Page 17 of It's a Date (Again)

“Yeah.”

He grabs my purse and a bag from the trunk and joins me on the other side. I stare up at the building, taking it all in. There’s a balcony above the porch. I like to think I’ve spent a lot of time out there, but I don’t know for sure. Maybe I’m just feeling that way because I spentthe last four days lying in a hospital bed. A squirrel scampers across the courtyard carrying a cracked walnut in its mouth.

“How long have I lived here?”

“At least five years,” he says, leading me up the sidewalk. He unlatches the iron gate and gestures for me to go first.

It’s a weird feeling not knowing your home. A strong breeze passes through, rustling the fall leaves and pulling more of them from the trees. I draw my knit cardigan a little tighter around me. At the door, Robbie pulls a set of keys from my purse. I only know the purse is mine because he told me it was mine. Inside, I hold the wooden railing tightly as I make my way up a flight of carpeted stairs.

“Home sweet home,” he says with a friendly expression as he sets my stuff down on the small kitchen table.

The place is larger than it looks on the outside. The stairwell opens up to the kitchen, dining room, and living room. The ceilings are high, and large-arched windows let in plenty of natural light. Although the design style is a mix of rustic meets modern, there are pops of dark green and royal blue, which makes the home cozy. I must love plants because there are a number of them spread throughout. Succulents line the windowsill above the sink. Two large snake plants sit in white pots on either side of the door leading out to the balcony. A fig leaf tree is situated in the corner. Its leaves and branches loom over a large area of the living room. In the kitchen, there’s an air fryer and a coffeepot on the counter. I must like coffee, and I must also enjoy cooking quickly. It’s all so tidy and clean, and it seems I take great pride in it.

“Maya texted. She wanted to know how you’re doing,” Robbie says.

“Tell her I’m fine.”

Robbie quickly types out a message and sends it. “She’ll be here tomorrow morning to take over while I’m at work.”

I nod and walk toward the hallway, exploring more of my home. My fingers skim along the beige-colored wall. The first door on the left is a bathroom. It’s small with just a toilet, sink, and walk-in shower. Thenext door opens to a closet with a stacked dryer and washing machine. The door on the right opens to a small room that looks like a makeshift office. There’s a desk, chair, treadmill, and recliner. A tall bookshelf sits against the far wall. I walk to it and pull several books out. They’re nearly all romance novels. I must have wanted love but found it only in books up until last week. There’s also a handful of self-help books on various topics from self-love to healthy habits. I wonder what she ... I mean, I wonder whatIwas trying to improve about myself.

At the end of the hallway is a master bedroom. The queen-size bed is decorated with pillows of all sizes in various shades of white and beige. A throw blanket is spread over the bottom corner with a wooden serving tray placed on it. The tray contains a tissue box, remote controls, a room spray, and a candle. I’m very organized and everything out in the open has a purpose, like I was intentional with my space. On the opposite side of the bed, a large flat-screen television hangs on the wall. I wonder what I enjoy watching. Below the TV sits a long wooden dresser painted emerald green. I suppose I can safely assume my favorite color is green, emerald to be exact. My fingers graze over the top of it. It’s adorned with a jewelry box, several bottles of perfume positioned neatly in a gold tray, and two framed photos. One is a picture of me, Robbie, and Maya. We’re bundled in cold-weather gear, smiling up at the camera, which Robbie holds out at arm’s length. In the other photo, I’m standing between two people—an older man and an older woman. I pick the frame up and bring it closer to my line of sight. I look like both of them. I have the button nose, high cheekbones, and blonde hair like the woman. My green eyes and arched brows come from the man.

“Hey,” Robbie says.

I turn to find him standing in the doorway.

“Are these my parents?” I ask, holding up the framed photo.

“Yeah.” He glances down at his feet and then back at me. There’s a sheen to his blue eyes, and his lips form a straight line.

“Where are they?”

I think I already know the answer. Regardless of whether I have my memories or not, some things you can just feel. Like their memories exist in my heart too. There’s a pain there, a dull ache. I think it’s been there this whole time, but I’m just noticing it now. It’s as though I’ve learned to live with it.

“I’m sorry, Peyton.” He rubs his forehead and lets out a sigh like he doesn’t want to be the one to tell me. “They passed away.”

The words are a punch to the gut, fast and sudden. Without the memories, it’s just pain. I look at the photo again, taking in their smiling faces, committing them to my memory, my new one, that is. I place the frame back on the dresser and stand there for a moment, waiting for the gut-punch pain to subside. But it doesn’t. It’s just there. It’s been there for a long time. Not always so agonizing, more like a twinge.

“How long ago?” I ask.

“When you were eighteen.”

My lip quivers. I blink several times, trying to fight back the tears.

“How did they die?”

“In a car accident.” Robbie takes a step toward me, just close enough for me to feel his presence but far enough away to give me space. It’s like he knows what I need. “Are you okay?” he asks.

“I don’t know.” I wipe at my eyes with the sleeve of my cardigan.

“There’s a bathroom through there,” he says, pointing to a closed door off to the side of the television.

“Thanks. I just need a moment.” I walk to the bathroom and close the door behind me. It’s large, with a stand-up shower and a Jacuzzi tub. Candles sit in a corner along with a jar of bath bombs. Another door leads to a large walk-in closet, but I don’t venture in. At the sink, I splash water on my face and dry it off with a hand towel. I stare back at the girl looking at me in the mirror and let out a heavy sigh.

“Who are you?” I whisper to the reflection.

My long blonde hair is tied up in a high ponytail. But I can’t even be sure it’s mine. The same goes for the green eyes speckled with yellowlooking back at me. I pull my hair loose and feather out a couple of short strands and baby hair to cover the bruising and cuts at the crown of my head. I wonder if they’ll heal. I wonder if I will too.

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