by Jewel E. Ann
“You lived on Gable Street. Faded green house. You played hockey. That’s how you got that scar along your hairline. Remember? You and some other kids were playing on the pond, no helmets or protective gear.”
Nate’s hand moves to his head, tracing the scar hidden behind his wayward locks. “What is your name?” he asks, narrowing his eyes even more.
“Swayze Samuels.” How can he not know me? I know he likes pineapple and jalapeños on his pizza, extra butter on his popcorn at the movies, which is just soggy and gross, and he tells all of his friends that he likes video games, but secretly his passion is chess. Or … was. I still can’t get over how much he’s grown up.
He shakes his head. “Do you have older siblings?”
“No.” This is crazy. I know he’s an only child, so how does he not know the same thing about me? He’s a huge Chicago Bears fan which pisses his parents off because everyone who lives in Wisconsin should be loyal to their Packers.
“Do I know your parents?”
“Nate Hunt, how can you not remember me, we …” I tuck my shoulder-length hair behind my ears and sigh. “We …”
He’s my captive audience; even the older lady sitting two chairs to his right, pretending to read a magazine, gives me a curious glance. This is ridiculous. It’s clearly been years; he has a few wrinkles by his eyes to prove it, but … I know him.
“How old are you?” he asks, breaking my stuttering that’s doing little to formulate words that explain how I know him.
“Twenty-one.”
“Well, I got this scar when I was fourteen. That was twenty-two years ago. You must know someone who knew me when I was a child.”
I return a single nod, not really agreeing with anything.
“Um … my parents … Travis and Krista Samuels? My dad passed away a year ago.” I don’t remember ever talking about Nate with them, but we must have.
“The names are familiar.” Nate nods slowly, lips pursed to the side. “But I’m not completely placing them. Then again, I’ve been a bit off lately.” He nods to the door to Dr. Greyson’s office. “Obviously, if I’m here, something must be off, right?” He chuckles, but more pain than humor radiates from it.
I know him, as in really know him, not a simple we met or someone I know spoke of him. It’s more. Skin crawling, chills causing the hair on my neck to stand erect type of more.
“Good to see you.” I leave him with a stiff smile and skitter out before he has a chance to say, “Wish I could say the feeling is mutual,” because he has no clue who I am.
What if it’s a brain tumor? I think about this more than I should. However, it might explain a lot of the unique, brilliant, advanced, inconsistent, often times meaningless thoughts that go through my head.
“Nate Hunt,” I chant his name, pulling out of the parking lot, heading back to my apartment.
It’s déjà vu in overdrive. Vivid thoughts and memories reside in my head, clear and detailed. Dreams leave gaps and push past the realm of reality. These aren’t recollections of dreams. I know Nate Hunt.
After a shower and a burnt grilled cheese, thanks to Nate consuming my mind, I text my mom to let her know I won’t be able to have dinner with her tonight—our Thursday night tradition. On my way down to my car, my phone rings.
“Job interview, Mom. I’m not ditching you for anything better.”
“Swayze, I’m not calling to guilt you. Just wanted to make sure you’re feeling okay. Clearly you are, so tell me about the interview. Is this a job-job or just a temporary job until fall?”
“Not sure yet.” I put her on Bluetooth as I pull my black Elantra away from the curb. “It’s a nanny job, evenings and some weekends. I’ll let you know.”
“Is it here in Madison?”
“Yes, just a few minutes from my place.”
“How was your session?” Conversation whiplash.
“Fine.”
“Fine is good?” She knows me too well.
I sigh. “Fine is a second session booked.”
“I’m so glad to hear that.”
Why? I’m not the one who still cries at the mention of my father’s name. If I weren’t recognizing seemingly complete strangers and recollecting things about them that happened before I was born, then I’d say I’m perfectly normal.
“Has Dr. Bunz suggested you sell the house yet?” Howard Bunz. It hurts my brain to even think about his name. I never even made it to a first session with him for reasons that are obvious.
“No. You’re not a doctor, Swayze. I don’t know why you’re so adamant about me selling the house. Dr. B hasn’t mentioned it, and I don’t think he will.”
“Dr. B, huh?”
She clicks her tongue. “That’s what all of his patients call him.”
“I can’t imagine why.” I grin as I pull onto the street, my navigation talking over my mom.
“Stop it. You and your obsession with names. Even if you don’t think you have issues over losing your father, your name thing alone is enough of a reason to see a psychiatrist.”
Eyes flitting between my rearview and side mirrors, I parallel park between two much more expensive vehicles on the street. This is a really nice neighborhood. I’m shocked to see any cars on the street at all.
“And by ‘name thing’ you mean my astute observations into the quirks of humanity? The need for people to be unique at all costs? The obsession with trend-setting?”
“Goodbye, Swayze. And good luck with the interview.” That’s her way of ending a conversation she knows she can’t win.
“Bye, Mom. Love you.”
I’m early, so I wait a few minutes before making my way up the long, tree-lined drive to the brick house with a high-pitched roof and white pillars at the door.
I press the doorbell and wait, sliding my hands into the pockets of my black dress slacks then dropping them to my sides. I cross them over my chest and end with tucking them back into my pockets just as the door opens. Nerves are crazy little creatures.
My eyebrows shoot up as my head jerks back. “Nate.”
Continue Reading
Acknowledgments
I have to thank my amazing readers first and foremost. As I experimented with different ways to publish this story, you stood by me, eagerly awaiting my words in whatever form I decided to share them.
Thank you, Jenn, for dealing with the chaotic summer version of me—juggling a million projects and constantly changing publishing schedules.
Thank you, Nina and the hardworking team with Valentine PR for all the Zoom calls and sheer love of this story. It’s an honor to work with people who believe in me.
My editing team! These souls have a very special place in the afterlife for making sense of my gibberish and polishing it into something worth sharing with the world. Max, I can’t wait to take this new journey with you as not only my editor, but also my agent. Leslie, Kambra, Sian, Monique, and Amy, thank you for sacrificing your enjoyment of my stories to make me look like a competent author. I feel like my success belongs to you as well.
As always, a big thank you to my family for supporting me during moody times, frantic schedules, a million frustrations, and everything in between. You inspire me.
Also by Jewel E. Ann
Standalone Novels
Idle Bloom
Undeniably You
Naked Love
Only Trick
Perfectly Adequate
Look The Part
When Life Happened
A Place Without You
Jersey Six
Scarlet Stone
Not What I Expected
For Lucy
The Fisherman Series
The Naked Fisherman
The Lost Fisherman
Jack & Jill Series
End of Day
Middle of Knight
Dawn of Forever
One (standalone)
Out of Love (standalone)
Holding You Series
Holding You
/>
Releasing Me
Transcend Series
Transcend
Epoch
Fortuity (standalone)
The Life Series
The Life That Mattered
The Life You Stole
About the Author
Jewel is a free-spirited romance junkie with a quirky sense of humor.
With 10 years of flossing lectures under her belt, she took early retirement from her dental hygiene career to stay home with her three awesome boys and manage the family business.
After her best friend of nearly 30 years suggested a few books from the Contemporary Romance genre, Jewel was hooked. Devouring two and three books a week but still craving more, she decided to practice sustainable reading, AKA writing.
When she’s not donning her cape and saving the planet one tree at a time, she enjoys yoga with friends, good food with family, rock climbing with her kids, watching How I Met Your Mother reruns, and of course…heart-wrenching, tear-jerking, panty-scorching novels.
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