You Will Remember Me by Hannah McKinnon (best sales books of all time txt) 📕

glanced at the pictures on the walls, and still—nothing.

“Where did you get your clothes and shoes?” I said, pointing to his enormous sneakers and baggy jeans.

“I, uh, stole them from the trailer.”

“Did the trailer belong to a clown?” I said with a smirk and Ash half smiled.

“I feel like a ruddy clown. The last clown out of the clown car.”

“Ash,” I whispered, trying not to gasp. “Your dad used to say that all the time.”

A confused expression slid over his face, as if he were digging deep into the back of his mind but coming up empty. Fiona was right, he had some kind of memory loss, and I decided once he’d gone to bed, I’d research the possible causes until dawn, and then convince him to see a doctor, too. My brain knew this was Ash, there wasn’t a single doubt. The way he moved, talked, and his appearance. The beauty spot on the side of his nose was confirmation enough on its own and yet, the way he looked at me, he may as well have been a stranger. I worked hard to contain my excitement about him being home again, knew if I came on too strong, he might feel claustrophobic and overwhelmed. I had to pace myself, or better still, follow his lead.

I took him to the kitchen, where I got us both some water. We sat at the table, where I watched him drink deeply, his fingers shaking as he set the glass down. When he turned to look at the pictures on the wall, I caught a glimpse of the side of his head.

“You’re hurt,” I said, leaning forward. “What happened?”

He moved back, out of reach. “I don’t know. It’s nothing. Just a cut.”

“Let me see.” I got up and gently pushed his hair to one side with my fingers, apologizing when he winced. “It looks nasty. We really need to get you to a doctor.” He shook his head. “Yes. It’s the weekend but...do you remember Dr. Golding?”

“I don’t remember anyone.”

“Crap. Of course.” I sat down again, making sure I gave him enough physical and mental space. “Well, anyway, he was our family doc but when he retired, Dr. Adler took over his practice. He—”

“I told you, I don’t want to see anyone.” Ash jumped up, his left hip hitting the table so hard, the glasses went flying, spinning across the wooden surface, leaving a trail of water in their wake. His expression made me think he was going to run out of the room and into the darkness of the night without looking back. I could see his frustration mounting, and it was my job to stay cool and be reassuring. I knew Ash, he had a temper sometimes.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” I said gently, trying to keep him calm, keep him here, and gestured for him to sit as I wiped the spills with a napkin. “We don’t have to decide now.”

He complied, sinking back into his seat. “I have decided. I’m not seeing a doctor. This is all too confusing. I don’t know who I am, or what’s happened. He’ll ask things I don’t know the answers to.”

“But maybe—”

“No. I can’t. Not yet. I need some time to...I don’t know, figure stuff out.” Ash was about to jump up again, I could see the signs: jaw clenched, heels pushed into the floor. I put my hand on his knee, his muscles tensing beneath my touch.

“All right,” I said. “No doctor. First, we’ll get you settled back here at home.”

“Home...” Shaking his head, he looked around. “Is my name really Asher Bennett?” When I nodded, he continued, “And I’m your stepbrother, and from England?”

“That’s right, from Portsmouth.”

“What do I do for a living?”

“You worked in construction. Carpentry, mainly. You have a knack for it.”

“And you?”

“Officially I waitress at a place called the Cliff’s Head. Unofficially I practically run the place. That’s what my boss, Patrick, says, anyway. I can’t wait to tell him you’re back.”

“Except I don’t remember him, or anyone. Not you, Brad or Rosalie. Or your mom. You said her name was...?”

“Ophelia.”

“Ophelia.” He shook his head again, closing his eyes. “It’s as if they never existed.”

“They did, I promise.”

“You said you had photos. I want to see them.”

I hesitated. I didn’t know what was wrong with him, had no idea what might or might not trigger a memory, and what could happen to him if it did. I wanted to protect him, make sure he was safe, but how could I do that if I didn’t know what was going on?

“Maya?” He put his hand on my arm. “I need you to show me.”

I got up and went to the old dresser that stood to the left of the fireplace in the living room, and slid open the top drawer. Ash had brought the piece of furniture home one day, a few months after he’d started working for the local carpenter to make a bit of cash while in high school. The pine dresser had been old and dusty, an unloved, dilapidated piece of furniture someone had put by the side of the road with a FREE sign stuck to it. Without hesitation Ash had hoisted it onto the back of Brad’s truck and brought it home. I’d laughed at the state of the chipped, sky blue paint and the broken handles, the split wood in each of the five full-length drawers.

“What are you going to do with this piece of trash?” I said when I got home from school and found Ash in the garage, sander in hand, his brow glistening with sweat.

“Fix it,” he said. “It has so much potential.”

I’d given a dismissive whatever wave, and when I opened the bottom drawer and found a dried-up mouse inside, threatened to set fire to his new project if he as much as put it on our porch. A month later I came home to find the dresser standing next to the fireplace. Ash had stained it dark brown,