Six Months Later by Natalie D. Richards Page B

do something.
    Adam scoffs at my silence and backs up. I snatch his sleeve, pulling on him.
    “Adam—”
    “Let go, Chloe.”
    He’s shaking me off and moving back, and I feel a little frantic as his sleeve slips out of my grasp. I need him to stay here with me because I feel right with him. And I remember things with him. And I need to know why. But I don’t say any of those things as he steps back into his house.
    It’s like my tongue is paralyzed.
    “Go home,” he says, and the door shuts in my face.
    “I can’t remember anything!” I shout.
    My breath steams in the darkness as I wait one heartbeat. Then another. And then Adam opens the door.
    I feel my shoulders sag with relief. He might as well have taken a thousand pounds off me. Whoever is inside his apartment coughs again, breaking the spell, reminding me that I’m still outside. Unwelcome.
    Adam closes the door behind himself when he comes out again, his dark gray sweatshirt unzipped over an old T-shirt. He hasn’t shaved. It lends a cold edge to his features, but he still looks like a slice of heaven to me—safe and warm and true.
    “What are you talking about?” he asks.
    I hesitate because I know I can’t come back from this. I can’t unsay these words once they’re out.
    “Chloe,” he says, pressing me to go on.
    “I can’t remember,” I say. “I can’t remember anything since May. And I know it sounds crazy, and it is crazy, but I’m not insane. Something happened to me. I fell asleep in study hall. I drifted off for a second, and then it was winter and my entire universe was different.”
    My words are tumbling out so fast, I can barely catch my breath. “Now, I’m this perfect person with these perfect grades and Blake and—and then you and me and I don’t know what any of it means and how any of it happened or how I lost Maggie—”
    “Slow down,” he says, cutting me off midsentence.
    “I can’t slow down, Adam! I’m six freaking months behind, okay? I can’t remember anything that happened to me! That night in the school? When you said I called you? I don’t remember calling you. I don’t ever remember speaking with you until that moment.”
    “You don’t remember calling me,” he says, brow furrowed. “That night at the school—you don’t remember that?”
    “I’m trying to tell you I don’t remember anything! I have pictures that I don’t even understand, and before you even ask me, yes, I’ve been to a doctor and my brain is just fine. Which means that the doctors and my family think I’m totally unhinged, and they don’t even know how—”
    “Hell, Chloe,” he says, voice gruff.
    His arms lock around me, and he hauls me into an embrace, burying my face in his T-shirt. I promptly burst into tears, my arms going around him like they were grown on my body for this purpose. I feel the press of his strong hands on my shoulder blades as he whispers soft, hushing noises into my hair. I inhale a shuddery breath, taking in his warmth and feeling right for the first time since I can remember.
    And just like that, I know .
    This is how it should be with Blake. Tingly and warm and bigger than any words I can think of.
    “You’re not insane,” he says. Plain as day. Like it’s not even a possibility worth pursuing.
    I nod against his chest and close my eyes. His hands are in my hair now, and every single part of my body is intensely aware of every part of his. It’s wrong to want him this much.
    He seems to realize it too, and we separate. I don’t want to let go of him. The truth is harder, colder outside his arms.
    I look up at him, and he thumbs my chin, narrowing his eyes at me. “You said you don’t remember anything before that night. But you remember everything up to May?”
    “Yeah.”
    He believes me. I thought it would be harder to convince him, but he doesn’t even look shocked. It’s like people tell him they’ve lost enormous chunks of their lives every day.
    He palms my cheek with his