"I'm going out for a few hours. I will be back."

After three weeks of dipping out for late lunches, for private early dinners, I've grown used to Samantha's recurring gleefulness, considering she knows who I'm sneaking off with. I've tried to keep as much as possible from her simply for that reason.

Her gleefulness makes me uneasy.

I don't want questions, because I truly have no answers. I'm attempting this feat—to push aside my usual fears, my usual reluctance—to give Aidan the chance he deserves. Because he truly does deserve it.

Three weeks, and he's come when I've called, made himself available to me. We have lunch all the time, even occasional dinners. He doesn't push when I choose not to confide him, and offers me completely transparency when I have my own questions. Mostly, light topics, ones we can get through without a repeat of the night I spent in his apartment, a night spent in his bed while he took the couch, a uncomfortable circumstance for me considering I rarely stay over men's homes, even more so when we haven't slept together.

I've tried to remember that he's not like the rest of them, that the woman I was when I met him obviously found a way to get over the proximities.

"Also, Bradley wants to speak later," I say. "He'll be showing up here, so I wanted to give you ample warning since you've sworn him off for good."

"You should do that too," she replies sternly to my teasing. "You've got something good right now."

"I don't have anything, Sam," I tell her, pointedly. "I am trying this out, but it's not a relationship. We don't kiss. We don't really touch that much either."

"Yeah, that's not by choice for him, I can assure you that."

She's right. I'm holding back, big-time.

Normally, I'd have sealed the deal by now. I'd have fallen into the sheets with him, and just enjoyed the pleasure. However, Aidan Hughes is not a man I've picked up from the bar. He's in love with me, and he wouldn't be fucking me—he'd be making love—and I'm not ready for that.

I'm not ready for those emotions.

"How did the appointment go?" she asks as I remove my umbrella from behind my desk, noticing the darkening sky outside the windows.

"Well, the stupid left lobe is doing me no favors." I shake my head, trying to shake off the unfortunate news. "No progress. They suggested therapy."

No progress and it's been almost five months since the accident.

She sighs. "Are you going to do it?"

"And say what? I have no trauma, not that I can remember. It would be for no reason."

"It'll get better, Jo. Easier."

"Maybe."

I squeeze her hand on my way out, not sure if it's to comfort her or me. It's getting to the point where I have to begin to prepare myself for the fact that I may never recover the memories I lost, because statistically, by this time, I should have already recovered.

Glad I brought my umbrella when I see that the heavy clouds have broken open, prompting chaos in the busy streets, I immerse myself into it, enjoying the slightly warmer weather, the fresh smell of rain. The business district is swarmed with stiff suits off to lunch, trendy hipsters carrying around their iced coffees with friends.

The restaurant I suggested was smack dab between our buildings, tucked between a historical movie theater and artisanal ice cream shop.

Aidan is standing underneath the building cover, his umbrella folded back in to dry.

It's unnerving how happy I am to see him. It's a transparency I work hard to mask, biting on my mouth to hide my smile from him. It's especially hard when I notice his eyes quickly give my body a dutiful once over, moving from the slit in my skirt covering smooth, see-through stockings back up to my face with a deep steeling inhale.

I like how he looks at me.

It's always so immersive, so poignant. I'm used to long looks of lust from men, but his is different. It's a memorization, a deep study. It's enjoyable because he's obviously seen my body. I like to think that he can look at me and know exactly what's beneath my clothes. Judging by the darkness surrounding his pupils, I can bet that he can.

"Hi."

"Hi," he says, remaining where he is. "You look beautiful."

"Thanks. So do you."

He really does. I've noticed he tends to wear dark colors, earthy tones that compliment his pale olive skin. His lips are naturally darker than most, fuller than most too. Every curve on his face is sharp, so each way he turns, an angle catches the light. Today, he's wearing a forest green casual long-sleeved polo, with a brown blazer. He looks sleek, and educated, very bookish.

He smiles, softly, holding the door open for me. "I've never had Ethiopian cuisine before."

"It's delicious."

We're escorted around other diners who are sitting on the floor, digging through the food with their hands. The painted walls are decorated in ancient art and sculptures, mostly consisting of crosses. A kirar hangs from the wall, while an example of its music rings from the speakers enchantingly soft. The floor consists of hand-made rugs, and the tables are hand-woven baskets, complete with a top to cover the food.

Since I chose this last minute, wanting to show him something new, I hardly took into account the fact that I'm wearing a small skirt, and will have to sit on the ground.

"Enjoy," the man says to us, leaving us at our spot.

"I didn't think this through," I confess embarrassingly, setting down my umbrella. Aidan shrugs out of his blazer and extends it over the table, laughing blatantly as I try to sit as gracefully as possible.

"Just lay it over your lap," he says, and my cheeks are instantly on fire while I drape it over my thighs, clamping my legs together as tightly as possible. He doesn't force me to remain in that embarrassment for long, instead moving onto the people dining around us.

"So, tell me. How does this work?"

"I've only come here once with Matthew, but you eat with your hands...your right hand specifically, if you're taking in etiquettes."

"Okay."

"The meal is served over this type of bread, which you use to eat the stew with. It's messy, but fun."

"An experience."

"Yes," I chuckle, looking down at my hands. "Yeah, anyways, I wanted to thank you for...for coming to see my mother the other day. I'm only sorry she didn't know you were there."

"All in all, how is she doing?"

We're interrupted by the waiter, who takes our drink and food order simultaneously, a pad not needed to remember it all. Aidan has to remind me of what he asked. I'm not really sure how to answer him without sounding incredibly morbid.

"She has good and bad days. Lately, the bad ones are getting more frequent. She's just not moving as much as she used to...it's beginning to affect her body."

"It's a shame."

"She had me when she was older...she'd been raised with the expectation that her life should be devoted to children, to family. I think my father was glad when she told him early on that she didn't think she could, or at least that's what she's told me."

"But she could."

I nod, pursing my lips, smirking. "Yep, and he wasn't ready for that. A forty year old man wasn't ready for that. It's laughable."

"It's not," he counters, shaking his head. "It's deplorable."

We both fall quiet as our drinks are dropped off. I shrug off the discomfort of our conversation, loathing giving the man who made me even a thought in my day, and attempt to retrieve pleasantness.

"Tell me about work. I mean, can you tell me anything?"

He laughs. "I'm not a spy. Nothing I do is top secret. I'm honestly just camping out in Seattle, researching information on Rick Price in preparation for campaign season."

"I've heard that name before."

"He's running for governor in California." He tilts his head, lifting his soda. "I told you Nora's father is the current Governor there, right?"

This is news. "No, not that I recall."

"Oh, well, he came by while I was being interviewed after the bombings. He mentioned to me that his opponent was gaining in popularity, and since I used to be interested in politics before my father died, he asked me to join him on his campaign, do some digging."

"Have you come up with anything?"

"Quite a bit, actually. A DUI that was buried by his father, as well as some pretty harsh accusations by young women who went to college with him...If they opt to publish the findings, I don't think he'll be voted in anytime soon."

"Christ, and you did all that here in Seattle?"

"It was just research, knowing where to look."

"I bet he's excited."

He smirks. "Overjoyed."

"Are you close with him? Do you stay in touch often?"

"Not normally, no. We talk when it's necessary."

"Were you close when your wife was alive?"

"It was complicated." He sets down his drink, and his shoulders lift in an uncomfortable shrug. I notice he tends to do this when I've touched a sore spot, territory that is unwelcome to him.

I've known him for months, and somehow, despite how much I ask, I hardly know any real things about him. The important stuff. I know his favorite book, I know where he went to school, who he saw in his first concert.

It's the stuff that makes him a mystery that keeps me guessing. Maybe it's why I'm so desperate for more, why I'm still here. Normally, I'd have lost interest, or run for the hills. Normally, I'd have realized by now that a relationship is the last thing I need or want.

But I'm here, patiently waiting for him to tell me something, something of meaning.

"Complicated?" I press.

His skin has paled considerably in the last minute, as if he's eaten something rotten. His eyes, continuously move, avoiding my line of sight completely. He clearly doesn't want to talk about it, or maybe he does and can't.

Whatever it is, I realize I have no right to push him into it. I'm not even sure I want to know.

"I...um..." he rubs his face, trying to find the right words. I shake my head, reassuring him with a smile.

"It's all right. You don't have to tell me."

"It's just...you knew before. And it took everything I had in me to tell you about me, and I-I know I will have to tell you again. But, it's just difficult to gear myself up for. I don't know how you'll take it."

How I'll take it? Shit, now I'm really not sure I want to know. It dawns on me how odd it is that I'd rather remain in the dark than hear the truth. Never in my life have I preferred ignorance.

"We're still getting to know each other, Aidan. I'm okay with waiting until you're ready to tell me."

He chuckles, almost disappointedly. "You know, when you met me the first time, you couldn't wait to get it out of me, so desperately that for a while, I was sure you just wanted the story."

"That wasn't the case?"

"No, you just wanted to know me as much as I knew you."

The waiter arrives with the basket of stew, removing the lid to let the fragrant spices curl in the air. He begins to tell us what is in the dish, how to eat it correctly, but I hardly hear him, becoming lost in the case of my disappearance.

Who the hell am I? What the hell am I doing?

This feels like some sort of movie, some bad romantic drama I'd pass over on TV. Not real life. I'm actually sitting here, listening to a man tell me memories I don't have, secrets I've never told, desires I've never wanted.

And I'm just supposed to want them now.

I'm supposed to fall back into that person, become who he wanted. The pressure is suffocating.

"Are you okay?"

I tear my eyes from the table, hearing his voice. I nod, smiling unsurely. "Yeah...yeah, I'm fine."

***

The taxi we caught, which lacks a proper air conditioning system, sits idly in traffic, a stopped commotion at the intersection ahead. A sports station hums low from the front seat, not that either of us seem to be listening.

We only hailed the cab to avoid walking in the rain, but we made the very big mistake of carrying the tension we created inside the restaurant with us into this confining space.

For weeks, we've circled around the truth, around our real problems. I haven't given it thought because in reality, I really like being around him. And he hasn't probably for the same reason.

He said in the restaurant that he wasn't sure how I'd take to the truth, which means he's holding back because he's still not sure that I'll stay. And I don't have it in me to reassure him.

But I'm strangely drawn to him, I cannot deny it.

His smell, his mannerisms, his deeply melodic voice. Everything about him is enchanting to me. When he's near, I find myself naturally gravitating closer to him, wanting him to know he has my full attention. When I'm with him, Bradley is an afterthought...all men are an afterthought.

"You're wearing the necklace," he says, softly and I look over at him. At the comment, I delicately lift the chain, regarding the infinity symbol. It dawns on me now that it was among my items I brought back from the hospital.

"Did you give me this?"

The taxi driver honks the horn, but the blaring sound hardly fazes us.

"For your birthday, yes."

I smile, softly, admiring it. "It's beautiful."

He remains quiet for some time, watching me take it all in.

"You know what it means?"

Never-ending. Forever. Until the end.

My eyes find his, his implications stirring my soul. He's telling me so much without actually saying the words. It's no less daunting.

"Oh, come on!" the taxi driver shouts, and this time, I do tense at the hostile bellow he directs out the foggy window.

"Do you want to just make a run for it?" I ask him quietly, smiling slowly as he regards me like I'm insane.

"In the rain?"

"Yeah."

It doesn't take as much convincing as I thought it would. Aidan reaches back, removing his wallet to pass the driver cash for the ride and opens the door. I scoot out with a playful grin as we plant ourselves in the swell of traffic, right in the middle of the downpour.

"You know we're both probably going to come out of this with the flu."

I slam the door shut. "Well then, we'll just have to take care of each other, won't we?"

Both of us seemed shocked by my reply, which fell from my lips with unnatural ease. He recovers faster than I do, and slides his hand into mine, pulling me through the parked vehicles. We both have umbrellas, ones we haven't opened. His is tucked under his arm, mine is in my purse.

The smart thing would be to slow down and open them up, considering the temperature is in the sixties, and the rain is anything but warm. But there's something so reinvigorating about rainfall.

It's even better when you're caught in it, and don't mind it in the slightest.

Our smiles are whopping as we skirt around the congestion, around the people holding with briefcases over their heads. Within a few seconds, we're soaked through, and I'm laughing at how ridiculous we probably look.

There's still two blocks to my work, and I really don't want to go back.

There's a small Italian restaurant parked at the curb between two streets, and they're pulling in all the patio equipment, just now. There's a man playing a saxophone sweetly to the melody of The Way You Look Tonight under the covering, giving wonderful music to the overwhelming mess around us.

Making it to the end of the crosswalk, I laugh as I jump right into a massive puddle, which soaks my tights and boots despite his careful maneuvering. "Fuck, that's cold!"

My teeth are chattering. He looks boyishly handsome, his hair sleek and wild and the smile on his face is radiating, the first true one I've seen with absolutely no resistance. For this one moment, he looks untroubled.

He helps me onto the sidewalk, laughing and all I can do is hear my pounding heart in my ears.

I clumsily climb up and stumble right to him on weak legs. We're both out of breath, but otherwise content in the turbulent weather. He glances at the man playing the saxophone, and his smile softens.

"Dance with me," he says, spontaneously.

"Here?"

He nods. "Right here. Right now."

There's no denying him. I don't want to.

Amongst the heightening scrambling, the employees of the restaurant bringing in the chairs and tables, he pulls me in close, his hand resting comfortably at the small of my back. I bite my lip as we move together slowly, unable to contain the awe and overwhelming feeling of doing something unexpected for once. The saxophone player smiles between huffs when he catches my eye, playing just for us now.

Aidan's own heart thumps rapidly through his shirt, and I welcome the feel of his body so close to mine.

"I don't even know what's happening..." I utter out loud, giggling nervously to myself. His cheek is warm against mine as he tilts into me, and the atmosphere changes, thickening with tension. We're hardy moving, just swaying. I feel him inhale, his chest expanding as he takes the first leap of faith, pulling back enough that we're nose to nose.

The second his hands leave me to gently cradle my face, my eyes slam shut, a gust of nervousness leaving me instantly. Oh fuck.

His touch is so tender, so searching. I feel his eyes on my face, even though I'm keeping my own shut. His thumbs needlessly move over my cheeks to clear the rain water, but it's of no use. My hands uncurl and dig into his chest.

"Aidan," I start, reluctantly, opening my eyes, fully intending to stop him from coming closer.

But he's drenched through and I'm transfixed by the way his eyes are slanted, just—achingly waiting for me to give in, hardly restraining himself. The wet rain drops are like diamonds upon his skin, his eyelashes.

And instead of pushing him away, my resisting barrier deflates, my fingers instead curling into the wet fabric to urge him to me decisively.

His lips seal over mine with so much force. He holds me to him, like that, needing the time to just have his lips on mine, not moving at all. His relief seeps through his kiss and into my own skin, and I feel my nerves exploding within my body.

Within a few seconds, the tension slowly fades and his mouth softens. He exhales against me shakily, but his grip only tightens. As the relief begins to morph into pure desperation, he takes me hostage, kissing me passionately, tonguing me deeply, and I melt further into him with every second, giving into the capture.