Page 12 of From Square One

The history club doesn’t seem offended that I can’t remember them, and they’re willing to catch me up. Apparently, we took trips to museums like the American Innovation Museum and the Wright Museum of African American History. Seeing so many people in school who have a shared love of learning is nice. Though it doesn’t explain how I was convinced to join.

After enduring a few incessant questions about my amnesia, the club turns to a new subject—there’s an updated Civil War exhibit at the history museum downtown. My skin tingles at the thought. Maybe I’m basic, but it’s one of my favorite periods to learn about. It sounds like they’re willing to let me tag along despite my lack of memories.

“We’ll have to leash you, though,” one girl says, grinning at me. “Whenever we go on field trips, we lose you in the exhibitions. You get so into reading the placards that you forget to keep up.”

The thought reddens my face. “Sorry,” I say sheepishly, to which they all laugh.

“For what? It’s funny.” Amy tilts her head, her lush black hair spilling over her shoulder. “No offense, but it was clear you had never been in clubs before. It took a couple of months before you started opening up. Only because Aaron made you come to meetings, and he’d join us on field trips.”

Her words are only spreading the heat from my cheeks into the rest of my face. Suddenly, something icy cold is pressing against my neck, and I squirm away, looking up.

“Hi, sunshine,” Aaron Beckham says. He’s standing on the checkered floor beside me, holding two pints of ice cream and wrapped plastic spoons. He puts one of each on the table, then drags a chair over and plops beside me.

“Why are you here?” I demand, narrowing my eyes.

“To harass my ex,” he says with a syrupy smile that exposes his pointy canines.

Determined to ignore him, I turn to the pint he gave me, and avoid reacting when I realize it’s a Ben & Jerry’s certified gluten-free flavor. It’s also my favorite—chocolate peanut butter split. Reluctantly curious, I peek at his own pint. Vanilla caramel fudge.

“You’re not also gluten-intolerant, right?” I ask.

“Nope.” Aaron wriggles his spoon through the plastic wrap, shooting me an amused glance. “One of the first times we kissed, you ended up feeling like you had the flu for a day. I went gluten-free after that. Been a little over a year now.”

He says it with such nonchalance, like it’s not a complete upheaval of one’s lifestyle. I want to believe he’s lying, but he even brought me a wrapped disposable utensil, so he clearly knows the drill.

I try to steel my heart because I can feel it fluttering. I can’t let myself be ensnared by his manipulation tactics just because he chose to do something thoughtful. “Well, thank you for bothering, but we’re not together anymore, so you should go back to eating whatever,” I say, peeling the lid off the pint.

“What if I want to kiss you senseless?” His eyes glitter with feigned innocence.

“You won’t, because I’ll never give you permission.”

“Wait, what?” Amy looks between us with thinly veiled dismay, and I nearly jump. I forgot she was sitting across from me. “You broke up? Weren’t you just living together?”

I want to explain myself, but as I’m conjuring an excuse to stumble through, Aaron sighs with melancholy and leans his pale elbow against the table. “Unfortunately, Amy, my beloved can’t remember a single moment of our precious time together. To him, I’m a lowly troublemaker who only exists to poison his soul.” He reaches over to twirl one of my dark blond strands of hair, and I smack it away.

“Stay out of my life.” I stab my spoon into my ice cream, and he nibbles his lower lip like he’s holding back laughter.

“Like I said yesterday, I want to respect your wishes, but I can’t make you fall in love with me again if I’m not following you around being sexy and mysterious.”

I resist dumping my pint upside down on his head.

To my relief, the history club draws us into a conversation—the incoming seniors are asking for recommendations on who they should request for a school visit and seminar. I nearly jump in with a suggestion, but I’m not confident enough to add my two cents, so I stay quiet, nibbling my delicious ice cream, shooting Aaron exasperated glances. He’s finished his own pint, and he’s holding some kind of toy. A brassy-golden cube with cogs, wheels, and gears, which he fidgets with mindlessly. He notices me watching and smiles, then drags his index finger along the inner rim of a cog.

I wrench my eyes away, swallowing a scream of frustration.

As if I could ever fall in love with Aaron Beckham.

6

I don’t mind socializing. Being out with people who I don’t remember but are treating me kindly is nice. Not something I’m used to.

I’m starting to feel antsy, though, because I should be doing other things. Grocery shopping, for one. I should prepare dinner at some point, and the house needs a deep clean. Thankfully, everyone parts ways as I’m scrambling for an excuse to leave.

“We’ll let you know when that exhibit is open,” Amy tells me as we amble into the parking lot, Aaron’s presence looming at my back. “I hope we made you feel comfortable.”

“You did,” I say, and I mean it. I must’ve enjoyed the club, considering how much they know about me. Like the fact that the Civil War and World War II are my favorite periods, even if they’re cliché. Or that I had an obsession with Audie Murphy, and not just because he was, in all my improper honesty, a hot piece of ass.

I wish I could remember my experiences with them. A couple of times, I’ve gone to museums and wanted to ramble to someone about the knowledge I’ve collected over the years. To know that I finally found people as passionate as me…