“Wait. Are you watching baseball?” Quinn asked.

  I instantly felt judged and out of place. Was this something I didn’t usually do? Had Old Ryson not watched sports?

  “Yeah. I love it. I used to play, you know.”

  “When you were five!” my mom added from the kitchen where she had started to fill up glasses.

  “Still counts,” I said, not wanting to argue, but Quinn’s face held a curious expression. “What? Did I not watch baseball when we were together or something?”

  “You thought it was boring. Didn’t understand how anyone could sit through nine whole innings of it,” she said with a shrug like she’d expected that whatever the old me had hated, the new me would too. But it clearly didn’t work that way.

  “Well, I like it now.”

  “You did throw out the first pitch once,” Quinn said with a smile.

  It jogged nothing in my brain. “I did? For what team?”

  “The Dodgers.”

  I wished I could remember that. “How’d I do?” I asked, wondering if I’d embarrassed myself or not.

  “You threw a strike.” She laughed. “You’re annoyingly good at everything you do, Ryson.”

  I shrugged it off but silently wondered if I still would be today. Could I go outside and throw the ball like I used to? I literally had no idea.

  “I want to throw out the first pitch,” one of the guys said as he plopped down next to me. “Tatum.”

  He extended his hand, and I shook it.

  “I remember,” I said before clarifying, “from the hospital, I mean. You’re the one with the accent.”

  He laughed. “So y’all keep telling me,” he countered, proving my point.

  No one said much of anything after that. There was a lot of staring at me while I stared at the TV before they all decided to sit down, Quinn noticeably keeping her distance. I glanced over at her to see if I could jog any particles of lost thoughts loose, but they all stayed firmly locked away. She caught me looking, and a soft smile appeared. I didn’t return it. My mom brought out a tray of drinks, which interrupted the awkwardness, as she forced everyone to take one.

  “Anyway, we all came here to see how you were and to talk to you about steps for moving forward,” Madison, my agent, said.

  I gave her an uninterested look. “Moving forward how?” I asked, taking a sip of the drink.

  “It’s already been a week since you left the hospital,” she started, as if I didn’t know that.

  Did she think that I hadn’t been keeping a running tally of the days? Because I had.

  “And we’ve avoided the press, but they’re starting to say some really unflattering things.”

  I knew instinctively that I should care more about what she was saying, but I was so disconnected to the life she was talking about that it was hard to have real feelings toward it.

  “I saw some of the things,” I admitted, blowing it off.

  “You did?” Quinn asked, sounding shocked and hurt. “Which ones?”

  “I don’t know. Rumors about us breaking up. That sort of thing. I turned it off.”

  Quinn started blinking rapidly, clearly fighting back tears. Everything I did and said hurt this girl. I was constantly letting her down, and it didn’t make me feel good.

  “Do you have any interest in doing a joint interview?” Madison moved the conversation back on point.

  “With who? Me and Quinn? The me I don’t remember with the girl I don’t either? That sounds like a great fucking idea.”

  “Hey, man, we know you’re pissed, but—” the other guy in the group jumped in.

  I knew he was only defending his girlfriend because I’d snapped at her, but I didn’t care.

  “You don’t know anything. You have no idea how it feels to be me right now. No idea what it feels like to not remember a damn thing. I know I should look at you all and know who you are, but I don’t. And you have memories of me that I don’t have, and it makes me feel stupid, embarrassed, and lost. I hate it.” I hadn’t meant to snap at everyone, but it had been seven fucking days of the same shit. Seven disappointing mornings where I’d opened my eyes, hopeful, only to be let down again.

  Madison placed a hand on her boyfriend’s shoulder, instantly calming him down. “You’re right. We don’t know what it’s like to be you. We only know what it’s like to be us. And we all feel like we’ve lost you too.” This chick was good. “So does the public. They need something.”

  “I don’t want to do any interviews. I especially don’t want to be on camera,” I said, focusing my attention on Quinn. I hoped that she would understand or at least have my back even though I hadn’t given her any reason to.

  “That’s fine,” Madison said. “You don’t have to. But that just means that Quinn’s going to have to do it. And she’s going to have to speak on your behalf. Are you okay with that?”

  I continued looking at Quinn, wondering if I could trust her. Had I trusted her when we were together? And if so, how much? With my life? I wished I knew.

  Quinn pushed off the couch and stood tall, her blonde hair spilling down her shoulders. “Can I talk to you?” She held out her hand toward me. “In private.”

  Ignoring her hand, I stood up and walked with her toward my back bedroom. Of course, she knew where it was. She had obviously been here before. I watched her move toward the bed and sit down.

  “I can tell you have questions. Figured maybe you didn’t want an audience.”

  I wondered for a moment how she knew before I remembered that we had been the it couple, as my Mom had called us. “Do you think this interview stuff is a good idea?”

  She nodded. “Yeah, I do. I know you don’t get it, but you and I are very well known. We have been in the public eye for years. Since we were kids. People are very invested in our personal lives. But since we’ve stayed quiet, the press has gotten antsy. They’re printing things that I can’t stay silent about anymore.”

  “About us?”

  “About you,” she said.

  I could tell there was still so much about myself that I didn’t know. But she obviously did. I wasn’t in a state of mind to ask her about it either, not wanting to deal with the conversation that would ensue or to hear more things about me that I might not like.

  “So, the old me would be okay with letting you speak for him? On his behalf, I mean.”

  A quick laugh escaped her lips. “In a heartbeat. Yes, he very much would have. And vice versa.”

  “So, we trusted each other?”

  “Ryson,” she breathed out, running her hands across her face. “We were a team.”

  “A good one?” I asked, still knowing nothing and piecing together information.

  “The best. And I’m not just saying that.” Her eyes scanned my room, and I saw the moment she noticed my cell phone, facedown on my dresser. “Have you gone through your phone at all?”

  “No,” I lied, not wanting to tell her the truth.

  “Are you planning to?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  There had been moments when I was curious, but that curiosity had stopped the second I looked at a picture and felt no attachment to it but knew that I should have. I’d even read some text messages, but it was like reading a book written in an unfamiliar language. Nothing made sense. Nothing resonated.

  “Don’t you want to?” she asked, as her emotions started shifting. “Don’t you want to see what your life used to look like?”

  “Let me guess. It’s full of pictures of us,” I said, sounding like a dick because I had seen the gallery folders with Quinn’s name on them. There was more than one.

  “That wasn’t what I meant, but I’m sure it is. I mean, we’ve been together for years. We’ve been in movies together. We live together. We’re a fucking hashtag.”

  I looked at her, wondering what she was referring to. “I don’t even know what that means … a hashtag?”

  “Gah! You’re so frustrating,” she groaned as she threw her hands in the air and stood up, pacing back and forth.

  “I don’t know what you want me to say. You tell me you’re my girlfriend, but I see a stranger when I look at you. What do you want from me? You want me to hug you and kiss you and tell you how much I’ve missed you? I can’t do that.”

  She arched back like I’d slapped her, her eyes glossy. “I want you to give a shit that you don’t remember. I want you to care that you feel nothing when you look at me. And I want you to want to remember,” she said so honestly that her delivery almost felt like a blow to the head.

  “Well, what I want”—I chose my words carefully and with intent—“is to not feel guilty that I don’t.”

  Quinn stayed quiet for once. Maybe my words had struck a chord or finally made some kind of sense to her. Maybe she was finally understanding that the last thing I needed to add to this shitshow called my life was guilt.

  The fact that she was waiting around for me to get better when I had no idea if I ever would or not made me feel like shit. I refused to let Quinn put her life on hold, to wait for my return to normalcy, when that very thing wasn’t a guarantee. I couldn’t be responsible for her happiness when I barely had any of my own.

  Couldn’t she see that I wanted to do what was best for her? Maybe she didn’t see it that way at all.

  “I’m just trying to do what’s right here.”

  “And what do you think that is?”

  “Letting you go. Setting you free. Not making you wait around for me,” I said, feeling reasonable and logical in my argument.

  She inhaled, the breath sharp and audible. “I don’t want to be let go. I don’t want to be set free. I want to be with you. The new you. The old you. I don’t care. Don’t you want to try to get to know each other again?”

  It was a valid question. One I hadn’t anticipated and wasn’t sure how to answer.

  “Maybe this version of you could love me too.”

  “I don’t know if that’s possible.”

  I figured she’d have something else to say. Quinn rarely seemed to run out of words or fight, but I was wrong.

  With a nod that looked like resignation, she walked out of my room, and I heard her announce, “Let’s go,” before a bunch of movement followed her demand.

  My mom slipped into my room after the front door slammed shut. “Old Ryson would have killed you for the way you just talked to her.”

  I guessed we hadn’t had any privacy after all.

  “Old Ryson isn’t here anymore, Mom. And New Ryson—me—doesn’t want to give her false hope, okay?”

  “You do know that your memory could still return, right? It could come back tomorrow or the next day. No one knows,” she said.

  I felt like a broken record, repeating the same sentiment over and over again. “Exactly, Mom. No one knows. It could come back, but it might not. They already thought it would. What if it never does? I don’t want Quinn waiting and hoping for the old me to magically reappear one day. It’s not realistic. And it’s not fair. To either one of us.” Just thinking about the pressure made me feel like I’d never be able to escape it.

  “But what about her suggestion? Getting to know each other again doesn’t sound like such a bad idea.” She sat on my bed the way Quinn had just moments before, her hands folded in her lap.

  My stomach twisted. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I have no interest in acting or being in the spotlight. I can’t fathom being a part of that world, and if I dated Quinn again, I’d have to be.” My mind reeled, spitting out more and more thoughts. “Everyone would know who I was, but I wouldn’t know them. There would be no escape. I wouldn’t be able to start over and be someone new if I stayed in the same place with the same people. How could I ever not be Ryson the actor if I still dated Quinn the actress?”

  My mom stared at me for only a moment before nodding. “Well, hell, that makes a lot of sense.”

  “Does it?” I breathed out in relief, finally feeling less crazed and a little more understood.

  My mother was a psychiatrist after all. Shouldn’t she have seen all these things coming before I had?

  “Of course it does. And as much as I hate it, I’m afraid you might be right.”

  I’d had no idea how much I needed to hear that acceptance until it was said. My mom might not like the choices I was making, but she supported my decisions, and it made me feel a less alone. None of us knew what the future held, but if my proverbial ship was sinking, I wasn’t going to take anyone under with me.

  ULTIMATE BACKFIRE

  Quinn

  We rode in silence back to Malibu. No one dared to say a thing after we left Ryson’s house. I licked my emotional wounds as I tried to process everything that had just happened. My reason for seeing him—hoping to ignite some spark of recognition or to see some flicker of emotion on his face—had totally backfired. I’d been so sure that I could convince him to get to know me again or at least agree to wanting to, but he wasn’t having any of it. And everyone had heard him say as much.

  After reading numerous articles online about wives who had made their husbands fall back in love with them after similar situations—who knew this was such a common thing?—I’d figured I could do the same or at least try. But Ryson wasn’t my husband, and he wasn’t obligated to me in the same way that married couples were. Even though we’d always been a team, he didn’t feel that sense of responsibility toward me anymore. I’d lost my other half, but Ryson had lost the whole of who he was.

  Any hope I’d secretly held had been snuffed out the second he started making decisions for me—telling me what would be best and how to live my life going forward without him. New Ryson made a lot of assumptions, and there would be no talking him out of it. He might not remember who he was, but his stubbornness was still intact.

  I sat in the car, wishing he would come back to me the same way he had when we were younger. When I thought back on that day, it felt surreal, like something ripped from the pages of a fantasy novel, not something that had actually happened before. The images flooded my mind, the story playing out in my head as emotions poured through me. I realized that Ryson couldn’t do this, couldn’t flip through the sheets of our shared history and pull out reminders of our love. He couldn’t access our story and see all the things we’d been through and just how hard we’d fought to be together. His mind couldn’t prove to him how deeply he had loved me.

  Twelve weeks went by in silence. Eighty-four days without a peep from Ryson. His absence from the tabloids was noticeable, palpable even, but as I walked toward my trailer after finishing a scene, the shadowed figure waiting for me outside my door was unmistakable.

  “Ryson!” I sprinted toward his now-open arms as a giant grin spread across his handsome face.

  He looked so good. Throwing myself into his arms, I held him like he might disappear altogether if I let go.

  “You’re going to squeeze me to death, woman,” he choked out with a laugh.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked with a lilt in my voice that I knew matched the smile on my face. “When did you get out?”

  He pointed toward my trailer door. “Can we talk?”

  Nerves coursed through me. His tone worried me. Had he come to tell me we could only be friends? Had everything changed for him since being in rehab? I had no idea, but I found my mind racing through worst-case scenarios as I moved toward the door of my trailer and pulled it open. Had Ryson come to shatter my heart in person? I really wished he had done it by text message or something far less personal. I really didn’t want to have to stare into those dark brown eyes while he broke me apart.

  We stepped inside, and I asked, “You want something to drink? Water or soda?” I was nervous, and I knew he could tell.

  “No, I’m okay. Sit, Quinn,” he directed and moved toward my small kitchenette table.

  I paused for only a moment before I followed his lead, taking the seat across from him, the wood table separating us like it once had all those months before.

  We stared at each other for a handful of heartbeats, neither one of us speaking. I felt those beats everywhere—in my chest, in my throat, pounding in my ears. Waiting for him to say something was almost unbearable. I tried to read his thoughts, the expression on his face, but I came up empty.

  When I thought I couldn’t take a single second more of the silence, he spoke, “I came straight here.” His eyes dipped toward the table before rising to meet mine and holding steady.

  “From rehab?” I asked stupidly. Where else would he have come from?

  “I just got released this afternoon,” he added, and my heart bounced back to life.

  My entire face softened as I stared into his eyes, which still hadn’t left mine. Ryson staring was a little unnerving; he was always so intense.

  “What’s the matter, Quinn?”

  “I thought you might have changed your mind,” I admitted. “About us. Or mostly, about me,” I said solemnly. “It says that you shouldn’t be with anyone for at least a year.” I pushed the stack of printed papers toward him. I had copies everywhere—a set in my car, here in the trailer, and in my bedroom at home. “I thought that maybe after you were sober, your feelings might change. Or maybe they hadn’t even been real in the first place.”

  That was my most debilitating fear once Ryson had left—the notion that maybe what he’d felt for me wasn’t real in the first place. That maybe everything he’d thought was real was simply a side effect of the drugs. It was the last thing I wanted, but once the idea had crossed my mind, it’d buried itself there and left me questioning everything.

  Admitting my fear out loud to him had almost taken the breath out of me.

  His face twisted with something I couldn’t recognize. He grabbed the sheets of paper I’d printed out and tossed them to the ground. I watched them scatter, landing in various parts of my trailer.

  “I know what the papers say. I know what they all say, Quinn. And I don’t care. I could never change my feelings when it comes to you. It was real then. It’s real now. You and I will always be real.”