I never checked the glove box.
We’ll keep the original letters somewhere safe so no one will find them. We’re afraid if anyone sees the letters, or if anyone suspects anything, they’ll think we’re going crazy. Everything will be in a box on the back of the third shelf of Silas’ bedroom closet. If this pattern continues, there’s a chance it could happen again on Wednesday at the same time. In case it does, this letter should arrive to both of you that day.
I look at the time stamp on the envelope again. It was mailed first thing Tuesday morning. And Wednesday at 11am is exactly when this happened to us.
If you find anything out that will help, add it to the next page and keep this going until we figure out what started it. And how to stop it.
I flip to the last page, but it’s blank.
I look at the clock. It’s 10:57am. It’s Friday. This happened to us almost 48 hours ago.
My chest is heaving.
This can’t be happening.
48 hours will be up in less than three minutes.
I flip open my console and search for a pen. I don’t find one, so I yank open the glove box. Right on top is a copy of the same letter with mine and Charlie’s names on it. I lift it up and there are several pens, so I grab one and flatten the paper out against the steering wheel.
It happened again, I write. My hands are shaking so bad, I drop the pen. I pick it up again and keep writing.
At 11am, Wednesday, October 8th, Charlie and I both lost our memories for what appears to be the third time in a row. Things we’ve learned in the last 48 hours:
-Our fathers used to work together.
-Charlie’s father is in prison.
I’m writing as fast as I can, trying to figure out which points I need to write down first—which are the most important, because I’m almost out of time.
-We visited a tarot reader on St. Philip Street. That might be worth checking out again.
-Charlie mentioned a girl at school—called her The Shrimp. Said she wanted to talk to her.
-Charlie has an attic in her bedroom closet. She spends a lot of time in there.
I feel like I’m wasting time. I feel like I’m not adding anything of importance to this damn list. If this is true and it’s about to happen again, I won’t have time to mail a letter, much less make copies. Hopefully if I have it in my hands, I’ll be smart enough to read it and not just toss it aside.
I bite the tip of the pen, attempting to focus on what to write next.
-We grew up together, but now our families hate each other. They don’t want us together.
-Silas was sleeping with the guidance counselor, Charlie with Brian Finley. We broke it off with both of them.
-Landon is a good brother, you can probably trust him if you have to.
I continue to write. I write about our tattoos, the Electric Crush Diner, Ezra and anything and everything I can recall from the last 48 hours.
I look at the clock. 10:59.
Charlie doesn’t know about this letter. If everything in this letter so far is accurate and this really has been happening to us since last Saturday, that means she’s about to forget everything she’s learned in the past 48 hours. And I have no idea how to find her. How to warn her.
I press the pen to the paper again and write one last thing.
-Charlie got into a cab on Bourbon Street last night and no one has seen her since. She doesn’t know about this letter. Find her. The first thing you need to do is find her. Please.
Copyright © 2015 by Colleen Hoover and Tarryn Fisher
All rights reserved.
Cover Designer: Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations, www.okaycreations.com
Interior Designer and Formatter: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Colleen Hoover: http://colleenhoover.com
Tarryn Fisher: http://www.tarrynfisher.com
This book is for all of you who love happy ever afters and forgave me for the ending of part one. It was Tarryn’s fault.
~Colleen Hoover
This book is for everyone who thinks happy ever afters and Diet Pepsi are stupid.
~Tarryn Fisher
It starts slowly.
The rain.
A splatter here, a splash there. First on the windshield in front of me and then against the windows surrounding me. The drops begin to sound like thousands of fingertips tapping the top of my car out of unison. Tap-ta-tap-tap-ta-ta-tap-tap-tap. The sound is all around me now. It feels like it’s coming from inside me, trying to get out. The rain begins to trickle down the windshield, thick enough to mix together in long lines that resemble tears. They slide to the bottom and disappear beyond the glass. I attempt to turn my wipers on, but my car is off.
Why isn’t my car on?
I wipe the fog off my window with the palm of my hand to see outside, but the rain is falling so hard now I can’t see anything.
Where am I?
I turn around and look in the backseat, but there’s no one there. Nothing there. I face forward again.
Think, think, think.
Where was I headed? I must have fallen asleep.
I don’t know where I am.
I don’t know where “I” am.
I…I…I…
Who am I?
It seems so natural to think thoughts that contain the word I. But each of my thoughts are hollow and weightless, because the word “I” is attached to no one. No name, no face. I am…nothing.
The hum of an engine steals my attention as a car slows next to mine on the road. Water splashes across the windshield as it passes. I make out taillights as the car slows and then pulls over in front of me.
Reverse lights.
My heart begins to beat in my throat, my fingertips, my temples. The lights atop the car breathe to life. Red, blue, red, blue. I watch as someone exits the vehicle. All I can make out is their silhouette as they begin to approach my car. I barely move my neck as they walk toward my passenger door, keeping my eyes trained on them as they reach the window.
A tap.
Tap, tap, tap.
I press the ignition button to give power to the windows—how did I know how to do that? I roll the window down.
A cop.
Help, I want to say.
I forgot where I was going, I want to say.
“Silas?”
His voice startles me. It’s loud. He’s trying to compete with the sound of the rain by yelling the word Silas.
What does that word mean? Silas. Maybe he’s French. Maybe I’m in France and Silas is a greeting. Maybe I should say Silas in return.
The man clears his throat and then says, “Your car broke down?”
Not French.
I look at the controls on my dash. I force my lips apart so that I can form a word. Instead, I gasp for air, unaware I’ve been holding my breath. When I release the air in my lungs, it comes out shaky…embarrassing. I look back at the officer standing at the window. “No,” I say. My voice scares me. I don’t recognize it.
The officer leans down and motions to my lap. “What you got there?” he asks. “Directions somewhere? You lost?”
I look down at an unfamiliar stack of papers resting on my lap. I push them to the passenger seat, wanting them off me, and I shake my head again. “I, um. I was just…”
My words are interrupted by a ring. A loud ring, coming from inside the car. I follow the sound, moving the papers from the seat to find a cell phone beneath the
m. I look at the caller ID. Janette.
I don’t know a Janette.
“You need to get off the side of the road, son,” the officer says, taking a step back. I push a button on the side of the phone to get it to silence. “Go on ahead and get back to the school. Big game tonight.”
Big game. School.
Why does neither seem familiar?
I nod.
“Rain should let up soon,” he adds. He taps the roof of my car as if he’s sending me off. I nod again and put my finger on the button that controls the windows. “Tell your father to save me a seat tonight.”
I nod again. My father.
The officer stares at me for a few seconds longer, a quizzical look on his face. He finally shakes his head and then begins to retreat back to his car.
I look down at the phone. Just as I’m about to hit a button, it begins ringing again.
Janette.
Whoever Janette is, she really wants someone to answer this phone. I swipe the screen and bring it to my ear.
“Hello?”
“Did you find her?” I don’t recognize the voice on the phone. I wait a few seconds before responding, hoping it clicks. “Silas? Hello?”
She just said the same word the officer said. Silas. Except she said it like a name.
My name?
“What?” I say into the phone, confused by everything.
“Did you find her?” There’s panic in her voice.
Did I find her? Who am I supposed to be looking for? I turn around and check the back seat once more, even though I know there isn’t anyone in the car with me. I face forward again, not sure how to respond to the question just posed to me. “Did I find her?” I ask, repeating the question. “I…did you find her?”
A groan comes from Janette. “Why would I be calling you if I found her?”
I pull the phone away from my ear and look at it. I’m so confused. I press it against my ear again.
“No,” I say. “I didn’t find her.”
Maybe this girl is my little sister. She sounds young. Younger than me. Maybe she lost her dog and I was out looking for her? Maybe I hydroplaned in the rain and hit my head.
“Silas, this isn’t like her,” Janette says. “She would tell me if she wasn’t going to come home or show up for school today.”
Okay, I guess we’re not talking about a dog here. And the fact that I’m pretty sure we’re discussing a person who is apparently missing makes me really uncomfortable, considering I’m not even sure who I am right now. I need to hang up before I say something wrong. Something incriminating.
“Janette, I have to go. I’ll keep looking.” I press end and set the phone down on the seat next to me. The papers that were sitting on my lap catch my eye. I reach over and grab for them. The pages are stapled together, so I flip to the front page. It’s a letter, addressed to me and some other guy named Charlie.
Charlie and Silas,
If you don’t know why you’re reading this, then you’ve forgotten everything.
What the hell? The first sentence isn’t what I was expecting to read. I don’t know what I was expecting to read.
You recognize no one, not even yourselves. Please don’t panic, and read this letter in its entirety.
It’s a little late for the don’t panic part.
We aren’t sure what happened, but we’re afraid if we don’t write it down, it might happen again. At least with everything written down and left in more than one place, we’ll be more prepared if it does happen again. On the following pages, you’ll find all the information we know. Maybe it will help in some way.
-Charlie and Silas.
I don’t immediately flip to the next page. I drop the pages in my lap and bring my hands to my face. I rub them up and down, up and down. I glance in the rearview mirror and then immediately look away when I don’t recognize the eyes staring back at me.
This can’t be happening.
I squeeze my eyes shut and bring my fingers to the bridge of my nose. I wait for myself to wake up. This is a dream, and I need to wake up.
A car passes, and more water is tossed across the windshield. I watch as it trickles down again and disappears beneath the hood.
I can’t be dreaming. Everything is too vivid, too detailed to be a dream. Dreams are splotchy, and they don’t flow from one moment to the next like everything is doing right now.
I pick the pages up again, and with each sentence it becomes harder to read. My hands become increasingly unsteady. My mind is all over the place as I scan over the next page. I find out Silas is definitely my name and that Charlie is actually the name of a girl. I wonder if she’s the girl who is missing. I continue to read, even though I can’t suspend disbelief long enough to accept the words I’m reading. And I don’t know why I won’t allow myself to believe it, because everything I’m reading certainly coincides with the fact that I have no recollection of any of it. It’s just that if I were to suspend my disbelief, I would be admitting that this is possible. That according to what I’m reading, I’ve just lost my memory for the fourth time in a row.
My breathing is almost as erratic as the rain falling against the roof of my car. I bring my left hand up to the back of my neck and squeeze as I read the last paragraph. One I apparently just wrote a matter of ten minutes ago.
-Charlie got into a cab on Bourbon Street last night and no one has seen her since. She doesn’t know about this letter. Find her. The first thing you need to do is find her. Please.
The last few words of the letter are scrawled, barely legible, like I was running out of time when I wrote it. I set the letter down on the seat, contemplating everything I’ve just learned. The information is racing in my mind faster than my heart is beating in my chest. I can feel the onset of a panic attack coming, or maybe a breakdown. I grip the steering wheel with both hands and breathe in and out through my nose. I don’t know how I know that’s supposed to produce a calming effect. At first, it doesn’t seem to be working, but I sit like this for several minutes, thinking about everything I just learned. Bourbon Street, Charlie, my brother, The Shrimp, the tarot reading, the tattoos, my penchant for photography. Why does none of it seem familiar? This has to be a joke. This has to be referring to someone else. I can’t be Silas. If I were Silas, I would feel like I’m him. I wouldn’t feel this complete separation from the person I’m supposed to be.
I grab my phone again and open up the camera app. I lean forward and reach behind me, pulling my shirt forward and over my head. I hold the camera behind me and snap a picture of my back, then pull my shirt back into place and look at the phone.
Pearls.
A strand of black pearls is tattooed on my back, just like the letter said.
“Shit,” I whisper, staring down at the picture.
My stomach. I think I’m about to be…
I open up the car door just in time. The contents of whatever I had for breakfast are now on the ground at my feet. My clothes are being soaked as I stand here, waiting to get sick again. When I think the worst is over, I climb back into the car.
I look at the clock, and it reads 11:11 am.
I’m still not sure what to believe, but the more time that passes without recollection, the more I begin to entertain the idea that I may have just a little over forty-seven hours before this happens again.
I reach across the seat and open my glove box. I don’t know what I’m looking for, but sitting here doing nothing seems like a waste of time. I pull out the contents, tossing aside vehicle and insurance information. I find an envelope with our names written across it. A duplicate of everything I just read. I continue to flip through the papers until a folded piece of paper tucked at the very bottom of the glove box steals my attention. It has my name written across the top of it. I open it, first reading the signature at the bottom. It’s a letter from Charlie. I start back at the top of the page and begin reading.
Dear Silas,
This is not a love note. Okay? No matter how muc
h you try to convince yourself that it is—it’s not. Because I’m not that type of girl. I hate those girls, always so lovesick and disgusting. Ew.
Anyway, this is the anti-love note. For instance, I do not love the way you brought me orange juice and medicine last week when I was sick. And what was with that card? You hope I feel better and you love me? Pfft.
And I definitely do not love the way you pretend that you can dance when you really look like a malfunctioning robot. It’s not adorable and it doesn’t make me laugh at all.
Oh, and when you kiss me and pull away to tell me I’m pretty? Don’t like that one damn bit. Why can’t you just be like other guys who ignore their girlfriends? It’s so unfair that I have to deal with this.
And speaking of how you do everything wrong, remember when I hurt my back during cheerleading practice? And you skipped David’s party to rub Biofreeze on my back and watched Pretty Woman with me? It was a clear sign of how needy and selfish you can really be. How dare you, Silas!
I will also no longer tolerate the things you say about me around our friends. When Abby made fun of my outfit that day and you told her that I could wear a plastic bag and make it look couture, it was way out of line. And it was even more out of line when you drove Janette to the eye doctor when she kept getting headaches. You need to get a grip. All of this caring and consideration is so unattractive.
So I am here to tell you that I absolutely do not love you more than any human on this planet. And that it’s not butterflies I feel every time you walk into a room, but sick, one-winged, drunken moths. Also, you’re very, very unattractive. I flinch every time I see your unblemished skin and think—Oh my god, that kid would be so much more attractive with some pimples and crooked teeth. Yeah, you’re gross, Silas.
Not in love.
Not at all.
Never Never.
Charlie.
I stare at the way she signed off and read those words through a few more times.
Never Never: The Complete Series Page 14