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

the beach,” she said, still twirling and leaning toward him, the tops of her breasts dangerously close to spilling from her shirt. “Come with? I have a new bikini.”

“No, thanks.”

Sydney put her hand on his shoulder, her fingers kneading the skin beneath his shirt. She seemingly noticed my presence for the first time, her eyes sweeping from my head to my stupid Mary-Jane-clad feet, which I swiftly tucked under the seat. When her eyes came to rest on the big white letters sprawled across my flat chest, she raised an eyebrow and smirked. “Nice shirt.”

More heat shot to my face, burning me. “It’s math. The square root of a hundred and—”

“Shall we go?” Sydney walked her long, slim and perfectly French-manicured fingers across Ash’s chest and up toward his neck.

He put his hand over hers, and I expected him to stand up, make his excuses and take off, but instead he removed her fingers and let them drop by her side. “I said no, thanks.”

She flashed him another smile, not quite as bright this time, and tossed her hair over her shoulder. “Come on, it’ll be fun.”

“I’m having fun here. With Maya.”

Sydney blinked three times in quick succession. Something told me she was used to getting her own way, be it at home, school or with her friends. “But—”

“Later, Sydney.” Ash looked at me, grinning as he leaned in. “Okay, Maya, can you explain that math concept again because I’m not sure I understand it completely.”

Sydney turned and marched to her table, where she spoke with her friends in a clipped tone. From what I could gather, she insisted they were leaving, now, and they stormed out of the diner in a collective bad mood, each of them throwing looks of disgust our way.

Mom and Brad hadn’t paid attention to the exchange, they were too busy chatting about a movie they wanted to see, and when Brad reached over to wipe a spot of ketchup from Mom’s cheek with his napkin, I promised myself I’d be much nicer to her about him.

“Thank you,” I said to Ash, the words coming out as a whisper.

“Anytime.” He gestured to our parents with his thumb. “I don’t know about you, but I suspect we’ll be spending quite a lot of time together. Maybe I should call you Little Sis?”

I giggled, soda spilling from between my lips. “Or Bee.”

“Bee?”

“It’s what Mom calls me. Maya the Bee.”

“Cute. Okay, Bee it is.”

I needed to say something else, anything to keep him talking so I didn’t have to. “Do you know why you were named Asher?”

“I’m not sure,” he said, looking down, his smile fading, his lips falling silent.

Scrambling to change the subject, I asked about school and the wrestling team, and when his smile returned it made my chest swell as I sat back to listen. After half an hour, Mom leaned over and whispered in my ear, asking if I wanted to leave. I shook my head, and she gently squeezed my knee.

The afternoon turned into a lazy supper at Brad and Ash’s house, an old Victorian place at the end of a road, perched near some cliffs, which I thought was the coolest thing I’d ever seen. Once the dishes were done, and we’d played cards together (kids vs. adults—we won by ten miles thanks to Ash), Mom and Brad sat out on the porch while Ash showed me his old school photos from England, laughing as I made fun of his uniform and choppy hair.

“Why did you come to Maine? Your dad’s work?”

“Not exactly. We needed a change.”

I swallowed, unsure how to ask the question and decided on, “What about your mom?”

After a moment’s hesitation Ash said, “She was depressed. She died.”

My mouth dropped open. How could I have been so forgetful, so crass and careless? I’d only half listened when Mom had told me his mother was no longer alive, and there I was, bringing it up. He seemed so sad, so lost. I’d hurt him, and I couldn’t bear to see the look on his face, or knowing I’d put it there. I decided there and then I’d do anything to make it up to him. It was a promise I’d never forgotten.

The noise of the boiling kettle pulled me out of the memories. As I was pouring the water into my mug, a noise behind me made me jump and I spun around. Ash walked into the kitchen, dressed in his favorite pajamas and the soft New York Giants T-shirt I’d given him for his twenty-fifth birthday, a shirt he’d left behind.

“I’m sorry,” he said, holding up his hands. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s all right. Are you okay?”

He pointed to his temple and pulled a face. “Headache. Do you have any pills?”

“Of course. They’re in my bag.”

Once I’d given him some aspirin and he’d headed back to bed, I opened my laptop and was about to focus on researching amnesia when another thought hit me. On the way home from the gas station, Ash had told me a little more about the trailer he’d hidden in. I frowned, typed “Asher Bennett Maryland” into the search bar. Nothing. What had he been doing down there? Traveling through or living there longer term? I drummed my fingers on the table before widening the parameters, covering New Jersey to Florida, Delaware to Kentucky, but the only Asher Bennetts I found were under the age of ten, or over fifty. I’d almost given up when I went back to basics, and the headline of a small article on OceanCityToday caught my eye.

HOPE FADING FOR MISSING BRITISH SWIMMER

I leaned in, heart beating fast, palms sweating, my fingers unsteady as I clicked on the link and began to read.

10

LILY

I had every intention of going to work Sunday morning, but by eight thirty I hadn’t even showered, let alone bothered to put on clothes and makeup. Everything seemed an impossible effort and the thought of leaving the temporary cocoon I’d built myself filled me