Page 79 of Unlocking Melodies

“Life doesn't always give you second chances, Jimmy,” he said, his tone gentler than I'd heard before. “Maybe this memory loss isn't just about what you've lost. Maybe it's an opportunity to build something new, without the weight of old hurts holding you back.”

The words settled somewhere deep in my chest. I watched Ethan by his car, his phone now forgotten in his hand as he stared off into the distance. The late afternoon light caught his profile, and something in my heart recognized him even if my mind couldn't quite catch up.

Through the window of the main house, I caught sight of Liam watching us, his expression a mix of concern and hope. Behind him, Jake and Elliot stood close together, their casual intimacy a reminder of what was possible when you chose love over fear.

Maybe Gary was right. Maybe it was time to stop trying to recover what was lost and start building something new. Something that belonged to Current Jimmy, not just echoes of who I used to be.

Martha's imperious cluck broke the moment – apparently we'd overstayed our welcome in her domain. But as we walked back toward the house, I felt lighter somehow. Like maybe the path forward didn't require remembering everything about the past.

Maybe it just required being brave enough to take the first step into something new.

Chapter 20

Just Like The First Time

The opening notes of a country song drifted up from The Watering Hole as I absently strummed my guitar, trying to work out a melody that had been haunting me since that afternoon. My fingers kept finding their way back to that unfinished piece Ethan and I had played together, muscle memory apparently having opinions about my evening plans.

A knock at the door startled me out of my musical rabbit hole. I set down the guitar - carefully, because Past Jimmy apparently had strong feelings about proper instrument storage - and padded across the worn floorboards in my extremely unofficial loungewear. My socks whispered against the wood, a sound that somehow felt both foreign and familiar, like everything else in this place I was supposed to call home.

When I opened the door, my brain temporarily short-circuited.

Ethan stood on my porch, bathed in the golden glow of lights that Mrs. Henderson had definitely repositioned “for better ambiance” (and possibly surveillance). He wore a cream-colored sweater that looked soft enough to be illegal, paired with darkjeans that made me temporarily forget how words worked. His hair was slightly disheveled, like he'd been running his hands through it - a nervous tell I'd started recognizing despite my stubborn memory gaps.

“Hey,” he said softly, producing a bouquet of wildflowers that looked suspiciously like they'd come from Mrs. Henderson's prized garden. I made a mental note to check later if she'd been a willing accomplice or if Oakwood Grove was about to have its first flower-theft scandal.

“I thought...” He cleared his throat, looking endearingly uncertain for someone who regularly handled billion-dollar negotiations. “I thought maybe we could go out tonight?”

I glanced down at my current ensemble - a faded band t-shirt that had definitely seen better days and sweatpants that probably wouldn't meet the dress code of anywhere except maybe a very laid-back yoga studio.

“I'm not exactly dressed for whatever you're planning,” I managed, trying not to be distracted by how the porch light caught his eyes. “Unless your master plan involves a very casual pajama party.”

His laugh was warm, nothing like his careful corporate chuckles. “You look perfect to me.” Then, catching himself being earnest, he added with a smirk, “Though I suppose if you want to maintain my reputation as a discerning business mogul, you could change.”

“Oh, we wouldn't want to damage your carefully cultivated image.” I fought back a grin. “I'm sure Mrs. Henderson's opera glasses can pick up fashion faux pas from at least three blocks away.”

“Speaking of which,” he glanced around suspiciously, “I'm pretty sure I saw movement in her hydrangea bushes on my way up.”

“The Surveillance Squad never rests.” I stepped back, gesturing vaguely at my general dishevelment. “Give me five minutes to transform into something more suitable for public viewing?”

“Take your time.” His smile turned soft. “We've got all night.”

Something about the way he said it made my heart do complicated gymnastics in my chest. I retreated to my bedroom, where Past Jimmy's meticulously organized closet mocked my current fashion crisis.

“Okay,” I muttered to the row of carefully arranged shirts, “what would you wear for an impromptu date with the guy who makes your pulse do weird things but you can't remember why?”

The clothes, unsurprisingly, didn't answer. But my hands seemed to know what they were doing, reaching for a soft blue button-down that somehow felt right. Like maybe Past Jimmy had worn it for other moments that mattered.

I emerged five minutes later (okay, maybe seven, but who was counting?) to find Ethan had made himself at home on my couch, examining the guitar I'd abandoned with careful interest.

“You were playing earlier,” he said, not quite a question.

“Trying to.” I ran a hand through my hopefully-presentable hair. “Though I'm pretty sure Past Jimmy was better at it.”

“You know,” he set the guitar down with gentle reverence, “you don't have to keep comparing yourself to who you were.”

The simple observation hit harder than it should have. Before I could stumble into deeper emotional territory, he stood and offered his arm with exaggerated formality.

“Ready to scandalize the town gossips?”

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