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

but there’s something else I have to tell you.” I hesitated, didn’t want him to think badly of me for going through his stuff even though I’d had little choice. There were so many things between us now, so much I wanted to say but to which I wasn’t sure how he’d react.

“What is it?” He rolled onto his side, rested his chin in his palm.

“I found money, in a cookie tin in your kitchen. Over two thousand dollars.”

He gave a low whistle. “Two grand? My emergency funds, maybe?”

I wanted to ask him if he knew a guy called Jason Whitmarsh, or if he’d ever gambled for money, but I couldn’t, not tonight. I shrugged. “I’m not sure, but I used some of it to come here. I’ll pay you back as soon as I can, I promise.”

“I’d like you to keep the money,” he said. “All of it.”

“What? No way—”

“Yes, way. It’s the least I can do for messing up your life.”

“You don’t have to pay me, it’s—” I waved a hand “—weird.”

He grunted and closed his eyes, taking a while before opening them again. “Keep the cash, okay? I don’t want it back.” He rubbed his eyes, pushed himself off the bed and stood up, swaying gently. “I’m wrecked. What was I saying about feeling alive? I should head back.”

“You’re not walking home now, are you? You can barely stand.”

He stared down at me, blinked hard three times. “I’ll get a cab or something.”

“Stay here.” The words tumbled out before I could stop them or had time to reconsider. I reached for his hand and pulled him back onto the bed, and as he stretched out again, I rested my head on his shoulder. I wanted to press my lips against his, feel his hands around my waist as I let mine slip underneath his shirt. His muscles would tense beneath my touch, as they always did when I ran my fingers over his flat stomach, and when I put my hand on his belt, he’d let out a low sigh. Working hard to stop myself from doing something he might regret, I raised my head, observing his soft lips, the intensity of his eyes. Part of me—all of me—wanted to make love to him, once, twice, three times in the hope the act would unlock the memories of us.

The voice of reason in the back of my mind chided me, insisting again if, or when, something happened between us, it had to be for the right reasons, but still, I couldn’t bear for him to leave. “Stay,” I whispered, putting my head down as he wrapped his arms around me, pulling me close. “Let’s stay here for the night.”

“It’s a deal,” he murmured, and within minutes, both of us were fast asleep.

24

MAYA

All was silent in Ash’s room when I got up early the next morning. I forfeited having breakfast because I was still too angry with him to eat, and made a thermos of coffee as quietly as possible before heading to the garage to work.

Lily wasn’t due to arrive for another two hours. I’d initially felt confident I’d done a good job of getting her to question who Ash really was and hoped she might leave town immediately because of it. Just in case, I’d come up with another plan, and before handing Ash the beer yesterday, I’d poured the rest of my bottle of Benadryl into it. With that amount of medicine, he’d sleep late, and when Lily arrived, I’d tell her he’d changed his mind and didn’t want to see her again after all. I’d tell him the same thing about her. But then he’d slipped out, and after some light detective work, I figured out he’d poured his drink into my potted plant. Almost wishing I’d dosed him with my clonazepam instead, I knew I’d now have to improvise and find another way to get Lily to leave.

I still couldn’t believe Ash had sneaked out like that, and then had the audacity to accuse me of suffocating him, when the only thing I’d done was care for him since he’d come home, put him first, as I always had. He deserved the iciest of shoulders for his actions, plus a reminder of how much he needed me. I’d make him grovel a little, but I already knew I’d forgive him. He wasn’t himself, and I understood why, but I wouldn’t have him hurt me like that again.

I unlocked the garage and went inside, taking in the familiar scent of polish and sawdust, all of it steadying my nerves. Most of the wood I’d found the last time I’d gone to the beach was twisted and gnarled, things I’d turn into fruit bowls and key rings, maybe a small sculpture or two, and a few of the pieces were ideal for candleholders. I’d transform another log by cutting it into discs and burning pictures of pine cones and trees into them. Once polished, they’d become sets of coasters, which always did well at Drift. Tourists were willing to pay as much as fifty bucks for a set, half of which Barbara gave me, and they took no time at all to make. My sculptures could fetch as much as four hundred, depending on size and intricacy. One of them, an eagle, had gone for double, and if I started selling online, I’d get all the cash.

Ash had always marveled at my ability to see things in the raw pieces others couldn’t, how I transformed what would have otherwise been ignored detritus into works of art. He’d called it a gift, boasted about my skills to anyone who’d stand still long enough to listen. For a few months after he’d left, I hadn’t worked on my art at all, and then it had become sporadic at best. I’d start a piece and throw it away only to try again. Things had improved over time, but since Ash’s return, I saw the potential in every