“Fine.” I exhaled and started to unwrap my arm. “But I don’t need stitches.”

  “Whatever you say, Doc. Now what’s going on with Owen?”

  “Well, from what we’ve pieced together,” I said as I carefully peeled away the bandage, “he made a deal with a fae.”

  “Ooh, that sounds ominous.” She glanced up at me before peering at my arm. “What kind of deal? And what do you mean, from what the two of you have pieced together? Doesn’t he know?”

  “Yeah, that’s the problem. He—ow!”

  “Oh, don’t be a baby.” She prodded the edge of the wound because she was mean and not at all checking for signs of infection or an embedded piece of raróg claw. “Keep talking.”

  I grimaced, but I did keep talking, if through my teeth. “He doesn’t remember. And the receipt from the fae shop is for something that translates to ‘forget.’”

  She looked up at me again. “Did he… Did he pay a fae to erase his memory?”

  “That’s kind of what it’s sounding like.” I grimaced again, though not because of the stinging and throbbing in my arm this time. “And given that his memory goes completely blank starting the night before I told him I cheated, I think I can guess why.”

  Lia’s expression turned grim. “Oh. Shit. So he… Wow.”

  “Yeah.” I sighed. “So he came to me in a panic because he doesn’t remember anything from that day on. Including the fact that we broke up. Or why.”

  “Yikes.” She let go of my arm and reached for the antiseptic bottle. As she poured some on a cotton ball, either oblivious to or ignoring my expression of protest, she said, “That explains why he wasn’t trying to bludgeon you with a chair.”

  “Right? But the thing is, that means in his mind, we’re still… us. He doesn’t hate me.” My shoulders sagged. “He still fucking loves me. And I need—ow, Jesus!”

  Seriously, I hated that antiseptic. Hated. It. This particular variety was usually only used on rarógi themselves, because it didn’t seem to bother them, but we also put it on bites or scratches inflicted by the little fuckers. And it burned.

  “Don’t be a baby,” she said. “It’s not that bad.”

  “The fuck it’s not,” I hissed.

  “Mmhmm. So go on. Your ex doesn’t hate you…?”

  I swallowed against the sudden nausea, which might’ve been from the pain, the antiseptic’s caustic fumes, or the guilt. Probably all three.

  “He doesn’t hate me,” I acknowledged. “He doesn’t remember me cheating. He even asked me earlier if…” I winced at the memory. “He asked if our breakup was bad enough that we couldn’t go back. Like I swear, he wanted to suggest trying again.”

  “Whoa.” She glanced up at me with wide eyes. “He really doesn’t remember.”

  “No,” I whispered. “So I don’t know what to do.” While she continued cleaning up and redressing my wound, I gave her the rundown of what I’d been chewing on in the car, and the conclusion I’d eventually come to. “I need to tell him. I’m just… I’m not sure how.”

  Lia pursed her lips as she finished taping the edge of the bandage. Then she peeled off her gloves and took a bottle of hand sanitizer from the tote, and as she rubbed it on, she said, “Well, he’s going to be angry and hurt no matter what. I don’t think there’s any getting around that.”

  I nodded. “Can’t imagine there would be.”

  “Right. So I think the best thing—honestly, the only thing—you can do is to just sit him down and gently tell him the truth. Own up to what you did. Tell him you’ll understand if he wants to go no-contact again. But maybe also assure him that you’ll still help him through this, and that you won’t read anything into it if he takes you up on that.”

  I tilted my head. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, tell him you’ll help him because you care about him, but that you’re not under any illusion that this will put you back on his Christmas card list or make him want you back as a partner or even a friend.”

  “So, make sure he knows I don’t have ulterior motives.”

  “Exactly. And the longer you go without telling him the truth—or if he finds out on his own—the harder it’s going to be to sell that to him. So I wouldn’t wait.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, good point.” I was suddenly restless with the need to get back to Owen’s condo. “He wants me to come back today anyway. He’s…” I waved my uninjured hand. “Stressed about everything. I don’t want to pile on that, but…”

  “But you’re better off telling him now than having him find out later.”

  Nodding, I said, “Good point. I should get going, then.” I held up my freshly bandaged arm. “And thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it. Keep an eye on it, too—it isn’t getting infected by the looks of it, but you know how quick it can change.”

  “I do. And I will. Thanks again.”

  With that, I hurried out of my office and out to my car.

  I was sick with nerves and guilt, but filled with determination. Come what may, I had to tell Owen the truth. If he wanted nothing to do with me after this, fine. But he deserved to know, and he deserved to know now.

  So I texted Owen that I was on my way, pulled out of the parking lot, and drove like hell toward the condo.

  Chapter 5

  Owen

  I felt like an absolute tool, begging Matteo to come back. We weren’t together anymore. He was my ex. He’d already bailed on work today and tomorrow to help me out. Did he really need to put up with my clingy, panicked ass?

  But I didn’t know what else to do. He’d been gone all of ten minutes before I’d started to come unraveled, and though I’d tried to talk myself out of it, I’d eventually broken down and texted him.

  He’d read my message. A couple of minutes later, he still hadn’t responded.

  I told myself he wasn’t at my beck and call, and even when we were still together, sometimes it took either of us a little while to respond. Plus he was probably driving. Matteo was scrupulous about not texting while driving, though he would read messages at stoplights. So that was probably what he’d done this time, and once he’d actually stopped and killed the engine, he’d respond. How long that would be, I had no idea. I didn’t know where he lived these days, and for all I knew, he was heading off to God knew where to get laid or something.

  I was such a mess. Jesus.

  I’d been about to scroll through my contacts and reach out to someone else when Matteo had replied.

  Matteo: Lia wants to another look at my arm. She’s worried it’ll get infected. So I’m going to run by the clinic, then I’ll be on my way over.

  I’d chuckled to myself.

  Owen: She doesn’t think you can recognize the signs of an infection?

  Matteo: LOL She trusts me to hide anything that might warrant a needle.

  Owen: That sounds like you.

  He’d responded with an eyeroll emoji. At that, my humor had dimmed a little; he’d usually send me a middle finger emoji or eat a dick, either of which would have me cackling.

  But that wasn’t who we were anymore, was it? Somehow, in that missing year of my life, we’d stopped being who I swore we’d been just yesterday.

  That niggled at me even more than some of the other missing pieces in my mind. It was like the truth was right there at the edge of my thoughts, staying just out of reach like an answer on an exam that I knew but had tucked away too far. It was frustrating, that certainty that it was there but I couldn’t get to it.

  I needed to know, damn it. I needed to know something—anything—about the last year, whether it shed light on me and Matteo or just filled in some of the gap between yesterday and today.

  Scrolling through social media had been too overwhelming earlier, but it occurred to me that I’d started with my most recent posts. What if I skipped back to the time right before my memory went out? Maybe that would jostle something loose in my mind. If nothing else, it would catch me up on my own life, not to mention the world around me, starting in a familiar place and moving forward. Worth a try.

  I settled on the couch and pulled up one of my social media apps. With a few taps, I’d gone back in time, and I found the last thing I remembered posting, which was a selfie of Matteo and me in my car outside the airport.

  BF acquired. Welcome home, baby!

  The photo made my chest hurt. We looked so happy right then. Matteo was obviously tired from traveling, but he was smiling, cheek pressed against mine as we’d leaned in between the driver and passenger seats of my car.

  Where the hell had we gone wrong after that? What in the world could’ve happened?

  I scrolled a little farther down, to the very next day, and—

  My heart dropped through the floor.

  ARE YOU KIDDING ME? 6 years together, and he fucking CHEATS ON ME?

  I stared at the screen, not even breathing for long, painful seconds.

  Matteo… cheated on me?

  Numbly, I scrolled the comments, where dozens of friends, relatives, and online acquaintances had posted messages of support and Fuck that asshole! and You deserve better, honey! My brother had threatened to come to town and kick Matteo’s ass. Two of my coworkers had invited me out to get me drunk until I forgot all about Matteo and found some fresh dick.

  Deep in the thread, my sister asked when it happened and how I found out. Though I had no memory of reading her comment or replying, I swore I could feel how hollowed out and devastated I must’ve been as I’d written, He told me. Hooked up at his conference. I can’t believe this. I’m such a mess.

  I could feel it in my own words, and I could sure imagine how I’d have felt right then, but I couldn’t remember feeling it. It was beyond unsettling how none of this actually unlocked my missing memories. I was reading my own words, watching my own emotions play out, and while it angered me and it hurt like hell, it wasn’t familiar. It was legitimately like I was finding all this out for the very first time. There was no, “Oh, right, I forgot about that,” or “Man, that pissed me off so bad back then!”

  No, it was all completely new. As new as my unfamiliar bedroom and Matteo’s absence had been this morning.

  Matteo’s absence.

  The fact that we weren’t together anymore.

  The fact that he’d fucking cheated on me.

  I lowered my phone and sat back against the cushion, staring numbly at the wall.

  “Did we break up?” I’d asked in his office just a few hours ago.

  He’d stared at me, a mix of emotions on his face that didn’t fully make sense even now.

  “We did, didn’t we?” I’d said. “Shit. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come here, and—”

  “Owen.” He’d touched my arm. “Stay. I’ll… I want to help you figure this out.”

  I’d stared at him, trying to make sense of… of… fuck, anything. Finally, I’d managed, “What happened to us?”

  The silence that had hung between us had left me off-balance. He’d watched me for a long time, chewing the inside of his cheek as he apparently tried to figure out what to say. What eventually came out was, “We realized we weren’t right for each other. A few months ago.”

  Here in my condo, rage boiled up in me so suddenly and fiercely that I almost threw my phone across the room as I shouted, “You motherfucker!”

  That liar! That cheating asshole who could look me right in the eye and grab on to the chance to pretend that, no, he’d never cheated. We just hadn’t worked out. Things were amicable. We were good.

  That he hadn’t ruined the best relationship I’d ever had.

  Six years. Six. Goddamned. Years.

  And he’d quite literally fucked it away.

  I put my phone down, leaned my elbows on my knees, and pushed my hands into my hair. I wanted to throw up. I wanted to cry. I wanted to remember everything so I didn’t have to think any more about what might’ve been, and I wanted to forget everything so I didn’t even know it existed anymore.

  How could he do this? Had he explained it back then? Or just dropped the bomb and walked away to let me live with the aftermath?

  I wanted to believe he wouldn’t do that. But I’d believed for six years that he wouldn’t cheat, and here we fucking were.

  I slid my hands from my hair to the back of my neck, squeezing my eyes shut as I tried to fit all this into my brain.

  It was no exaggeration to call this morning traumatic. Waking up in a world that was all wrong with a missing year of my life—yeah, that fucked me up. It was terrifying and disorienting, especially when I still didn’t know if it was reversible.

  But this? If waking up this morning had been the rug getting yanked out from under me, this was the floor collapsing.

  How, Matteo? Why?

  And of course, right then, my phone vibrated.

  Matteo: Arm is fine. Heading your way. See you in 20.

  It was so, so tempting to respond that he could go fuck himself. I didn’t want to see him. Not now. Not ever. Especially not after he’d lied to me and pretended he hadn’t done what I now knew he had. We hadn’t “broken up.” We hadn’t “figured out we weren’t right for each other.” He’d stuck his dick where it didn’t belong and ruined everything. Like hell did I want to see that asshole, never mind let him into my condo.

  But no. No, I wasn’t letting him off the hook that easily. We were doing this face to goddamned face.

  So I sent back a thumbs-up emoji.

  And then I waited.

  Chapter 6

  Matteo

  All the way to the condo, I was a nervous wreck. I barely even noticed the relentless burning and throbbing in my arm over the whirring in my head.

  Lia was right. I was right. This was what I needed to do, and then I’d have to let the chips fall where they would. If Owen booted me out and never wanted to see me again—again—then so be it. He deserved the truth, and I deserved whatever came next.

  I wasn’t sure I’d get through this without throwing up, breaking down, or both, but I’d deal with that when I got there.

  By the time I reached his condo, I was nauseated and shaky, but determined. I went inside, got in the elevator, and I pushed my shoulders back and took some deep breaths as I watched the floor numbers tick upward. Owen deserved the truth, I reminded myself again and again. He deserved to know what I’d done so he could decide if he really wanted my help with this or if he wanted me to get the fuck out of his life again.

  I didn’t even know which response I was hoping for. I loved him, and I wanted to be in his life, but every time I looked at him, the guilt was unbearable. Even in the extraordinarily unlikely event that he fell all over himself to forgive me and begged me to come back, I wasn’t so sure I could. It didn’t matter how much he forgave me if I couldn’t forgive myself, and the probability of that happening fell somewhere in the ballpark of a snowball’s chance in hell.

  The elevator stopped. The doors opened. I concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other as I headed down the hall, and at his condo, I steeled myself again.

  I could do this. I would do this. Owen deserved my honesty, even if it was going to hurt. Again.

  I raised my hand to knock, but the door swung inward, and Owen was suddenly right in my face.

  “You cheated on me?” he snarled. “Seriously?”

  I took a startled step back, staring at him in shock and horror. “I—”

  “When were you going to tell me? Huh? When?” His anger died a little, and his voice cracked as he added a shaking, “What did I do to deserve that?” As his rage abated, I realized his eyes were red and his blotchy cheeks were streaked with tears.

  My stomach roiled and my chest ached. The only words I could croak out were, “I’m sorry, Owen.”

  “Fuck your sorry,” he snapped. “Tell me why. And tell me how long you were going to let me pretend we ‘just didn’t work out.’”

  I couldn’t hold his gaze, and I dropped mine as my shoulders sank. The words “I was on my way here to tell you” died on my tongue, because why should he believe me? Wasn’t that every liar’s excuse? I was just about to tell you the thing you just found out?

  Owen’s tone shifted from hurt to disgusted. “God, you’re unbelievable. What the fuck is wrong with you?” Before I could respond, he stepped back and put a hand on the door, probably ready to throw it closed in my face.

  And that was when a thought occurred to me.

  “Wait!” I put up my own hand… just in time to catch the slamming door, but a second too late to remember why that arm was bandaged.

  The door hit my hand and forearm, smacking right square on the bandage, and the pain sent me back a step. Clutching my arm, I doubled over, stars sparkling in my vision as fire seared its way along the freshly cleaned wound. “Fuck!”

  Owen was immediately at my side, a hand between my shoulders. “Are you okay? I’m sorry—I didn’t mean… Shit. Are you okay?”

  “I’m good,” I croaked, trying really, really hard not to throw up on both of our feet. The pain sucked, but so did the renewed guilt. This man had just found out I’d cheated on him, and he was comforting me after he justifiably slammed the door in my face.

  I can’t believe I threw away what I had with you.

  Slowly, the pain receded, and I managed to catch my breath. As I straightened up, I didn’t waste any time because I knew Owen’s good will wouldn’t last long. Still trying not to puke, I gritted out, “I was coming here to tell you. And I can prove that.”

  His expression was closed off, his jaw tight and his eyes narrow, but he wasn’t slamming the door in my face again. “How can you prove it?”

  Without a word, I took out my phone. I pulled up Lia’s contact and called her on speakerphone. It rang a couple of times, and then she answered, sounding like she was flustered and walking fast.

  “Hey, I’m running between patients. What’s up?”