Here

  “But—” I motioned back toward the creek. “Don’t we need to look—”

  “There’s nothing there,” he said forcefully. “Let’s…go back.”

  We did, and when was got to my house he sank down on the stairs that led to the kitchen.

  “Will you please tell me what you remembered?” I was trying not to sound demanding, but he wasn’t acting like it was nothing.

  He shook his head. “I need to go.”

  "Go?"

  "Leave here."

  “Why? And where would you go?"

  He looked at me, his face twisted in an expression that I recognized. One that said: I’m not okay. “That’s not your problem, is it?”

  I swallowed, feeling stung, and he rubbed his eyes. “Sorry,” he sighed. “You haven’t done anything.”

  “But I could. I could help.”

  “I’m not sure if I can be helped.” He seemed to stare through me, and I was caught in the dark depth of his eyes. Thin gray clouds moved over us. On the mountainside, the turbines hung like broken pinwheels. I felt an echo of the topsy-turvy, inside-out sensation from the day before, when I’d first seen him.

  “Something weird is going on, isn’t it?”

  He laughed, a wry, dry sound. “I think maybe.”

  Now it was my turn to sigh. “I want to help you figure this out.”

  "You don't have to."

  “So?”

  I could feel him considering as he looked into my eyes. “We need to go to a supermarket," he finally said.

  “…To check the missing person’s posters.”

  He nodded.

  “Okay. Yeah.” I waved him toward our cars, parked beside the guesthouse. I was trying to accept things as they were, trying my hardest to Just Calm Down and not go all control-freak on him, when Nick’s hand closed around my wrist. He pulled me closer.

  “Milo,” he said, sending shivers up my spine again. “…Thanks.” His eyes moved from my face down to my jeans, as if he was just remembering what had happened. “I’m really sorry about your leg.”

  His voice was warm, and I was feeling all hot again. I ignored that. Focus on the facts. I swung my arm a little, forcing him to let go. “How did a whistle do that?” I asked reasonably. “It makes no sense. How could it—”

  “I don’t know.”

  I opened my mouth to press, but Nick had already swept past me.

  *

  I knew I was being evasive, but I wasn’t hiding from just her. Whatever part of me knew whatever there was to know was keeping it from me as well. I could feel things going on behind the scenes—like knees and elbows poking through a stage sheet as the company changed a set. Whatever had happened at the rock—

  I'd felt like someone else. Something else, because I wasn't anyone. Somewhere else, but not any place I could understand.

  And whoever or whatever I had been, I knew Milo. Not only did I know her… I had some kind of weird... thing for her.

  Even now, standing in the grass by her house, I could feel the power of the memory. And I could almost remember something else. A cold purpose, lurking somewhere behind it.

  *

  I stared at Nick, who finally stopped when he realized I wasn’t following.

  He didn’t look at me, though. He angled himself so he could look at me, but instead he turned his head, burning a hole in the light blue Volvo wagon waiting for us beside the guesthouse.

  “That’s my mom’s old diesel,” I told him finally; I’d decided to hold my questions. “We take it into Denver. Saves on gas and everything.”

  He just nodded, and suddenly I was nervous. “So you want a ride?”

  “Yes, please.”

  I followed him to the Volvo, opened the driver’s side, then pressed the unlock button.

  Nothing happened.

  “Hmm.”

  I dropped down into the seat and stuck my key in the ignition. Turned it. Nothing…

  “Why am I not surprised?” I muttered. Mom’s car was originally from 1976; my dad had bought it and rebuilt it specifically to save on gas. Now that he was gone, Mom was having trouble keeping up the maintenance.

  I got out of the car and held my arm out. “Dead.”

  Nick nodded beyond the car’s hood, and with a small shock, I noticed my dad’s old MV Agusta. I’d never been a fan of motorcycles, but when dad died, he’d had four, and this one was the last listed for sale. The only reason it wasn’t in the small garage behind the guesthouse was because someone had looked at it a few days before. My mom hadn’t liked the man, so she hadn’t called him back; her procrastination had led to my dad’s favorite bike being left out in the rain. It had a cover, of course, that was insufficient for a bike as nice as this one.

  “That’s my dad’s,” I said, stepping closer to it.

  He crouched beside it, lifting the cover with a finger and peeking underneath. “An MV Augusta.”

  I arched my brows. “Are you a motorcycle fan?”

  “I think I am.” He reached for the tie, then glanced my way. "Do you mind?"

  I didn't know. The last person I'd seen that reverent around the bike had been my Dad. But I shook my head.

  Nick removed the cover, and whistled when he saw the bike. To me, it looked like a child’s toy, so sleek and smooth, all molded plastic.

  “I don’t have a key,” I told him, wishing that I did. “There’s only one, and it’s on my mom’s keychain.”

  Nick didn't answer. His head was bent, and he was running his hands over the motor.

  Unsure what to say or do, I looked down at my keychain and realized I’d been wrong. The Agusta key hung right by my plastic panda. Mom must have noticed the dead Volvo this morning and left it for me.

  “Actually I do have it.”

  Nick turned to me. I hesitated, then handed it to him.

  "May I?"

  “Sure.”

  He pulled the bike out and threw one leg over it. He slid the key into the ignition, cranked it, and got the same as the Volvo.

  “Dead,” he said.

  “That’s so weird.” It had been cranked two days ago.

  I squeezed my eyes shut. Not having a car that worked was extra crappy in the middle of nowhere. I couldn't walk anywhere, or catch a bus.

  I remembered Annabelle Monroe’s party and felt even worse. I had completely forgotten about it since shooting Nick, but if I didn't show, Halah would freak. Since high school started, and Halah started “blossoming," she’d had this thing about parties. If she went, she wanted me to go. And if I went, I wanted S.K. to go. In the end, we all ended up going— even Bree.

  I opened my mouth to express my concern when the motor revved to life. I startled, and Nick looked up guiltily.

  "It uh, it works," he said.

  "Wait, did you fix it?"

  He revved the motor, and I covered my ears.

  “Holy crap,” I said into the roar. “How’d you do that?”

  Nick just grinned. “Want me to take a look at your Volvo?”

  He had it fixed in half a minute, without seeming to do anything. And I mean really. My dad had taught me enough about cars to know that what Nick had done—tighten a few hoses, check a few levels—was nothing.

  “What exactly did you do?” I asked as I leaned against the driver’s side door. I stared down at Nick, who was running his hand over the wheel.

  “I don’t know.”

  Showing super-human patience, I decided not to ask. Again. And really, I didn’t want to.

  10

  I steered the bike down narrow Mitchell Road, under the shadow of the jagged Front Range. With the puffy charcoal clouds floating low over the road, the fresh air in my nose, and Nick’s arms around my waist, I felt like I was in another world. One where impossible things happened, and where my life wasn’t standing still.

  The only remnant of the violent storm the night before was a strong breeze; it stung my neck between my jacket collar and the face shield on my helmet, and it made me
reflexively think: yeah wind energy! But the turbines still weren’t working. I hadn’t seen Mom long enough to find out why, but I knew from my Kindle’s weather app that the storm had wrecked havoc all over our side of Denver. It had a special name, some kind of rare macroburst event. They said that it had started somewhere outside of Golden, and the dramatic part of me couldn’t help but link the event to Nick’s mysterious appearance.

  I leaned into a curve, and Nick’s grip on my waist tightened. I felt him shift, felt his mouth near my ear. Our helmets bumped; he said something I couldn't make out.

  “WHAT?!” I turned around, my hair whipping the shield over Nick’s eyes. He scooted closer to me; I could feel his breath, hot against my neck.

  “CAN I DRIVE?”

  I nodded, wondering if there was something wrong with my driving. It had been a while since I’d steered a motorcycle, but I thought I was okay at it. I should have been, anyway, after the years I’d spent riding on our land.

  I pulled over at a lookout point and turned the bike off. Out in front of us, the Denver landscape looked like a toy city. I'd decided to go here instead of Golden for two reasons: one, I figured Denver would have more up-to-date missing persons posters; two, I didn't want to run into anyone I knew.

  I turned to face Nick, and he smiled ruefully. “If you don’t want me to, it’s cool. I just… The idea feels right.”

  “It's okay.” I hopped off, Nick scooted forward, and I swung on behind him, wondering if I was a total idiot for trusting him. Scratch that. I was definitely a total idiot.

  No reasonable person would let a freaking amnesiac drive their dad's classic bike 15 miles over winding highways. And any reasonable person would have called the police—ESPECIALLY if said amnesiac didn't want them to.

  For a brief second, I wondered what would happen if—when—Nick got his memory back. What would happen when his family heard he’d been with me when he should have been getting legit assistance. The weird girl who thought it was okay to pal around with a guy with brain damage.

  I wrapped my arms around his hard waist, thinking what if he was wrong about the bike? What if he couldn’t drive and we wrecked?

  What if…

  And then he pulled onto the road, and I stopped thinking anything.

  Nick at the helm was incredible. Insane. He drove like a falcon must fly, nothing but elegance and ease, pure weightlessness. As I held onto him, my chest against his back, my helmet on his shoulder, the world around me smeared and blurred. I knew that we were going fast—faster than fast; we were flying—but somehow I also knew we wouldn’t crash. I could feel the energy pounding through Nick, feel the tensing of his muscles, the gentle-firm way his body shifted the weight of the bike.

  Amazing.

  An unidentifiable amount of time later, Nick pulled into a gas station, up to a pump, and cut the bike off. I pulled my arms into my lap and found my hands shaking.

  Nick slid his helmet off, wide-eyed.

  “Holy crap!” I gave a little hoot. “I think you’re a stunt double or something! Did you remember that? Do you race motorcycles?”

  Nick just grinned. The joy in his expression fled quickly, leaving behind a serious, bothered look.

  “You don’t really have a clue, do you?”

  His lips pinched. “No.”

  “Tell me what you remembered at the rock. Nick, please.”

  He shook his head. “It wouldn’t matter.”

  Nick was turned around, looking at me. I leaned back on my arms, propped against the leather seat behind me.

  “I shouldn’t be…scared? Because this,” I gestured to the hole in my pants leg, where my burned skin—pinkish red—still hurt. “This kind of worries me.”

  He pulled the whistle out of his shirt pocket, then turned a little further my way. I noticed the black spot in the flannel. “It burned you, too?”

  He nodded. “While I was driving.”

  “Let me see.”

  He unbuttoned his shirt, folding it open. There was a welt on his chest, very near his…well, his guy nipple. It was larger than the mark on me: about the size of a half-dollar and bleached pearly white. “That looks horrible.” I waved toward the building. “We need to get you something.”

  Nick shook his head, and I huffed. He would be a difficult patient. “Let me see it.”

  He handed me the whistle, and I turned it over, inspecting its smooth, red surface for clues. “It seems completely ordinary.”

  “It’s alloy 1090.”

  “Huh?”

  Nick held his hand out, and I dropped the whistle in his palm. “It’s made of an alloy,” he said. “The strongest kind.”

  “How do you know?”

  Nick shook his head. His lips made a straight, hard line. Staring at his handsome face, I felt it again—the weirdness. It was giddiness, mixed with a liberal dash of stomach-flipping nervousness. And that feeling you get when you lose your train of thought. Like there’s something missing.

  I scrambled off the bike, eager to put some distance between us. Hands on my hips, I nodded at the gas station, which had a Subway attached.

  “I’m going in to get us something to eat. What do you want?”

  He shrugged, a quick jerk; his face looked almost angry. Just when I felt my belly clench, he shook his head. “I’m sorry, Milo. I shouldn’t have asked you to come with me.”

  “It’s okay.” I patted my pocket, where my debit card was hiding. “Look—you okay with meatballs?”

  “I think so.”

  As I waited in line and ordered, I thought about the missing person boards. It had been about a day since I’d shot Nick. Had he only been missing since then, or longer? Was he an ordinary teenager that, like, wandered away from a formal dinner? Or did all the things about him that screamed “WEIRD” (of which his fricking missing memory was the least) really mean weird?

  Frustrated, I pushed my tangled hair out of my eyes and told the sandwich artist what I wanted.

  I returned to Nick with two meatball subs, two Dr. Peppers, and three chocolate chip cookies. I handed him his and sat down on a little bench beside the bike. I looked out at the mountains while I ate mine.

  As I chewed and swallowed, I could feel his eyes on me. It gave me a stomach-twisting feeling. I let my gaze flicker up to his mouth, those dark eyes, all that messy copper-colored hair.

  From his spot crouched beside the bench, he was studying my face, too. Finally, he said, “I remembered you.”

  I choked on a meatball. “What?”

  Nick lowered his hands; in one fist, he squeezed his balled up sandwich wrapper. “I remembered you,” he said. “Back at that rock. I think I…I don't know. I remembered you.”

  Stunned as I was by his admission, my brain was in logic mode. “But how could you? I would know that, wouldn’t I?”

  He shrugged, and I watched his eyes fall to his borrowed boots. Finally, he looked back up. “You don’t remember me at all?”

  “No,” I said, emphatically. “And I think I would.”

  “Why is that?” His tone was melted honey.

  I smiled, suddenly shy. “Why wouldn’t I?

  He gave another little shrug and stood to lean against the bike, and I felt a burst of sympathy. Nick was alone. I was the only person he remembered, and I had no memory of him. What did that feel like?

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Sorry I’ve been kind of pushy and…well, pushy. This whole thing might be my fault, and if it is, I’m…just really sorry.”

  Nick sat straighter. His eyes, on mine, looked almost black. “What if my memory is…not so good?”

  "What do mean?"

  "What if the things I've forgotten are bad?"

  Despite myself, my stomach clenched. “Do you feel like that?”

  He brought his hand to the bridge of his nose, then dropped it. “That’s the problem,” he said. “I don’t feel like anything. I just know that I remember you…somehow.”

  “How?” I pressed. “What was t
he context?”

  “It wasn’t threatening or anything, if that’s what you mean. At least, I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t think so?”

  “No, I mean. It wasn’t—I would never hurt you, Milo.”

  “Good to know,” I murmured.

  “Would you… you know?” Nick squeezed the ball of sandwich paper. “Would you…turn me in or anything?”