Chapter 2

The accident hadn't caused any serious brain damage.

The doctor said it seemed more like retrograde amnesia brought on by the trauma.

The last five years of my life weren't completely gone.

I remembered how to do my job and the people I'd met. I even remembered the locations of several restaurants I used to go to in Seattle.

But everything tied to Julian—the feelings, the dates, the fights—was hidden behind a layer of fog.

If someone told me something had happened, I could understand it.

But none of it felt like my life.

Sophie brought a thick scrapbook over from my place.

It wasn't 999 love letters.

It was a record of my life that I'd put together myself over those five years.

It was stuffed with plane tickets, restaurant receipts, charity invitations, and hotel key card sleeves. There were also a lot of notes I'd written to myself after Julian turned me down.

[Rejection number 17. He said not to wait for him.]

[Number 23. He finally remembered I don't like my lattes sweet.]

[He didn't show up for my birthday this year. That's okay. Work comes first.]

[Moved to Seattle. Only 20 minutes from his office.]

I turned the pages one by one.

My chest felt tight.

My body obviously remembered something.

But reading those words felt like reading about some other woman.

"Why was I so obsessed back then?"

Sophie's eyes were red. "Because back then, you thought he was worth it."

"Doesn't look like he was."

She had no answer to that.

My phone rang.

It was Julian.

Sophie looked at me nervously.

I answered.

His voice was cool. He seemed to take me completely for granted. "You're awake?"

"Yeah."

"The wedding planners are waiting for you to approve the place cards. Stop by this afternoon after you're discharged."

I frowned.

"I was just in a car accident."

There was a pause on the other end.

"The doctor said there's nothing seriously wrong with you.

"Nora, don't use amnesia as an excuse."

I'd never heard anyone talk about amnesia as if it were no more serious than being late on purpose.

"That's not what the doctor said.

"He said I need to be monitored."

Julian obviously didn't like being corrected.

"Is Sophie with you?"

"Yes."

"Tell her to stop going along with this nonsense."

I hung up on him.

Sophie's jaw dropped.

"You've never hung up on my uncle before."

"Then the old me must have had the patience of a saint."

That night, my mother, Margaret Whitmore, video-called me from Boston.

She knew about the accident and my memory loss.

When I answered, she didn't say a single word about the wedding.

All she said was, "Come home."

I didn't answer.

Five years ago, my parents had wanted me back in Boston to work on the family's hotel redevelopment project.

I'd said no.

According to Sophie, that was the same year I moved to Seattle to chase Julian.

"The museum-hotel project in the Old Harbor District is back on," my mother said.

"If you want it, you can come home and lead the spatial and exhibition design.

"Not because you got your heart broken, but because you've always been qualified."

"When?" I asked.

"The sooner the better."

I looked at the thick scrapbook beside my bed, a record of those five years.

"Then I'm coming home."