Page 50 of It's a Date (Again)

“What do you mean you can feel them?”

“Like I’ll do something or taste something or smell something, and it’ll be familiar and comforting. But I don’t why it is,” I say, eating the warm, crunchy french fry.

“You could write a book about it.” He gives me a half smile.

“Yeah, maybe. Something likeDating with Amnesia.” I laugh.

“I’d read it.” He chuckles and clears his throat. There’re a few beats of silence. Nash tilts his head. “Are you scared your memories won’t come back?”

I pull my lips in and glance down for a moment, knowing it’s something I’ve thought about a lot—even though I’ve tried not to. “Terrified,” I say.

“I’m sorry it happened to you.”

“Me too.” I shrug. “But on the bright side, I got to cook with you twice.” I bump my shoulder into his playfully and smile.

“Lucky me,” he says.

We take a couple more bites of our burgers, exchanging glances and small smiles while we eat. I like this. I like the moments we’re talking and engaged, and I even like the quiet ones. But then I remember there are two other guys I’m dating, and that I need to figure out which one I love. One thing I have to ask Nash about is his past relationships—orlack thereof. Maya said it was a red flag, but maybe it’s not. Because if it is for him, it is for me too.

“I’m not sure what we’ve all talked about, so I’m sorry if this is repetitive. But can you tell me about your past relationships?” I briefly glance over at him. “I’d tell you about mine but I don’t remember.”

He cracks a grin and wipes his mouth with a napkin. “There’s not much to tell. I haven’t really had any serious relationships.”

“Oh, why’s that?” I stare into his hazel eyes.

His cheeks flush. “I’m not really good at dating.”

I reach for his hand and place mine on his. The color on his cheeks deepens, but he doesn’t pull away. I think he and I are more alike than I know. I’m not so much timid. But I do understand keeping people at arm’s length—almost like a defense mechanism.

His fingers graze mine. “I have a hard time opening up,” he says, pulling his chin in. “And I’ve put such a focus on my career that everything else has taken a back seat, but I also think I’ve used my career as an excuse for a long time because I am scared to let someone in.”

“I understand,” I say. “At least I think I do.”

Nash delivers a small smile.

I study his face, taking in the smattering of freckles on the bridge of his nose, his clean-shaven skin, and his slender lips. My gaze lands on his armful of colorful tattoos.

“Did those hurt?”

His hand slips away from mine as he picks up his arm, twisting and turning it so I can see more. Nash pulls up his short sleeve, revealing his strong bicep and putting all his tattoos on full display. “Only some of them did. This one right here”—he points to a detailed angel with golden wings on the back of his upper arm, the wordsRIP Dadwritten in cursive below it—“hurt the most. Probably because it meant the most.”

My fingers skim over the meticulously drawn tattoo. “It’s beautiful,” I say. His skin blossoms with goose bumps, and he smiles.

“Thanks.” He slides his sleeve down as I pull my fingers away. “Do you have any tattoos?”

“Not that I know of,” I say with a giggle.

“Do you want one?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” I shrug. “What made you want them?”

“Initially, I wanted one to piss off my parents back when I was eighteen. But after that, I actually really liked them. It’s fun going through the design process, ensuring they look good together, and they all have some sort of meaning to me. Some have more significance than others.” He smirks. “This one was a dare.” Nash points to a small tattoo on his wrist.

“Does that saylive, laugh, love?”

He nods and stifles a chuckle. “It reminds me to live and to laugh and to love every day.” He can barely finish his sentence due to his growing laughter.

“I could use that reminder given the amnesia,” I joke.

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