Mind Lies (16 page)

Or thinner, I suppose.

“It is a nice piece,” says Mr. Grant, the eyeballer of the Maserati couch. “Would look great—”

“In the reading room next to the oak credenza. I know,” Cory mockingly interrupts.

Mr. Grant scowls at him. Cory scowls right back. I don’t blame Cory for being short with him. The old man comes in a few times a month to eye the couch that never sells because it’s so expensive. He then
always
tells anyone who will listen the story of where it will go and how good it would look if it was his.

But he never buys it.

Even though he could buy out half the businesses on this street.

Apparently, the Maserati, as we call it, is better to be admired on my shop’s floor and never in his house, even though you know he wants the damn thing.

“I don’t appreciate the back talk, young man,” Mr. Grant haughtily says. Cory rolls his eyes.

“Oh for Christ’s sake. Buy the damn couch! Life is short, and sometimes memories are shorter. You want it? Buy it!” I shout before heading toward the break room.

“Thought you said she has amnesia?” the old man grumbles to Cory.

Apparently, Jerri was a bit of a firecracker pre-amnesia.

Post-amnesia, she’s just tired and impatient.

“Cory!” I shout. “We’re doing the theater. Tell Marcus I need a dress.”

Sometimes the best decisions are made under pressure.

Chapter Eighteen

“You sure about this, Love? You know I don’t like when you’re upset,” Marcus asks me as he fastens the back of my strapless dress. I thought he would have come at me with glitz, glamour, and BeDazzle—I couldn’t have been more wrong.

“This isn’t a celebration,” he said. “You’re practically in mourning. Whether he comes or not, you still feel as though you lost something. That something could either be your memories or him, but either way, we’re not here to celebrate. No. We’re here to weep over a divine man who planted that beautiful little creature in your belly.”

“What if it wasn’t him, Marcus? What if I slept with someone else?”

“You didn’t, Love.” He answers, and when I scowl at him, he firmly adds, “You. Didn’t.”

I regard the black, strapless, floor-length dress. It’s really stunning. Tight in the bust. Layers of chiffon and silk flowing over my hips in wispy waves before touching the floor.

It’s lovely.

“I’m not upset, Marcus. A little nervous, maybe. I’m glad they agreed to keep the lighting around me and not
on
me. But just because they can’t see my face, clearly doesn’t mean I won’t see theirs.” I huff out a breath. “I guess I just don’t like the idea of feeling exposed.”

Grabbing me by the shoulders, he turns me to face him. “Not a soul out there is here to think ill of you. You’re lucky none of them know who you are and where you work because I’m sure the shop would have been bombarded with fan people all rooting for the love story of Jerri and Locklin. People go crazy for that shit.”

He’s not wrong. After the millions of views, Portia had informed me that the unwavering support from people across the country was astounding. The hashtag #LoveLocklin is still going strong, and I admit that the backing from these people warms my heart at times. It’s the other times, when it’s cold at night and my bed is empty, that hurt.

“Correction, it’s not shit. But you know what I mean.” He flaps his hands around, fixing my hair. “You’re a vibrant woman, Love. If he’s worthy of that, he’ll find you.”

I give him a light smile before shaking off the nerves threatening to overtake me. I seem to have been making a lot of last-minute decisions lately, this being one of them. I waited weeks before saying yes to do this . . . two days ago, which gave me little time to prepare—little time to back out.

I go back and forth between being desperate to find Locklin, and being so pissed off at him that I can’t be bothered. Sometimes, I lie in bed, lonely at night, wishing for him to find me. And at other times, I spend endless hours in the shop, doing anything I can to take my mind off him.

I now get what Portia told me months ago: The shop is not my happy place. It doesn’t bring me joy; it makes me content to have a purpose. Perhaps that’s what I’ve done. I’ve drowned myself in work, fallen into old habits, even though I’m not necessarily sure what those habits are. It feels familiar, though. They give me the feeling that this is what I’ve always done when I’m lost or without him.

Drown myself in work.

Keep myself busy enough that I forget, even if for a short amount of time.

“Five minutes,” the stagehand tells us, poking his head into the dressing room. I briefly met the band when we arrived. The lead singer of the rock band—Scarlet Towns—gushed with me about my story, telling me that when the band does their signature shot of whiskey before taking the stage, it will be dedicated to Locklin coming back to me, not their usual play hard salute.

I told her I was grateful; for them to change-up their toast is like asking a baseball player to change his lucky socks.

“Deep breath, Love,” Marcus mutters in my ear as he guides me from the room. He plants a kiss on each of my cheeks before being escorted to his seat with the rest of the crew.

I stand awkwardly in the hallway behind the stage. Closing my eyes, I take a few more deep breaths and smooth my dress over my small baby bump. I’m happy Marcus chose a dress that was flowy and loose in the waist. The last thing I want is someone calling attention to my pregnancy. I’ve had enough drama to last a lifetime, and answering questions about the pregnancy would bring more.

“Ms. Sloane?” A deep voice rumbles behind me. Opening my eyes, I turn slowly to see both Detective O’Shaunessey and Detective Cavanaugh.

I frown. “What are you doing here?”

“You cannot go up there,” Cavanaugh grumbles. O’Shaunessey adds, “Sorry, Ms. Sloane. I know this is coming a little late, but considering we still haven’t found the person who wanted to harm you, we don’t think it’s a good idea for you to put yourself out in the open like this.”

I laugh humorlessly, shaking my head. “You’re joking, right?” Their faces remain stoic and emotionless. “I’ve been driving. I’ve been working. Hell, I even go out at night by myself when the craving for greasy drive-through food hits me. I’ve been
exposed
. I’ve put myself out there for months, and now you’re telling me, at the last minute I might add, that I shouldn’t put myself out there? You’re telling me I could be putting myself in danger?”

O’Shaunessey remains quiet, but Cavanaugh nods and says, “That’s what we’re saying.”

I scoff. “Give me proof. If you have some proof, I will think about not going out there. But if you don’t have anything, you can turn around and quit wasting my time.”

They share a silent conversation with looks and chin-lifts before O’Shaunessey says, “We have reason to believe someone’s been following you. Although he hasn’t tried anything yet, there have been reports of someone lurking around your neighborhood on and off for the past week.”

I shake my head. “And do you have an arrest? Proof that it was me they were after? Because I can tell you right now I’m alone. A lot. So if someone wanted to do something, they’ve had ample opportunity.”

Cavanaugh tightens his hands into fists, and O’Shaunessey flares his nostrils. “This could be very serious, Ms. Sloane, if this person is following you, especially if he’s the one who cut the brake lines on your Tahoe.”

“Time to take your place, Ms. Sloane,” the stagehand reminds me. I nod to him and turn back to the Detectives. “If what you’re saying is true, then he’s probably already here. Too little, too late, Detectives. I’m going on that stage, with . . . or without your consent.”

“We assumed you were here for the show; we didn’t expect to find you back here. What are you here to do exactly?” Cavanaugh asks.

Straightening my shoulders, I give them one last look. “Saying goodbye.”

* * *

“I’m sure many of you are familiar with the woman about to take the stage,” the lead singer, Scarlet Towns, tells the audience as she seats herself on a stool, acoustic guitar in hand. “You all know my shitty history with love and loss . . .” She pauses, allowing everyone in the small theater to remember her soulmate who was tragically killed.

Clearing her throat, she continues. “So I guess you could say I’m desperate for one with a happier ending.” Giving a hollow smile, she tells the crowd, “The woman attached to the trending hashtag #LoveLocklin is about to sing for us. This woman, who prefers to remain in the shadows tonight, has fought one hell of a battle. She woke up in a hospital room a few months ago with amnesia, and sadly, or perhaps fortunately, the only memories she has are of him.”

I stand in the shadow, the only light on stage beaming down on Scarlet as she finishes my introduction. “I could drone for hours about this woman, how much I’m rooting for her, and the man she can’t seem to find. But instead I’m going to let her finish off this intro and grace you with the soul-crushing song that literally makes my heart ache.”

The light on her dims slightly, and the one behind me brightens. The crowd’s attention shifts to where I’ve been standing the whole time, lost in the shadows. It’s fitting, it seems. And as they focus on my over-exposed form without being able to see my face, I have the urge to tell them that’s exactly how I feel every day.

Overexposed.

A blurry image that won’t seem to focus.

Perhaps the blur at this moment is the wetness in my eyes, but I ignore it and settle on a random face in the crowd, preparing myself for what I feel will be the final goodbye.

* * *

“This is the last time,” I tell them.

Tears fall freely down my cheeks, but my voice is steady.

Clear.

Definitely not strong, though.

No.

Because I’m breaking.

What they see on the outside: the beautiful dress, shiny hair, squared shoulders, and perfect posture. I stand poised like a woman who has her shit together on the small stage . . .

It’s a lie.

A ruse.

A wolf in sheep’s clothing.

A gift, the packaging far prettier than what’s to be unwrapped.

I feel like a fraud, but I don’t tell them that. I feel as if I’m dying, as if all these cracks that have continuously hurt my heart are ready to crumble.

Ready for it all to fall apart.

I’m
ready, to fall apart.

They don’t know what it’s like to stand up here, calling out to the love of your life, crying to him for months, begging him to find me. To hold me and shelter me and put me back together.

But he never comes.

He never crushes me in his strong arms and tells me I’m not crazy, that he’s here. He never shows up to tell me he loves me, he needs me, and he’ll never let me go.

He never comes.

He never shows up.

The crowd begins to boo. Not because they don’t want to hear me, but because they don’t want me to give up the fight. They don’t want me to let go.

I’m not a quitter, but sometimes you need to know when to stop, when to toss in the towel, because no matter how many times you cry your heart out, the end result is always going to be the same. Always going to end the same.

With me.

Crying my heart out.

Alone.

Not with the man I’m supposed to share my life with.

I take a deep breath, reciting pretty much the same thing I have every time I sing to him. The only difference is that this time the crowd is much larger. This time, it’s not Portia aiming a webcam at me while I search for my soulmate.

The one nobody knows.

The one who could very well be a product of my overactive imagination due to my amnesia-filled brain.

Lies.

But I know in my heart he’s real.

I know he’s out there.

Because I can
feel
him.

Giving a light smile, the same one that never reaches my eyes, I tell them again, “This is the last time. I don’t think I’ll be able to speak after I do this, so I’m going say what I need to now, and I hope you’ll listen.”

I watch them all, those I can see clearly, as they settle into their front row seats with their eyes trained on the stage. I wait for the hushes and murmurs to die down, all eyes on me, before I continue. “I can’t thank you all enough. What started out as an idea and a YouTube video riding on nothing but
hope
—you all clicked
view
or
share
and turned it into something viral overnight.”

Applause and cheers echo throughout the theater. I absorb the positivity in the sound, the vibrations filling me before I adjust the mic to continue. “If it weren’t for people like you, and my best friend’s support, we wouldn’t be here. And if we weren’t here, he might not hear me call for him.”

I pause to swallow past the lump in my throat. “That video-gone-viral gave me hope.” My voice breaks on the word “hope,” but I power through. “It gave me hope that the man in my memories would come back to me. It gave me hope that after so many of you shared that video, I wouldn’t be without him. Millions of people have watched it, and I was sure that he’d be one of them.”

I blink, letting the tears roll freely before giving them another empty, watery smile. “But he’s not here,” I softly say.

Shaking my head, I sigh. “I can’t keep doing this, singing the last song we sang together, to the man I remember. I
can’t
. Not because I’m giving up, but because it hurts too much.”