Page 11 of From Square One

Then she’s gone.

I sigh, ambling to the medicine cabinet so I can pop some iron supplements before stopping by the kitchen island to examine the list.

I feel better today, so I can definitely do this. My legs are wobbly, my bones feel malleable, and I’m lightheaded, but it’s not debilitating. Besides, everyone is out and about with responsibilities, and I’m sitting around with nothing to do but…what? Heal? Apparently, I’ve made myself useless this summer, since I’m not taking any classes or working a job.

I don’t go immediately, because I’m still groggy. I hardly slept, tossing around, the memory of Aaron’s fingers around my hands too heavy to ignore. The coolness of his breath in my ear—the reverberation of his voice through my bones.

Because I love you, Riley Wilson.

A full-body chill ravages me, forcing me to sit on the couch and bury my face in my hands. All he did was tease me yesterday.

And yet, he’s the only person who bothered to answer my questions.

Maybe I shouldn’t be too hard on my family. They’re clearly being vague because they don’t want me to feel embarrassed by my own actions, and the doctor literally told them to avoid overwhelming me with information. Their reluctance to engage with me about the past in too much detail obviously stems from the desire to protect me. Still…I want to know anyway. The bad. The worst. Aaron’s version will be skewed—a dim, blood-red light in this crushing darkness.

But it’s still a light.

How did he convince me to move in with him? His dads just allowed that? Is he why I enrolled at some random college that wasn’t in my top ten schools of choice? Why does he think he loves me?

What about me is worth loving, anyway?

There’s a knock on the front door. I pry my face out of my hands, a crease surfacing between my brows. If it’s Aaron, I’m slamming the door in his face. I storm toward it and swing it open, prepared to hurl the cruelest insult I can muster.

I don’t expect to find a dozen people waiting for me.

“Welcome back, Riley!” they cry out.

I stare at them blankly.

“Woo-hoo!” one of them tacks on.

I have no idea what’s happening. Looking closer, I recognize some of them from my graduating class. I might’ve had conversations with them in group projects, but otherwise, I don’t have solid relationships with any of them. Yet they’re all grinning expectantly, and two of them are holding Welcome Back signs that clearly took effort.

“Sorry, you’re probably confused,” a pretty girl in front says, laughing. I recognize her as the class treasurer, Amy Choi. She extends a hand, her onyx-black eyes crinkling with a smile. “Aaron told us about the amnesia. I’m head of the history club. You joined us for senior year. We still meet up over the summer when the museums get new exhibits, so we wanted to reintroduce ourselves.”

She’s trying to diffuse my confusion, but it only worsens the haze in my head. Since when was I in a club? I like history—it’s my favorite subject, and I’m a glutton for a good museum—but I’ve always considered extracurriculars to be a waste of time. And what does Aaron have to do with this?

I only realize I haven’t responded when they start fidgeting. “Ah, sorry,” I say with a wobbly smile. “Nice to meet…or thank you for coming to see me. I’m sorry, I don’t remember the history club. It sounds fun?”

“It is!” Amy says brightly, shaking my hand with enthusiasm. She reintroduces me to the line of people crowding my door. Everyone is staring at me, some of them with skepticism, like they don’t believe I can’t remember them. I notice movement in my peripherals, and my attention is drawn to the street curb. A scarlet pickup truck is parked beside my house, and leaning against the passenger door, gangly arms folded, a sucker stick jutting from his mouth…

I forcibly keep my face from gnarling with a scowl. I’m so distracted that when Amy says, “We’d love to take you for ice cream,” I respond with, “Sure.”

I can’t swallow the word in time. I avoid ice cream shops religiously because they’re as torturous to sit in as bakeries. Airborne gluten is less of a threat, but cross-contamination is nearly unavoidable with all the add-ins, the smell is intoxicating, and I haven’t eaten today. I’ll be starving and watching people lick ice cream I can’t have.

“Actually, I have to go shopping,” I blurt, lifting my grocery list. Suddenly, though, it’s being snatched out of my hands. Aaron has appeared on the step beside me, his lightly curled hair poking over his forehead, accompanied by a black V-neck shirt and jeans. I’ve never seen him in any other color. He probably wants his exterior to match the all-consuming corruption of his soul.

Or he just knows he looks good in it.

“This can be done any time, can’t it?” he asks, pocketing the grocery list. I’m still being stared at, so I swallow my biting words. “You should go enjoy yourself with your friends. Get reacquainted. I’ll join up with you soon.”

I want to growl that he shouldn’t feel comfortable bossing me around. “Give it back,” I order, but he’s already sauntering to his truck.

“See you soon!”

My singular “out” of this situation has been stolen away, so I hitch a ride with Amy to the ice cream shop. Part of me wonders if getting into the passenger seat of a car will awaken anything in me—memories or primal fear or something. But it feels strangely normal, like it did when I was driven home from the hospital.

The shop has a worn-down parking lot and faded Christmas stickers on the windows. Several history club members try to buy me something, to which I can only apologize despite their insistence.