Crashed

by Elise Faber

  Fanny was less drunk and more buzzed, even after having finished that last drink, mostly because Ethan had ordered another plate of mozzarella sticks and everyone knew that greasy cheese soaked up alcohol. Right. Stifling an inner snort as Ethan swung the car out of the parking lot, she knew that last couple of drinks were a mistake. Mostly because she was nowhere near sober enough to drive.

  And because her drinking too much, her losing control was unusual, she knew that she had sparked Ethan’s protective tendencies.

  He wasn’t her man, but she was Dani’s friend and part of the Gold, and that meant she wouldn’t put it past him to pull out his caveman proclivities, trying to ferret out what was wrong and then invariably solve whatever problem he discovered.

  It would be sweet.

  But unnecessary.

  So, she headed him off before he could get that far.

  “Dani told me that you’re thinking about getting another master’s degree?” She nudged his arm. “What? Need to prove you’re the smartest one on the team all over again?”

  A smile in her direction, though she knew that if it were light out, she would probably see his cheeks were slightly flushed, despite his cocky words that followed. “There’s no need to prove that I’m the smartest one.” A beat. “I already know I am.”

  She snorted, this time aloud. But she asked him about his studies, despite the arrogance.

  One, because she was interested. Two, because talking about it would hopefully distract him from any concern she might have triggered.

  He started telling her about his latest round of courses, and he had a soft, rumbling voice.

  It was pleasant and warm and with the streetlights whizzing by outside the car windows, the soft hum of the engine, she found her lids growing heavy, her brain slowing down, her muscles growing slack.

  Black slid up and slowly, inexorably dragged her under.

  Chapter Four

  Brandon

  He was sitting on the porch, outside a dark house.

  Outside Fanny’s dark house.

  There was no movie noise this time. Nor was every light flicked on, illuminating the ground floor like it had been when he’d come last night.

  It was quiet and still.

  Where was she?

  He knew it was wrong for him to be there, especially after her reaction the previous evening, but he’d gone home after his appointment, had sat in his own quiet and still condo, and had found it impossible to stay there.

  The walls were closing in.

  He’d gotten in his car, and he’d driven off, intending to just circle the block or the neighborhood in order to clear his head.

  But invariably, he’d found himself on her street.

  In front of her house.

  On her porch.

  And now . . . watching her walk up the path toward him in the arms of another man.

  If he’d been in the right frame of mind, he would have recognized that man as a player for the Gold—Ethan something—who was madly in love with his girlfriend, now fiancé. If he’d been in the right frame of mind, he would have noticed that the hold was more steadying and not sexual.

  But he wasn’t in the right frame of mind.

  And Fanny—his Fanny—was in the arms of someone who wasn’t him.

  He rose from the porch and stalked toward them. Fucking stupid that was, the man towered over him, was huge and built and could turn his puny ass at five-foot-eleven, with a runner’s body (reason one why he never would have made it to the NHL, even though he had loved playing) instead of that of a freaking hockey player, into pulp. But he’d already established that he wasn’t thinking.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” he snapped.

  Fanny’s head shot up, surprised eyes meeting his, but the man with her reacted faster, tucking her behind him and stepping toward Brandon. “Back up.”

  Two words, icy cold as another car pulled up.

  Another person—a woman this time—walked up the sidewalk. “Ethan?” she asked.

  “Get back in the car, baby,” Ethan said, “and take Fanny with you.” He never took his eyes off Brandon. “I’d suggest that you leave. Immediately.”

  The woman who’d paused next to Fanny, took her arm. “Come on.”

  Fanny didn’t move, just stared at him.

  And Brandon, even though it was stupid to not be keeping an eye on the man, who was a freaking giant and who could destroy him, found he couldn’t stop watching Fanny, couldn’t stop himself from pleading with her with his gaze.

  He just wanted to talk with her.

  A hand on his shoulder, shaking him roughly. “Get in your car and go.”

  The woman had stopped trying to drag Fanny down the path and now stood between her man and Fanny, another layer of protection.

  “Fan,” he breathed. “Please. I just want to talk to you.”

  She inhaled sharply, dropping her chin to her chest. But she didn’t reply.

  “She doesn’t want to talk to you. Go home,” Ethan said. “Stay away. She’ll call you if she wants—”

  Brandon took a step forward. “I need—”

  “I don’t give a fuck what you need,” Ethan growled. “It’s past midnight. She doesn’t want you here, and—”

  “It’s okay,” Fanny said softly.

  His heart thudded hard against his ribs, hope blossoming in his bloodstream.

  The behemoth in front of him glanced back over his shoulder. “Fanny?”

  “It’s okay,” she repeated. “He’s safe—” A shake of her head. “He won’t hurt me, and . . .” A sigh. “We do need to talk.”

  “You don’t have to talk tonight,” the woman said.

  And was right.

  It was after midnight, and he could see the dark circles under Fanny’s eyes, even when the moonlight was the only illumination. He should go, should reach out at a more appropriate time and—

  “I want to get it over with.”

  A sharp slice of pain across his middle had Brandon rocking back on his heels.

  He deserved that. God, he deserved it.

  The woman linked arms with Fanny. “Okay then, we’ll stay and—”

  “No.” Fanny shook her head. “I’ve got this. You and Ethan should go.” She dropped her arms, stepped toward Ethan, and kissed his cheek. “Thanks for having my back and for driving me home. But I’m okay.”

  “Sure?” he asked softly enough that it barely reached Brandon’s ears.

  “Sure.”

  “We’ll talk about this tomorrow,” the woman said.

  “I know, Dani,” Fanny murmured on another exhale, this one slow and shuddering and with far too much defeat in the words to suit him.

  “You’ll text me when he leaves?” Dani asked. “No matter the hour?”

  “Yes.” More defeat. More resignation.

  Brandon almost relented then, not wanting to hurt her anymore.

  But then the couple was leaving, and Fanny was brushing by him, telling him, “Come on,” as she walked up onto the porch. “You know,” she said after she’d unlocked the door and walked inside, leaving it open for him to follow, “I never tolerated the caveman jealousy bullshit when we were together, and I certainly won’t tolerate it today as a grown woman who’s in charge of her own life.”

  He sucked in a breath. “Fan.”

  She flicked on a light and turned toward him, brown eyes flashing. “You wanted to talk,” she said. “So, we’ll talk.”

  But she didn’t start talking at that moment. Instead, she spun on her heel and strode from the hall, into a room he saw was the kitchen as she moved to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of wine.

  His mouth moved before his brain. “Haven’t you had enough?”

  Dumbass.

  Yes, in the light of the kitchen, he could see the dark circles that were only hinted at outside, but he’d also seen the flush on her cheeks, the slight glassiness of her eyes. She’d been drinking. That was why Ethan had driven her home then.
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  And he’d reacted . . . like an ass. Twice over.

  Fuck.

  She glared at him but didn’t comment on his inane question. Just went to a cupboard and pulled down a glass, pouring a healthy amount of wine into the container. And didn’t offer him any. Rightly so, of course. Then took a long swallow, squared her shoulders, and asked, “What do you want to discuss?”

  Her tone made him feel like they were in a business meeting.

  Or two strangers on the street talking about the weather.

  Impersonal. A little cold.

  Could he blame her? Fuck, no. He absolutely couldn’t.

  But also, he didn’t really know where to start. They had so much history, and it was all twisted and tangled, barbed with thorns. He found himself saying the only thing that came to his mind. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “So damned sorry.”

  Silence.

  Charged and thick enough that it threatened to choke him.

  But it didn’t choke Fanny. Instead, it seemed to unfreeze her. She put down her glass and crossed to him, her face gentling. “It’s not your fault.”

  He startled when her fingers found his, when her eyes came up and locked with his own.

  “I should be the one apologizing,” she said. “I’m . . .” She trailed off, her gaze drifting over his shoulder. “It hurt a lot to lose you that way, but it was just a terrible situation. You didn’t mean to hurt me. Life just . . . happened, and having you show up brought it all back.”

  He turned his palm over, laced their fingers together. “I’m the one being an asshole. I showed up on your porch without warning. I just . . . I remembered, and I wanted to find you immediately, but I didn’t know how to find you. I just knew you’d come to California.” He cleared his throat. “So when I did see you, when I found out where you lived, I couldn’t stop myself from coming.”

  “How long?” she whispered. “How long ago did you remember?”

  “I—” Brandon shook his head. “Almost a year ago. My . . .” He paused, not wanting to bring up the woman he’d fallen for before he’d remembered Fanny.

  But she was too smart, too intuitive to not miss his hesitation.

  “Angela, right?” Fanny murmured. “Her name is Angela. I—” She cleared her throat. “I heard you two got married. What happened?”

  “We were together for five years before we got divorced. She’s . . . she was too good for me, and even if I didn’t know you on the surface, something beneath knew she wasn’t you.” He squeezed her hand. “She’s remarried now and has a daughter, along with one on the way.”

  “Oh.”

  The silence fell again, only this time it didn’t unstick her. Instead, she went still, her eyes unfocused and her mind very far away.

  “I’m sorry,” he said again.

  “I’ve never been mad at you—” A shake of her head. “No, I’m not going to lie. I was hurt and then mad, and it was easier to hold on to the mad. Because holding on to my anger meant it was easier for me to make it your fault that you didn’t love me enough rather than some shitty thing that just happened that neither of us could control.” She blinked, and her eyes focused on his. “It made you the bad guy, and that was much easier to accept than me thinking . . .”

  “Thinking what?” he asked when long moments went by without her finishing.

  “That it was my fault,” she whispered. “That there was something wrong with me, and that was why you didn’t remember.”

  His heart twisted, rage and agony winding its way down his spine, making his free hand clench, his fingers twitch where they were intertwined with hers. He clamped down on the urge to clench there, too. Because it would hurt her.

  Because it would hurt her more.

  Instead, he inhaled slowly through his nose, exhaled just as gradually.

  Then he unclenched his free hand, gently tipped her chin up so her eyes could meet his, and said, “Nothing is wrong with you.”

  Her throat worked on a painful-looking swallow. “Then why didn’t you remember?”

  Soft, soft words that he could barely hear.

  But words that made his heart twist again, had fiery regret burning through his lips. This situation had been so fucked, so absolutely fucked, and there hadn’t been anything either of them could do. “I don’t know, sweetheart,” he breathed, sliding his fingers to her hair and gently tugging her against him. “But I’m so, so sorry I didn’t.”

  “I know,” she whispered, as she came to him, as her body pressed to his.

  It was . . . everything he’d remembered. The feel of her in his arms. The smell of her hair. The way she hugged him tightly and just . . . fit.

  Right.

  They were right.

  He smoothed his hand down her hair, committing this moment to memory, wanting to burn it into the marrow of his bones, every neuron in his brain. “Can you ever forgive me?” he asked.

  She squeezed his waist. “I forgave you a long time ago.”

  The next question was just there—bubbling up his throat, dancing on the tip of his tongue, ready to give voice to everything he’d dreamed about since all those memories of them had come crashing down.

  But before he could ask it, before he could ask her to give him another chance, she spoke.

  And what she said sent all of his hope crashing down.

  “I forgave you,” she murmured. “But I can’t do this again.” A shuddering breath. “I’m sorry, but I just . . . can’t.”

  He didn’t know how he made it home.

  He didn’t know how he even left that kitchen.

  Only that when Fanny had stared up at him, her eyes glistening with tears, her face drawn in sharp relief from the old pain, he’d known he couldn’t argue.

  He’d had to go, to leave her be.

  Cursing, he pulled into his driveway and started to move into the garage, but a large box on his porch caught his eye. That hadn’t been there when he’d left. Throwing his car into park, he got out and headed up the walkway.

  It was huge.

  The box, along with his disappointment.

  And his understanding.

  Which was the worst part. Because he got why Fanny couldn’t take another chance on him, on them. He’d had a fulfilling relationship with Angela, while she’d been left alone, heartbroken, moving several states away from everything she’d ever known.

  She’d had to start over.

  He’d been in love with another woman.

  Maybe he’d been kidding himself in thinking they could overcome the past. No, he had been kidding himself.

  He hadn’t been hurt.

  Fanny couldn’t just flip the switch and forget all of that.

  “Fuck,” he muttered, moving over to the box, and seeing the return label on the top of it had guilt scalding through him, all over again.

  Angela.

  It was from Angela.

  His eyes slid closed, and he sighed.

  Then he stepped back, returned to his car, and pulled into the garage, closing the door behind him. He moved into the house, flicking on lights as he walked through, making his way to the front door. Part of him wanted to leave the box on the porch and hope that someone would steal it. The rest of him knew he needed to know what was inside.

  That was the piece prompting him to drag the box over the threshold.

  And also the one that had him cutting through the tape and pulling open the flaps.

  His breath caught at the note on top.

  Somehow this came with me during the move. I thought you might need to see it. I’m so sorry I didn’t realize what it was sooner.

  —A

  He removed the packing paper and froze, his fingers finding the soft blue fabric covering the album. She’d made this. Fanny had made this. The first time he’d lost his memory. She’d brought it to the hospital, and he’d flipped through it, and slowly, he’d begun to remember.

  Fuck, why did the tumor have to be where it was?

  Why couldn’t
he have lost something else? Someone else?

  He could have lived without the memories of his teen years, his college years, if only he’d been able to keep those of Fanny. But instead, the tumor, the surgery to remove it, had obliterated them all, and even though he’d eventually remembered, first college, then high school, he hadn’t regained the blank space that belonged to Fanny. Not until last year.

  Would this box have made things different?

  He pulled out the album, flipping through the pages, seeing the pictures of them. At prom. In the local pool with their damp arms wrapped around each other. Him holding her close, the tip of her nose pink from being in the rink for hours on end.

  So many good times.

  So much erased.

  He set the album aside, saw the second one beneath, and knew his mom must have packed this up before he’d left the rehab facility, after he’d fallen for Angela, after Fanny had stopped coming around. Probably, she’d wanted to protect him, but part of him wondered what would have happened if he’d had access to this. Would he have remembered sooner?

  The second album was filled with pictures of them as well, but it also had tickets and programs, from when he’d flown to watch her compete for gold, museum and movie receipts from their travels, a stub from sitting in the front row and watching her perform during the pro circuit. All interspersed with photographs, with memories.

  With Fanny and their love and—

  He closed the album and set it aside, seeing that the rest of the belongings weren’t nearly as soul-crushing.

  A few hockey trophies and medals, from before he’d been sick, before he’d quit playing. An old poster of a Lamborghini, one of some supermodel he couldn’t remember the name of—and not from the brain cancer or the surgery, but just because that type of female hadn’t interested him in a long time.

  Not when he remembered Fanny.

  The rest of the world ceased to exist when she was around.

  He started to stack the trophies and medals back in the box, intending to throw them and the rest of the junk away, when he saw what he’d missed at first glance.

  A small clay frame.