Page 5 of From Square One

I nearly choke. I’m not sure how I could tolerate someone so awful for so long, especially after he ruined my brother’s future. Logan was an honor student with perfect grades and attendance. He spent his free time studying in his room or toning himself at the driving range while my parents took me to doctor’s appointments and tried to help me monitor my fluctuating health. Until Aaron infiltrated our lives and sent him careening down a path of delinquency.

“Um. So. Why did we start dating?” I ask weakly.

Logan reacts like the answer is on the tip of his tongue, but when he meets my eyes, his mouth freezes. His apple bobs in his throat. “You never told me,” he says.

I’m chomping so angrily on my finger now that it’s prickling with pain. After they were arrested, I determined I would never let Aaron Beckham into our house again. Despite being a full head shorter, I was resolved to shove him away with every ounce of strength my body would allow.

Or that was my plan. How could it have fallen apart so abysmally?

“Then what happened between you two?” I ask. “I know your relationship was rocky after the arrest, but I didn’t think you hated him.”

His fingers are curled so tight that his tan hands are bone-white. “I couldn’t stand watching him hurt you,” he mutters, turning away so I can’t see his expression. “He filled your head with garbage and talked you into ruining your life. I know you, Riley. You’re kind. Responsible. Selfless. But you were becoming somebody else, because Aaron corrupts anyone who gets close. I should fucking know. You tried to save me, and I didn’t listen.”

He’s clawing into his jeans, like his nails tearing into his palms isn’t enough to satisfy his anger. It’s strange. Logan usually hugs his emotions close—it’s like he’s a different person.

“I don’t know how he convinced me to date him,” I whisper, more guilt raking my chest. “I’m sorry. For being a hypocrite. Telling you to stay away, then doing that…”

“He’s a manipulator, Riley.” Logan’s voice softens—maybe he can hear mine getting choked up. “It’s not your fault. But…this amnesia…maybe it’s a good thing. A chance for you to start over before Aaron ruins your future, like he did mine.” Logan peeks over his shoulder, strangely calm, considering he was just shaking with rage. “I can’t tell you what to do, but here’s some advice.”

I wait, the taste of blood stinging my mouth.

“Stay away from Aaron,” he says sharply. “I’m sure he’ll try convincing you that you’re better off with him. Don’t be fooled just because you like his face.”

Embarrassment surges through me. “Who said I like his face?” I squeak.

“You do, with your eyes, constantly. You could never stop staring at him.” Logan gives me an irked look, and it makes me want to dive beneath my covers. If ever I stare at Aaron Beckham, it’s because I’m imagining doing something horrible to him. Not because his eyes are winter gray and framed in inch-long lashes that could power wind turbines. Or because his skin is always smooth and silky for an eighteen—or, I guess, nineteen-year-old boy’s. Or because his soft facial features stand in nice contrast to the sharp ridges of his jaw and collarbone. Or because he has a lopsided, mischievous smile that could skip the hearts of all straight men in his proximity.

“I stare at him for murderous intents and purposes only,” I say, lowering my finger so I can massage away the pain. “But you’re right. I won’t let Aaron manipulate me. Things will go back to normal. I promise.”

Logan’s eyes lower from mine, and I swear I see the quickest glint of shame before he turns to the door. “That’s all I’ve wanted for months, Riley,” he mumbles.

Then he’s gone, leaving me with my swirling thoughts and my pounding head.

3

I’m thirsty.

My dry eyes are latched on the empty water glass on my bedside table. I don’t know why today is so difficult. I moved around a lot, I guess. Unpacking my clothes (my family has been vague about the moving boxes). Making two separate dinners (they tried going gluten-free with me, but I told them not to worry about it since the brands aren’t usually as good). And just mentally reorienting myself to the present.

Now I’m thirsty. But I’m aching too much to move, and I can’t tell if it’s because I’m still sore from the car accident, if my anemia is flaring up, or if it’s some irritating combination of the two. Maybe I should text Logan, but it’s after midnight, and it sounds like he’s been picking up my slack over the past year, so I shouldn’t bother him. Without my calendar, I feel even more behind than usual—I need to investigate to make sure everyone has been keeping up with appointments and bills. My parents tell me not to bother myself with things like that, but they’re both so flighty and busy with their jobs, I took it upon myself to keep the house standing.

I can fill my water glass. I can do that much.

I muscle upright and fumble through my drawer for ibuprofen. Not the liquid gels. I found out they have gluten the hard way. It was one of those brief, unexpected moments where reality backhanded me, and I nearly chewed through my thumb to avoid bursting into tears. Like, really? Why does over-the-counter pain relief need wheat starch?

I didn’t realize how many things have gluten as a staple ingredient until I started meticulously studying labels. A couple of months—or, over a year ago—I had to throw away my hand sanitizers because they contained wheat amino acids. My finger-gnawing habit always ensures it’ll get into my mouth somehow. I had to replace our sunscreens. My favorite shampoo. All as a precaution.

Now I get to deal with this nonsense on top of that nonsense.

Acknowledging it causes my eyes to burn.

Fifteen months. Gone. Just gone.

It doesn’t make sense. I thought “amnesia” was a plotline showrunners used in cable television to freshen things up. Or Hallmark rom-coms starring white city girls and whiter small-town boys. It’s just a concussion, so the amnesia should be temporary, like the doctor told me.

I hope.

I shake two tablets onto the side table and rise to my feet, wobbling precariously. I’ve always felt brittle, though I started feeling better after my diagnosis and subsequent steps to correct my eating. Celiac disease wasn’t their first opinion, mostly because my worst symptoms don’t typically involve the stomach or check the common indicator boxes.