“Like how?”

“Just not himself. It’s hard to explain. Trust me. He is being weird. But he is still here, and so I’m hoping we can work out…all the other.”

“You guys are like salt and pepper.”

“Salt and pepper?” Lizzy says. “Wasn’t that a band when we were in elementary school?”

“Cinnamon and sugar?” I offer.

“Yep,” she says. “Like cinnamon and sugar.”

We talk for a few more minutes, during which she urges me to befriend some of the women here, and during which I ask if she knows what Marchant’s tattoo means.

“I didn’t even know he had a tattoo,” she says. But she promises to ask Hunter.

I hang up feeling strangely satisfied. Then I hear the front door open.

MARCHANT

I’m looking for the Adobo seasoning when she walks into the kitchen. I can feel her standing there, looking at me, and I don’t like it.

I wish I’d never volunteered to make burgers. I did offer to make burgers, didn’t I? Now I can’t even remember what I said to her.

It’s like going to talk to Dr. Libby took me back four days. I feel like I can’t fucking think straight. I feel like shit.

“You’re going to have a lot of ups and downs in your life. That’s normal for everyone.” That’s what she told me.

But it’s bullshit. Nothing about me is normal. I did a good job of hiding that for fucking years, but then it fucking fell apart.

I’m not normal, and I don’t belong around people who are.

I don’t mean in matters of business.

Or maybe I do. I’m used to thinking I do a damn good job with this place, but I fucking burned it to the ground this time. Literally. Someone could have died, and it would have been my fault. Someone could have died because I don’t belong around normal people. Not even in business. Especially not when it comes to business.

Maybe I should tell Suri Dalton to go. Maybe I should sell this fucking place.

“Marchant?”

I stare at the cabinets in front of me, wondering where the fuck I keep my spices. I need to season the patties on the pan in front of me, but I don’t remember where I keep my spices. Because I’m not normal. Normal people don’t sacrifice a slice of their memory to get their mind back in order. Normal people don’t have to do that.

I wish, for a long moment, that I remembered even less than what I do. That I remembered nothing.

The tattoo on my side tingles.

Libby wanted to talk about that today, too, but I said no. No fucking way. I can’t go there.

“Um, Marchant?”

I turn around, ready to snap her head off, but I get one long look at her and I just can’t. Her hair’s all smooth and shiny, and she’s wearing another one of those goddamned dresses. This one is plain looking, and kind of peach-ish colored. It fits her curves just right, outlining her small, pert tits, and I can see her bare legs from the thighs down. Her toenails are painted pale purple. I want to suck them. Instead, I drag my eyes back to her face and mutter, “What?”

“Um, hi.” She gives a little wave and smiles in a way that makes me feel unsteady. “What’s up?”

I blink a few times, trying to clear my head so I don’t look like a dumbass. “Just working on dinner.” I feel awkward as hell. I mean, really. What am I, her husband?

“Are those burgers behind you?”

“Yep.”

“Would you like some help? Chopping tomatoes or washing the lettuce or something?”

I rub my face, because I still feel half asleep and foggy. I don’t need her help, don’t even know if I want her close to me. But I say, “Yeah, why not.”

I pull a chopping board from a cabinet, a knife from a drawer, and a head of lettuce and a few tomatoes from the refrigerator. “There ya go.”

I turn back to the burgers, and I finally remember I keep seasoning in the cabinet closest to the refrigerator. That loosens me up a little, so I start to hum before I realize I probably sound off-key. I don’t have a good voice. Never have.

“So, the site has come a long way,” she says.

I look over at her; she’s standing on the other side of the oven, looking up at me through a strand of her pretty brown-blonde hair.

“Umm. Yeah.” Fuck me. I try again, hoping to pass as human this time, but all I sound is terse when I say: “It’s coming along.”

“Bad afternoon?”

I blink at her.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry, but you seem kind of like you had a rough day.”

I do? Of course I fucking do. I run my fingers through my hair: my go-to gesture when I’m about to lose my shit; one that no doubt makes me look like the strung out junkie I led her to believe I am. I heave a deep breath and cut my eyes her way. “You probably shouldn’t be staying here.”

“I shouldn’t?” Her hazel eyes widen just a little.

I shake my head. “I don’t share space well, and I don’t like making small talk.”

She opens her mouth, and a big, hot rush of guilt spreads through me. “I’m sorry,” I say. “That was really fucking rude.” I find myself telling her, “I had a shitty day, okay? I don’t want to talk about it. And thanks for your help with the—” I wave at the small spread of tomato slices out in front of her— “condiments or whatever.”

Condiments isn’t the right word, and that bothers me. Specificity is a thing I’ve always valued, and I can’t be specific because I can’t remember words I’m looking for.

The ECT was a bad decision. One I only made because…I wanted to forget my fuck ups. Naturally, I remember all my painful secrets clearly, and what I don’t remember is my way around the kitchen.

I season the patties while an uncomfortable silence fills the space. I steal glances at her hands to see the moment when she’s finished cutting tomatoes. When she is, I say, “There’s a TV over there by the table. Why don’t you turn it on and find something to watch? I’ll finish this.”

If she thinks anything of my suggestion, she doesn’t say so. She just sits the knife down on the edge of the chopping block and gives me a neutral-looking sort-of-smile before walking over to the small TV stand beside my dining table and turning on the TV. She sits down in that way she does things: elegant and smooth, like, I guess, the kind of girl she is. She flips channels while I finish seasoning the burgers and walk outside to my waiting grill.

SURI

I’m pretty decent at being discreet with my emotions, and that’s a good thing. Because I feel pretty uncomfortable sitting at Marchant’s table watching “House Hunters.”

I’m not sure what’s going on with him, but I’m worried I got in over my head. I mean, let’s be honest: I have no experience. The only addict I know is Lizzy’s mother, who battled various addictions for years before the long stretch of sobriety she’s enjoying now. Yes, Adam had/has a drinking problem, but I have a feeling that may be the minor leagues compared to what Marchant is going through.

Is it withdrawal? He said he’d been to rehab. Would they really send him home if he wasn’t ready? Maybe he left early. Lizzy’s mom used to do that. She also slit her wrists and one time jumped off the second level balcony inside their house when her dealer went on an extended visit to France.

Maybe I should go to the hotel.

But I don’t want to.

I think I need to get some more data before I consider my options, so I turn up the volume and try to focus on a house hunt in Atlanta.

But my mind whirls. I definitely don’t get the impression that he’s dangerous. Not to me. But is that foolish? I remember how I met him, inside that atrium at the Wynn. Is he dangerous? Obviously to someone who jumps him when he’s drunk.

But to me?

I hear the front door open and turn to see him step into the kitchen doorway. His arms are folded, and the sleeves of his white shirt, rolled up to the elbows, strain around his biceps. He’s unbuttoned it at his throat, so I can see a hint of his chest. My gaze drags down his slacks, touching his hips, his legs, even his shoes, before returning to his handsome face.