mind was the only thing that kept me going.
"Come on," I began, snapping the book shut. "Let's get out of here before—"
I was cut off by the sudden sound of the door handle to the front door rattling. I froze, eyes wide as I looked from the door to Clint. He wore a look of fear on his face that I was sure matched my own, and it compounded to even greater depths as the door handle gave another rattle.
"Shit!" Clint hissed at me. "What do we do?"
My eyes darted around the apartment, looking for a way out. The only one that might have worked was the fire escape. It was old and rickety, but it was also our only bet.
Without saying a word, I rushed toward the escape, indicating for Clint to grab the books and follow. As I reached the window, I pried it open, only too aware of the sound of the lock in the key coming from the front door. I didn't look back, praying that I made it in time as I slipped through the window and onto the old fire escape.
Clint was right behind me. We didn’t even bother closing the window, instead, we all but leaped down the escape to the opposing platform just as the front door to Kate's apartment opened.
The moment I landed, I froze, grabbing Clint and holding him steady so as not to make any noise. I could hear movement coming from inside the apartment above our heads, but it sounded calm and normal. No indication that something was amiss. Letting out a deep sigh, I grabbed the journals from Clint's hand, shoved them into my coat and proceeded to climb down the escape.
I was so shaken and so relieved at our success and escape that I didn't even bother to count the journals that Clint had given me. As such, I had no way of knowing that he had handed me four books, as opposed to the five that existed.
CHAPTER 20
KATE
Was it possible for every day to get better and better? I mean, where did it stop? Although perpetual motion was supposed to be a physical improbability, I couldn't help but feel as if my life was the exception to the rule. And of course, it all came down to Liam.
Every day, he surprised me, and every day he made me glad to call him my own. He didn't surprise me with gifts or anything of that nature. He knew that those sorts of materialistic gifts didn't appeal to me, and thus, didn't bother. Instead, he surprised me with his actions.
It was him turning up and surprising me when I thought he was at work, or buying me a book that I had been talking about, or even the free coffee club card he had gotten me for Split Bean. It was the little things that continued to remind me that I had hit the jackpot.
Sometimes, I would wonder what my life was like before I had gotten amnesia, and then I would stop myself. I was actually worried that I might remember. Isn't that funny? I was scared that I might wake up one day, remember my old life, and then realize that this one I was living was all a dream. There was no way it could have been better than now, so why try and prove the fact?
Instead, I lived in the moment. When Liam was around, I showered him with my love, and he ate it up by the bucket load. And when he wasn't around, I did what he told me, and that was to sit down and write.
That day that we spent together, after our fight, he told me about the ten thousand hour theory. He said that he couldn't consider himself a good doctor until he had spent ten thousand hours on the job. Even now, he hadn't reached that mark. That was how long it took to master something. As crazy at it sounded, it also made perfect sense. But it also made me realize that I was dangerously behind my ten thousand hour mark. I endeavored to catch up as quickly as I could, and that meant putting the work in.
My life had reached a nice little routine that I was really starting to become a fan of. Every day, I would wake up and go for a brisk walk through the park. It wasn't done as a means of exercise so much as it was a means to clear my head and get my creative juices flowing.
After the walk, I liked to head to Split Bean for my coffee. Sometimes, I would have it to go, and others, I would sit in and watch the morning crowd. On this particular morning, I had chosen to take my coffee on the go. I wasn't in a rush, but I was in the mood to write, and I always found that when I was in that mood, I needed to take advantage.
So, with my coffee in hand, I hurried across the park to my apartment so I could enact the second part of my daily routine–to write. I was unemployed at the moment, but even still, I was doing okay. It turned out, I had enough in my savings account to cover my expenses for the next few months. Thank you, pre-amnesia me.
So on that front, I was fine. And Liam assured me that anything else I needed he would cover for me. But I hoped that never happened. The way I saw it, I had two months to find my voice and write something spectacular.
When I entered my apartment, I was surprised to find that the window to the fire escape was open. I didn't think I’d ever actually opened that window before. Just because the fire escape isn't exactly a romantic balcony, and the wind can get a bit chilly. No matter though. I crossed the room in a few short strides and closed it. It must have been the wind.
I was about to pull up my laptop and get started when I spotted something on my bed. On closer inspection, it was one of my journals. Usually, that wouldn't bother me, except that I hadn't so much as thought about my journals in weeks. I definitely didn't get them out of the drawer.
Picking it up, I flipped it over, as if half expecting it to tell me what it was doing on my bed. The only conclusion I could come up with was that I had thrown it there when getting something from the bottom of my dresser. Although what it was, I couldn't recall.
I sighed, giving my head a shake. Being a writer meant a lot of isolation, and perhaps that was getting to me. Sure, I saw Liam almost every day, but that was always at night. I spent a big chunk of the day alone, and clearly, it was starting to take its toll.
It was curiosity more than anything that saw me sit down and open the journal. A part of me didn't want to read it. I had no desire to open up paths into the past. I was happy in the present. But despite this, I opened and read nonetheless. It wasn't any passage in particular. Just the first that my fingers found.
He didn't even bother calling this time. Usually, he calls. Usually, he makes the effort to at least let me know that he won't be home. But lately, he's been getting worse and worse. I don't want to be that naggy, cliché girlfriend that you always read about. I've seen the movies and know where that leads to. But still, I would like just a little warning.
I told him that I was going to be making his favorite dinner tonight. Nothing fancy,
spaghetti and meatballs–but with the meatballs cooked in coconut oil, just the way he likes them. I told him that, especially so that this wouldn't happen. But an hour later and he hadn't turned up. Two hours later, I called Clint to see if he was with him, and of course, he was.
"Just blowing off some steam, Kate. Just blowing off some steam?" What does that even mean? I understand that his job is tough and takes it out of him. But why doesn't he want to blow off steam with me? What's wrong with me. Okay, there I go, being that whining girlfriend again.
I've been telling myself a lot lately that it’s only a phase. And then he tells me how one day he'll open up his own practice, and we won't have to worry about the hospital anymore. And when he tells me that, I let out a sigh of relief because I want to believe it. I want to believe that he is telling me the truth. But now, I just don't know.
I'm going to give him another chance. One more. If he does this again, I'm going to have to sit him down and tell him that I'm not happy. I'm sure that if I do that, he will be perfectly–actually, I bet it won't even get that far. I bet that this won't happen again.
Seriously Liam! Why do you make me act this way! I hate how you do it to me! I also hate how much I love you.
Kate out
I re-read the passage again, feeling an odd sense of confusion. That passage was one of the last ones in the book, and by the looks of it, was written shortly before I stopped writing journal entries. Evidently, Liam didn't change, and evidently, we broke up because of it. But that wasn't what had me concerned.
The mention of Clint was the first thing that sent a wave of panic down my spine. What were the odds of that Liam knowing another Clint? I had only met his friend Clint once before, but he seemed nice enough, and there was no indication of him knowing me. At least, he didn't act that way.
And if that was the only thing, I would have been fine. I'm sure there are a dozen Clint's in the city working as doctors. But it was Liam's favorite meal that got me. Spaghetti and meat balls, where the meat balls were cooked in coconut oil. I knew that Liam loved spaghetti and meat balls. He had told me on several occasions. But he was yet to mention whether or not he liked them cooked a different way.
Okay, I had to stop myself there. There was no way that what I was thinking was possible? It was all just one big coincidence. It was a very spooky coincidence, but one none the less. Even if the parallels were clear, there was one glaring difference that I could not overlook, and that was that my Liam, the one that I loved, never put the hospital first. He always called me when he was going to be late and had yet to ditch me to blow off steam.
I stood up from the bed, shaking my head again. I was just being stupid. The only other possibility was that Liam was using my amnesia to get close to me again. It sounded ridiculous, and I even forced a laugh out of myself as I threw my journal back in the bottom drawer of my dresser.
Then, with somewhat of a clear head, I grabbed my laptop and opened it up, preparing to do some work.
As I worked, I did all I could to push thoughts of Liam and some devilish scheme to trick me into dating him again, out of my head. But, even so, I made a subconscious note to double check with Liam how he liked his meatballs cooked. Just in case.
CHAPTER 21
LIAM
The restaurant I had chosen was a quaint little Italian spot located in Brooklyn, just over the bridge. It was the type of restaurant that had been owned and operated by the same family for as long as that family had been in America.
The inside was run down but clean. The chairs and tables looked as old as the octogenarian that served us, and the menu was written on sheets of stained, yellow paper that smelled like they had been in use since the day the restaurant opened its doors.
Despite all that, the food was divine. Clint had shown me this place years earlier. And he had been shown it by an old girlfriend whose family used to live in the area and swore by the place. It was the best in the city, they claimed. The food really was the best. It was as authentic Italian as one could find this far from the old country, and I had no hesitation in taking Kate there.
"Quaint," she said as I led her through the doors and into the dusty room.
I had booked a table for lunch, but as we entered and I saw how empty the place was, I realized that was a pointless precaution.
"Just you wait and see," I responded with a smile.
I knew that Kate actually liked little holes in the wall like this. I knew that because I had brought her here before, and she had fallen in love with the place. And, on top of that, I knew that once she bit into whatever she ordered, her opinion would do an instant 180.
"I put my faith in you," she responded as we took our seat at a table.
The man who served us was in his late fifties, with a bushy mustache and a charming smile. Although he was clearly American in every sense of the word, he spoke with a thick and often exaggerated Italian accent.
"To drink?" he asked, keeping that big smile on me and Kate.
"The house red will do," I answered. "And we'll probably be ready to order in a few minutes, too."
"Of course," he said as he gave us a bow and hurried away.
"A few minutes?" Kate scoffed. "You know I take hours to pick. Call it a weakness of character."
"You? A weakness of character? I didn’t know you had any. Besides. This place is so good that you can pick anything, and you'll come out on top."
"And you're getting?" she asked as she looked down the packed menu.
I hadn't even picked the menu up. I always got the same thing when I came here. Boring, maybe. But it was both a safe option and just happened to also be my favorite meal of all time. So I could never really see the point in changing. "The spaghetti and meatballs," I answered. "The best I've ever had."
"Oh," Kate responded in what sounded like surprise. "I forgot that was your favorite food."
"It is," I answered. "Although truth be told, the meatballs aren't cooked quite the way I like."
"And how is that?" she asked, abandoning the menu as she focused all her attention on me.
"It's silly, but I prefer when the meatballs are cooked in–Oh, here we are," I said, spotting the waiter.
He had returned with the bottle of red, making me completely lose my train of thought.
"How? I mean, how do you like your meatballs cooked?" Kate ignored the waiter as he poured our glasses for us.
"What? Oh, never mind. I'll tell you later. Come on, let's order."
It was probably my imagination, but I could have sworn that Kate let out a soft sigh as I dodged her question. I didn't dodge it on purpose, obviously. I just didn't think it was important. I wanted to order so we could get our food straight away. I was more than a little bit hungry.
There was actually a reason for having lunch that day, and I had taken the day off work especially for it. I had been taking more and more days off work since meeting Kate. I just couldn't help myself. Not only did I want to spend as much time with her as possible, but I also didn't want to make the same mistake I did the last time we dated.
And that was kind of the point of the lunch, too. I had a question that I wanted to ask her. One that I hoped she would say yes to. I had been thinking that our relationship needed one more strong kick in the right direction. Once I gave it that, then I was sure I would be able to tell her about our past, and she would forgive me. But first, it needed that kick.
"Kate, I've got something I need to ask you," I began. We had just finished our food and had also polished off the bottle of wine. I figured that to be a more perfect time than any.
"Oh, can I duck to the bathroom first? I had one too many glasses I think." She slowly got to her feet. I nodded a yes, not wanting her to be thinking about the bathroom while I asked her the big question.
Once I was alone, I leaned back in my chair, trying to stretch myself out. For some reason, I was actually a little nervous. I didn't think she would say no, but I couldn't be too sure. It was because I was leaning ba
ck, stretching my legs out that I accidentally kicked Kate's handbag over.
"Shit," I muttered, leaning forward to scoop it and its contents back up. As I did that, I picked up the lipstick that fell out and other bits and bobs. I distinctly noticed the corner of a small book sticking from the inside of the handbag. Not just any book either, but one of her journals.
My breath caught in my mouth when I realized what it was. Why did she have that on her? Had I not taken them all? I quickly looked up to the bathroom across the room, making sure that she wasn't coming. When I was sure that I was clear, I grabbed the journal from the inside of her handbag.
I knew it was a shitty thing to do, but I’d already stolen the other journals. There was no going back now. This was just one more morally gray act in the service of true love.
Judging from the dates, it was the last journal that she had written in before we broke up. I flipped to the last entry, skimming what was written. As predicted, the journal chronicled up to just after the two of us had broken up.
I looked to the bathroom door again, making sure that she still wasn't coming before going back through some of the earlier entries. I wanted to know if she had been reading them, and if she had, what she had found out. Was there a chance that she knew who I was? Was my full name or anything else mentioned in these pages?
It was as these thoughts built in my head that my eyes fell on one sentence in particular. It was probably because the page was bent that I had it opened in the first place. But by some form of divine intervention, I noticed a line that distinctly indicated my favorite meal as being spaghetti and meatballs with the meatballs cooked in coconut oil.
My stomach dropped out from under me as the gravity of that single line sunk in. I hurriedly put the journal back before she came back out, all the while thinking about what that meant.
She knew. She knew what was going on and what I had done. And if she didn't know, then she at the very least suspected as much. That was why she was so insistent on talking about my favorite food earlier. Shit! This was not good.