Page 55 of From West, With Regret

But the truth sits at the edge of my tongue, refusing to leave, despite how fragile my soul has become these last few weeks with her. I thought it was torture living in a world without her, but living in a world with her, with no memory of me, is a new kind of ache. A slow, torturous one, like living in an endless black tunnel with no sign of light.

Is this how London feels?

She may be the one with amnesia, but it seems we’re both lost in the dark just the same.

I’m a fool if I think I can confess something like that without rocking her entire world.

Would she even believe me? Would that help jog her memory? If I told her about our ugly yet beautiful past?

Probably not.

The past isn’t easy to overcome. Even if you’ve forgotten it. Even if you haven’t.

Now wouldn’t be the best time to tell her, anyway. Not when she’s clearly wondering if she regrets what happened with us upstairs.

“I, um,” she says, shifting on her feet. “I completed this one, and there’s another upstairs that I’ll come back tofinish after the weekend.” She removes her portfolio from under her arm and lays it on the top of the bag draped over it. Tugging on the zipper, she opens it, slipping out the top sheet of paper. She hands it to me, and I take it, careful not to smudge the charcoal.

My stomach flips when I see trees and a park bench with city buildings in the background.

“Central Park.”

“It’s beautiful, London.”Like you,I want to tell her. Again.

I lift my gaze.

“Thank you.” She brushes a few strands of her dark hair away from her face, then closes her portfolio. “We should stick to work, West. I think that’s best for now.”

“Tell me I didn’t imagine what happened up there,” I beg her. “Tell me it’s what you wanted as well.”

There’s hesitance in her eyes. She’s standing on the other side of the line drawn between us, too afraid to cross it.

“One thing I’ve learned over the years, living with half of my memories, is that it doesn’t matter how bad I want something, West. The real world doesn’t give a shit about feelings.” She sighs, and her gray eyes soften, still lined with tears. “I’ll see you on Monday.”

The words get caught somewhere between my head and my heart as I watch her leave my bar. My hand shakes as it holds onto her drawing. The echo of her against my skin, her voice moaning my name in my ear… I want it all.

And her last response tells me she does, too.

She doesn’t regret it. She doesn’t regretme.

FIFTEEN

LONDON

I wake with a start. My heart is pounding. My body is frozen and stiff.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I will my muscles to move like my therapist told me to do. I count my breaths and sort through what is reality and fiction. Finally, when I’m able to, I check the time on my phone, massaging away the ache in my chest with my fingertips.

Two thirty-eight in the morning.

Dropping my phone back onto the nightstand, I clutch the bedsheet, pulling it up under my chin as I stare through the small window of Selene’s bedroom. The view from here isn’t great, with nothing but a brick wall on the opposite side of the glass that belongs to the apartment building next door.

My fingers dig into the sheet as I struggle to catch my breath, curling in on myself. My stomach curdles as I stare at the brick wall still shrouded in darkness from the night.

All I see is West.

Not as when we first met. Not wearing the silver chain around his neck or the expensive watch around his tattooed wrist. Not with his overgrown beard.

This West is a younger version of the one I know.

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