Page 1 of Bean

CHAPTER ONE

BEAN

Fish tacos.

I scratched my chin as I read what I’d jotted down in my little black book yesterday evening. Fish tacos? What on earth was that supposed to mean? Was I planning on cooking those tonight? Was Nash making them, and did I need to buy ingredients? Had someone requested a recipe?

Ugh, I really needed to add more context when I made notes. The whole idea of my notebook was to remember things since I couldn’t rely on my crappy brain, but it didn’t work without details about the why and how.

I could try to remember, but I’d been down that road too many times by now to have even a remote hope of success. The only result would be a massive headache, and I’d had my fill of those, thank you very much.

My brain was not firing on all cylinders when it came to my memory. Heck, it was maybe firing on only one—and a faulty one at that. My long-term memory was fine. It was the new ones that weren’t being stored properly.

Oh, the joys of having a traumatic brain injury.

I couldn’t even remember what it was like to have a working short-term memory. My memory of how my memory was beforethe accident was faulty too, and if that was a little too meta and existential, my apologies. My current status as unemployed made me prone to such musings, few of them productive, though somewhat entertaining. I’d take my amusement where I could get it.

With a sigh, I checked my book again for any other notes. Every morning, I reread the last ten or so pages to jog what was left of my memory. Hmm, what was going on today? I had a phone call with my case manager at ten, so I set my alarm for that. Did I have anything else?

Oh, right. I needed to prepare for my job interview tomorrow at Zayd’s bar, officially called Eddie’s, for reasons I didn’t know. I could ask Creek’s boyfriend… Crepes, what was his name again? I flipped to the last page, where I wrote down important names. Ah, right. Heath. His name was Heath.

Heath was close with Zayd and had gotten me the job interview, so he might know why it was called Eddie’s, but did it matter?

Zayd was looking for a new cook, and I was woefully underqualified, but he’d still agreed to let me do a trial and cook a few dishes. What should I make? Maybe something with fish? I’d scribbled a note that he had a lot of fish items on the menu. I could make garlic shrimp, which had been a hit here in the house. Or seafood pasta. Easy to make and packed with a lot of flavor.

Did I need to bring ingredients, or did he have everything there? That would be hard, though, if he didn’t know what I was making. But I’d probably texted him about this, so maybe I should check those to see what he said.

Half of my days were now filled with checking previous emails, messages, letters, and anything else that helped me remember. Boooooring, but unfortunately, necessary.

Okay, so I had two things today: the phone call at ten and prepping for the job interview, which was tomorrow at four. I grabbed a piece of paper and wrote them down, then pulled up Google Maps to check the route to the bar and how long of a drive it would be. Forty-five minutes wasn’t too bad, especially with the traffic in San Francisco. I did need to have a bit of a buffer for extra traffic, plus half an hour in case I got confused, which made the total driving time…ninety minutes.

Ten minutes later, I had today and tomorrow planned, my schedule written down in detail with times and everything. Once upon a time, I’d been a chaotic guy who flew by the seat of his pants. But now, my life was captured in lists. To-do lists, checklists, appointment lists—reminders in every form known to man, plus a few I had come up with myself.

Good, now my day could start. Fifteen minutes later, I had showered and made my way downstairs, where Nash was sitting at the kitchen table, reading an actual newspaper while sipping his coffee. “Morning, Bean.”

“Morning, Nash.”

I dumped some cornflakes into a bowl, poured milk on top, and grabbed a spoon. We all had our own spots at the table, and mine was opposite Nash, who’d been our first sergeant before everything had blown up. Literally.

I gestured at the newspaper. “What’s with the flashback to the nineties?”

“They delivered it to the wrong house. I called, but the guy said I could keep it.”

“I didn’t even know they still printed those.”

Nash quirked an eyebrow. “Would you mind emptying your mouth before speaking? It makes the conversation so much more pleasant if I don’t have to watch half-chewed cereal rolling around in your wide-open trap.”

I snorted, almost spitting out my milk. “You can’t say things like that when I’m eating.”

Nash grinned. “If you weren’t eating, I wouldn’t have a reason to, now would I? Just trying to teach you all some manners.”

I took another big spoonful. “I admire your optimism.”

“I’d slap the back of your head for that, but your brain is scrambled enough as it is.”

“Aw, that’s so sweet of you.”

He let out a deep sigh. “Changing topics. What’s the plan for today?”

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