He chuckles lightly, but his eyes hold some sadness within them. I want him to tell me all about it. I want him to tell me what makes him happy, what makes him sad, but there's just too much and I'm starting to feel a little overwhelmed by it all.
So instead of pressing, I let him go at his own pace. He takes a sip of his coffee and leans back in the booth, a faraway look on his face. I can see that he's reliving some old story. One I hope he shares with me.
“We snuck out one night while we were here. You drove your dad's SUV and brought me here for a late-night snack. I remember you said you ate here growing up, with your parents, and wanted to share it with me,” he says. “It was the sweetest damn thing, Syd. I remember how nice it felt to be brought into your world; made to feel a part of it.”
His eyes glaze over as if he's traveling back to that time. Then he looks at me, a small smile touching the corners of his mouth and continues, reaching out to touch my hair.
“You used to keep your hair long back then. It was all the way down to your waist, and you'd twirl your hair as we talked,” he says. “And we spent hours at this table, talking about everything from our dreams to school to our parents. We shared so much of ourselves with each other here at this very table.”
Hearing him talk about me, about memories I can't recall, makes me blush. More than that, it makes me feel a little sad. It's like a really big piece of my life – a good piece – has been ripped out of my heart and I don't know if I'll ever get that piece back.
“That sounds like a really nice memory,” I say softly.
“It is. It's one of my favorites,” he says. “Which is why I've kept coming here all these years.”
“Only you?” I ask. “Don't I come too?”
He pauses and puts his coffee cup down, the smile fading from his face. He clears his throat and starts to say something when Daisy sets a plate of fresh, piping hot chocolate chip pancakes down in front of me, and a plate with chicken fried steak, hash browns, and eggs in front of Jack. We didn't even have to order.
“Enjoy,” she says with a wink. “Made especially for you, Sydney, w with love.”
The pancakes are light and fluffy, still warm from the griddle. There's a generous swirl of chocolate sauce on top too. It's almost too sweet to qualify for a breakfast, but I'm not about to complain. I pick up my fork and dig right in, taking a huge bite and closing my eyes, trying to unlock the door in my head. The taste is familiar and delicious, and I savor it. It's amazing, but no memories come back to me. Nothing other than the fact that I've had these before, and I have a strong feeling that it wasn't all that long ago either.
Which makes sense if Jack comes here often.
“We have a lot to talk about, Sydney,” he says, not even touching his food yet. “A lot to clear up.”
The door to the cafe opens with a jingle and Jack's eyes dart toward the entrance, taking in the newcomer. His entire body tenses for a second and a tension suddenly fills the air, so I turn around to see what he's looking at. A guy walks into the cafe wearing a thick jacket and a hat that covers most of his face. He looks toward us but passes our table without a word.
“Do you know him?” I ask Jack.
Jack relaxes. “I thought I might,” he mutters. “I guess I'm just being paranoid.”
My eyes narrow as I look at him. “Paranoid about what?”
He opens his mouth to speak, but then he closes it again, his words dying in his throat. He clasps and unclasps his hands, tension radiating from every pore in his body.
“Like I said, we have a lot to talk about,” he says. “But for now, let's enjoy our food and we'll talk as soon as we get home.”
I want to press him, to keep him talking. I'm hoping the more he talks, the closer I'll come to unlocking those doors in my mind. I have a feeling there's a lot more to all of this than he's telling me, and it's driving me crazy not being able to remember.
“Did you think that man could be the person who hurt me?” I ask after a few minutes of him not saying anything.
“Maybe,” he says. “I couldn't really see his face.”
“So, you know who did this to me?”
He nods.
“And did you tell the police?”
“I told them all I knew, which isn't much,” I say.
“Do you remember a name? Anything?”
His eyes dart over to Daisy who's listening in. They share a look – a look that leaves me feeling a little unsettled.
“No, I don't,” Jack says at last. “Now eat your pancakes before they get cold.”
Why did I get the idea I wasn't going to like what he had to say?
ooo000ooo
“We live here?” I ask as we pull up to the cabin in the mountains. “I mean, not that I'm complaining. I mean, wow.”
I stare through the window at a house that’s part cabin in the woods, part mansion. It's way larger than the cabins and homes we'd passed to get here and is located off a secluded mountain road in Redstone. It's gorgeous, but as with everything else, nothing about it feels familiar to me.
“Yep,” Jack says, parking the truck. “There's someone who's going to be very excited to see you.”
I panic as a sudden thought occurs to me – something I hadn't even considered before.
“D - do we have kids?”
My heart races at the mere thought of it. I want kids. Very much so, actually. Someday. I love children. But, the idea of having kids I can't even remember? My palms begin to sweat and my pulse races as a feeling of cold dread settles down over me, wrapping my heart tight in its icy tendrils.
“No, silly,” Jack laughs. “I have a dog.”
“You have a dog?” I say. “Not, we have a dog?”
He doesn't respond to my question. Sure, it's nitpicky, but the way he talks about things – I instead of we – makes me uncertain about our relationship. It raises a lot of questions that I don't even know how to begin finding the answers to. I can't put my finger on it, but something just feels – off.
Jack helps me down from the truck, but unlike at the diner, there's no panic attack this time. Just plain old nervousness about falling on the ice. Jack takes care of that, though. He holds my hand and walks me, carefully, to the front door. We walk up a few steps to a large, wraparound porch, that as far as I can tell, circles the entire house. I hear footsteps sound on the other side of the door, which is quickly followed by the sound of whining. As Jack unlocks the door, the whining turns to barking and I'm hesitant to enter at first.
I stand in the doorway and stare at the chocolate lab, who's stopped barking and started slobbering all over Jack with affection. The two of them seem to be lost in their own little world of drool and kisses until the dog turns his big, brown eyes toward me. He catches sight of me, and rushes over, leaning against my legs and wiggling as if he can't contain his excitement, nearly knocking me over in the process.
“Easy boy,” Jack says, taking hold of his collar. “Sorry about that. He doesn't know his own size sometimes.”
A dog. I can't recall ever having a dog. Not that I don't like dogs, I do. I like all animals. I would have suspected myself of being more a cat person though. Easier to care for. Less responsibility. They're independent and low maintenance. You just make sure they're fed, have water, clean litter, and you're good to go.
I rack my brain and don't even remember having a dog growing up. Just a cat. A black cat. When I recall the cat, images rush back to me, filling my mind. I see a black cat and it feels like it was only a few days ago that he was in my life. Maybe he is.
“Do we have a cat?” I ask Jack.
“No, I don't,” he says. “Just Gunner here.”
Again, with the “I” thing.
“Do I have a cat?”