Page 94 of From West, With Regret

“Stop the car.”

“No. I can’t do that, London.”

“Stop the car.”

“I can’t.” I don’t know what I’m saying anymore.

But my heart shatters when she whips her head in my direction, tears streaming from her wild eyes. “Stop the car, West!”

TWENTY-SIX

LONDON

West slams on the brakes, and the tires screech against the road.

Tears are streaming down my cheeks, and my vision wobbles. My entire body is shaking.

I can’t breathe.

I can’t. Breathe.

My hands shake uncontrollably as I scramble to unbuckle my seat belt. After the third attempt, I finally break free and jump from the passenger seat.

My feet hit the road, and I stand in the middle of it, still holding onto West’s necklace as I look around.

We’re in the center of a neighborhood. Old, Victorian-style houses are situated along each side of the road, but it’s the sign in front of the one three houses down that caught my attention. I know I’ve been here before. Since I was fourteen years old, I’ve never been certain of anything. I couldn’t be. Memories are unreliable. Distorted. Fact turned to fiction.

But this. This place I know for certain holds the key. I feel it in my soul.

“London, wait,” West’s calls out for me, but my feet are already carrying me toward the house.

I jog down the road, my heels clicking against the pavement. I hear the pounding of West’s feet following me, and when I reach the abandoned house with the sign out front, a sob breaks free.

The scent of fresh pancakes, and the feel of West’s finger against my cheek. The plastic tablecloth, sticky with dried maple syrup. I reach out and run my shivering fingers across the faded paint.

Sunlight Foster Care

Albany, New York

Snapping my head to the right, I look up at the house.

Peeling gray and purple paint.

Broken windows.

A lawn that looks like it hasn’t been mowed in years. It’s completely abandoned.

West catches up to me. His leathery scent immediately surrounds me, pulling my attention away.

“London.” His voice is shaky, and when I turn to look at him, the memory of being at the kitchen table comes back to me.

“I remember,” I whisper, unsteadily. “The kitchen table. The first day I came to the house. We sat and ate blueberry pancakes, and you touched my cheek.”

“What?” His eyes widen, and his hand flies to his chest. Tears line his gorgeous blue eyes.

“You called me dimples,” I sob. “You said it was because they made your heart melt every time I smiled, and you’d never felt that before. I was twelve. You were fourteen.”

“London.” His voice strains, and he can’t breathe. “You remember me?”

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