I don’t want to see his eyes sparkling at me with a questioning look.
It’s been eighteen years and all that time Nathan Ryder hasn’t remembered me, so why should it sting that he doesn’t recognize me now? I don’t need his recognition, but strangely, I want it. I want the acknowledgment of this man who changed the course of my life, and yet, I won’t give into him. I’ve already done that. I’ve learned my lesson. Nathan Ryder plus me equals catastrophe.
Chapter Three
Dewey Decimal Classification: 302 Social Interaction
[Nathan]
Naomi.
So you remember me?
Could I ever forget her?
Her name tag tells me her name, but is it really her? Naomi isn’t common, and I’ve never met anyone else named the same. Can it really be that after all this time, she’s still here? What are the chances I’ve seen her twice in one week when I haven’t seen her once since I returned to Green Valley?
When I saw her a few nights ago in the Piggly Wiggly, I dismissed the sneaky suspicion of familiarity curling inside me when her eyes met mine. The longing in them. The history. I didn’t want to believe it could be her even when I called her by name. But I couldn’t shake the hint of something suppressed passing through my memory. I didn’t want to allow myself to believe it was really her. It’d been such a long time.
Still.
I’m stuck on you.
The words whisper like a door in a dark room slowly opening to allow light. There was a girl with curly raven hair and eyes the color of chrome, deep pockets of granite gray, peering up at me. The crinkles in the corners of this woman’s eyes throw me off. Still, when she looks at me, there’s something I can’t ignore. An undeniable sense she knows me, and I know her.
This woman with silver and white streaked hair, dressed in clothes covering every inch of her, seems nothing like the girl I once met. The girl who danced and whooped and begged me. But there’s something unforgettable about her hair—the weight of it—as I wound it upward and righted her necklace. The out-of-control curl hints at tresses once a different shade—midnight and wild—spilling over a motel pillow.
I’m stuck on you.
My memory pulls up the Fugitive—a bar off a treacherous mountain road. A typical night of rambunctious bikers and reckless drinking. An unusual girl celebrating on the dark side. It would be hard to recall one in twenty of the women I’d slept with over nearly the same number of years, but Naomi always stood out. That one girl your mind refuses to forget.
I watch her turn away from me and suddenly there’s too much here reminding me of all I want to forget but never could quite let go.
Perhaps it was the timing. At least I’ve told myself that over the years, but that’s not the whole truth. That night changed everything for me, and a shiver ripples down my spine with the memory.
So you remember me?
I never forgot her, but I don’t want to admit to the sharp ping of hope and the deep jolt of pain at seeing her again in Green Valley. She hasn’t exactly acknowledged me, either. Sure she said my name, but it isn’t the deep recognition of what we shared. Then again, how do you bring up something like that night?
Hey, Naomi, remember when we …
I exhale.
People change, Nathan, my brain reminds me.
She isn’t the same person from eighteen years ago and neither am I. This woman is old … er. Her hair. Her eyes. In miles of denim draped around indistinguishable legs, she is not the Naomi of my memory. But even in her altered state, she’s pretty and I blink, a little startled by the realization.
Strangely, I wonder what she’s wearing under her matronly outfit.
I have a vagina. The statement almost brought me to my knees, and I swallowed my gum. I’m a little doubtful the girl I knew is inside this woman.
Still.
I remember her. Under me, she was once curves and skin and life. Vibrant. Electric. Blooming.
I’m stuck on you.
Her sweet, quiet voice rings in my ears like the seduction of a siren at sea. Ironic even more so as I’ve never stuck to anything in my life. I thought I was on my way one night. The club. The girl. Then everything fell apart.
One thing is for sure about this new Naomi, she looks like she wants to lick me, and I feel strangely compelled to let her. Her eyes linger as if she’s fighting the impulse to take a walk on the wild side of my body. It’s a nice sensation—her so obviously checking me out. The stirrings inside my chest haven’t been like this for a long time.
But just as I thought our conversation was heading somewhere, she seems ready to dismiss me.
My eyes wander to Naomi’s backside as I follow her to the lobby. What’s under all that denim, I think once again until we stop at the check-out counter, which she uses as a barrier between us. Suddenly, my phone peals. A loud fire alarm ringtone echoes through the quiet of the library lobby.
“End of lunch,” I say, fumbling for the damn thing in my pocket and struggling to shut it off. She points to a sign printed in black ink on white copy paper slipped into a display stand.
Let freedom ring, but not your cell phone. Turn it off and your brain on.
Naomi taps a pencil on the edge of the plastic, as if sternly emphasizing my lack of rule following.
“It’s a reminder I only have ten minutes before my lunch break ends,” I explain. I work construction for Monroe & Sons. Bill Monroe is my boss, and while he isn’t a stickler, I don’t want to piss him off by being late. The trip to the library was a last-minute decision after fighting with my older daughter Dahlia last night.
“I need you to explain some things to your little sister,” I asked my seventeen-year-old.
“Just buy her a book like Gramm did for me.”
I didn’t have time for a bookstore run in Knoxville, so the library was the next best thing.
Naomi nods, acknowledging my explanation but obviously no longer wishing to engage in conversation. She twists the corner of her lips with her teeth, and I notice the deep maroon color. It’s bloodred, and tempting, a hint of who she might be underneath the yards of denim and black cotton. There’s one final way to find out if she’s the girl of my memory.
“So, Nae—” I use the name she asked me to call her that evening. Call me Nae, a sweet voice whispers breathlessly through my head.
“I don’t go by that name anymore.” The sudden flare in her ashen-charcoal eyes stops me short. Her brows furrow forming a deep dimple between them. The sharpness in her tone solidifies my query.
It’s her.
“These are due back in three weeks,” she adds louder, avoiding further eye contact. Sliding the books to me across the counter, I reach for her wrist, pressing her hand flat over the short stack.
“Hey.” Without realizing it, my thumb strokes the tender skin on the underside of her wrist. “Was it the penis thing?” My brows wiggle, teasing her, flirting with her. “You know, I’m not offended to admit I have one.”
“Just stop,” she warns. Her eyes are buckets of coal looking to set me on fire.
“If I recall, you didn’t say that before.” My voice drops deeper. I don’t know why I’m taunting her, but my heart races with the thought she might have forgotten me.