"One..." His eyes flick down to my mouth and he wets his lips.

"Two..." He's not kissing me yet, but he's going to. His lips brush over mine with every word. He's got one hand on the wheel and the other on my upper thigh, sneaking his fingertips up the frayed edges of my tiny shorts. My heart rate skyrockets just from his touch.

"Hold on tight, baby," he says against my mouth as he revs the engine. It's pitch black out, and we're under a blanket of bright stadium lights. He's never taken me out on the track before. I'm buzzing with excitement; high on life, because he makes me feel like I can do anything.

Everything.

He makes me feel like no one ever has.

"You ready?" he whispers against me and I shake my head.I knot my fingers in his thick hair and pull him back to me. I kiss him hard and slow, slamming him back against his door with the promise of what's to come. When he pulls away, my stomach flips. I'll never get enough.

His warm eyes blaze beneath the long bangs swept across his forehead and I can barely breathe. It's not because we're about to strap in and take off at speeds well over 100mph. It't not because we snuck in the stadium and could easily be caught. He flashes me a smile and my world tilts off its axis just because he's all mine.

His warm hands guide me back to my seat and secure me in place.

"You ready now?" He pushes his hair out of his eyes, and when I nod, he shifts in the driver's seat and yanks the gear into drive...

"Three!"

Present Day

Holy shit.

I've been awake for nearly two hours, and unwilling to get out of bed. It's early. The clock on Ryan's nightstand reads 6:30 a.m. If we were home I'd probably get up and think about breakfast. Ryan always makes a huge pot of bold, dark roast coffee before he leaves for work in the morning. I could really go for a giant mug of it right now. But I've got something better than caffeine flowing through my veins right now.

I've got a memory. An honest-to-God memory of Ryan. Of us.

And I don't care how brief or vague it may have been. It was real. I got just a taste of how real we were. And as the days roll forward, I'm learning that we're becoming pretty real now, too.

No, it wasn't a dream; I was wide awake and looking up at him from my pillow as he lowered his lips to mine and delivered a sizzling goodnight kiss. And a memory.

The kiss was hot but shorter than the others we'd shared that day. We got back to his room well after midnight. We watched a movie after our pie. We laughed so hard we woke his siblings, and we played a few rounds of cards at the kitchen table. I was buzzing from a few bottles of beer and quick to shut him down when he offered to sleep in the guest room. The feelings I get from just being around him are thrilling enough to quiet the few doubts.

When he kissed me this time, and let his body hang over mine protectively, there was no where else in the world I wanted to be. I was treated with the only thing I've been asking for since I woke up from my coma. Familiarity.

I guess I'll never know what triggered it, but I'm thankful and hopeful that the more time I spend with him, the easier these memories will come. It's comforting to know the butterflies in my stomach aren't new at all; they've been around for years, warm and wonderful, even when I couldn't feel them dancing.

I haven't told him yet. I just kissed him back and said goodnight.

Needless to say, I barely slept last night. He crawled into the bed and tucked himself under the covers a comfortable distance away from me. He didn't move to kiss me again, but as the hours ticked away, he crept closer to me. He's shirtless and in a pair of thick black sweats, sprawled diagonally across the bed with his hand resting flat on my stomach. My heart is beating out of control just from the simple intimacy of it. The domesticity. It's something I don't remember feeling before now.

I don't want to keep things from him, especially since he's been so supportive and patient this whole while. It's been hard to explain the things that have come back to me slowly – his scent, a song, the sweet taste of his lips. I swear the things he thinks will trigger my memory never do; instead, they're dug up from simple things. Like spending time with him. Up until now, my memories have been feelings. Up until now, I wasn't sure I'd ever actually have a mental picture of us from before. I get the feeling our kisses last night have nothing on the heat bubbling between us years ago. I'm anxious to see where we're going.

You know how movie theaters pump the smell of popcorn through the vents to make a person lose her shit if she doesn't break down and buy a bucket? That kind of thing is going on right now, only it's fresh coffee. I'm torn between staying in this spot until he wakes up, and sneaking downstairs to see if the coffee is fair game. If I'm being honest, the caffeine might do me some good. Staying in bed with him all day could be wonderful, but also a bit overwhelming on my system. I'm supposed to be taking things easy, however I get the feeling Ryan's fully capable of working miracles on my body at any speed.

Yes, it's time to move now. My head's racing with the possibilities. I shift a little in my spot until he moves his hand away and I instantly miss his touch. He mumbles something about radiators, then he's back to a dull snore. In the interest of modesty around his family, I throw a zip hoodie over my thin strapped black tank top before I head downstairs.

There's something remarkable about this family. They've managed to make me feel comfortable and welcome without pressuring me to fall into old suit. I don't think I could've picked a sweeter Mother-in-law if I tried; she may only be mine through marriage, but I'm happy to have her.

"Morning, Henley," Harlow's perky voice calls from the other end of the kitchen. She's at the counter cutting cinnamon rolls into slices. The radio is on an oldies station and Jackson 5 is playing at a comfortable volume. Her dark hair is tied up in a loose bun like mine, and I can't get over how startlingly similar her eyes are to Ryan's. Yeah, he's speeding around in my head on overdrive lately.

I glance out the window and see the landscape blanketed with a fresh coat of snow. It's a god damn winter wonderland out there, and I'm glad we spent the night. I don't know if I would've gotten that memory back if I hadn't been sleeping beside him.

I eye the coffee pot and Harlow laughs.

"That's my girl," she reaches to the cabinet beside her and pulls out a huge ceramic mug. "Pour yourself a big ol' mug. Ryan said you were an earlier riser now. I called bullshit," she shrugs and licks icing from her fingers, then rinses them under the faucet. "Looks like he knows what he's talking about when it comes to you. Have you seen him yet this morning?"

I smile. She's fishing for information. I'm in a good mood, so I'll play along. I would love to make a few friends, and since Ryan tells me Harlow is my very best friend, this seems like a pretty good place to start. I pour myself coffee, dump in my usual half-and-half to sweetener ratio, and lean against the counter beside her.

"Um, yeah," I'm trying really hard to keep the blush off my face. My relationship with him feels sort of private and fragile, so I'm not about to dish out details about how far he's been sticking his tongue down my throat. What sister would want to hear that, anyway? "We got to bed super late and he's still sleeping. I can't remember the last time the sun was up before him."

She smiles widely and it's nice. I've always wanted a sister.

"Andrew's still sleeping, too. Worn the hell out, probably. Thanks to me," she takes a deep breath and fans herself. "I swear to God, Hen. We've been together for six years and it never gets old. They say marriage is the number one killer of good sex, but I'd have to disagree." Harlow's got a fun personality, as I learned last night during cards. I wonder how similar we really are. "And I'm ready to puke just thinking about it, but I'll tell you because no one else will. You and my brother?" She smirks. "Hot as sin. I only know because you're gross like that and like to over-share just to get a rise out of me," she teases.

Well okay then.

Thankfully, the subject changes on its own as I sip my coffee and eye the cinnamon rolls. She's dipping the slices into an egg mixture and dropping them onto a hot griddle to make french toast. The song ends and another upbeat one comes on just as Erin makes her way into the kitchen. She's in a pair of jeans and a soft cotton pink shirt and she's ogling the coffee pot like it's the last drop of water in the desert. I swear; Coffee is the common denominator in this family.

"Good morning, my dears," she says, flipping the newspaper open to find the day after Thanksgiving sales ads. "Not freezing your ass off this morning with the rest of the nuts to get Andrew this 72-inch TV for $200?"

"God no. Are you kidding, Ma?" She laughs. "You know I don't get into all that pushing and shoving. I'd much rather be in a warm house clicking buttons on a computer and drinking coffee, where I know I won't lose a finger if I get in the wrong person's way. Besides, Henley's here. We were just talking about our sleepy husbands," she flips the slices.

"Well breakfast smells delicious. I'm sure they'll be down in a few minutes," Erin says.

"Better put on a second pot of coffee because Andrew's a grump-ass without at least three cups," Harlow adds.

"It's 4 for Ryan. I'm seriously thinking about buying one of those coffee urns that holds like 60 cups," I joke. It's nice to be able to participate in this conversation, however trivial it may be.

"Your father was the same way," Erin explains softly as she looks at both of us. Ryan wasn't kidding when he said she treats me like her own. I know from Ryan that it's been five years since he passed, but her voice breaks in a way that makes it still fresh. I think about what it must be like to miss someone so much while knowing they'll never come back.

"Get a little coffee in him and he'd turn into a saint. Do anything I asked. Those men of yours are just the same." The sadness leaves her eyes and she's once again wearing that loving, motherly smile. "Hold onto them tightly and don't ever let go."

We're silent for a moment to let the uneasy feeling pass. I wish I knew the right thing to say to tell her how sorry I am for her loss and to thank her for making me feel like a part of this family. But before I can string together even a few kind words, Harlow's plating up the french toast.

"These look done to me. I say we get a round in before the boys wake up and eat 'em all."

We're seated around the table with our coffee and fancy french toast and talking about the card games last night when suddenly the mood shifts.

"I'm not trying to be nosy, but how are things going for you, honey?" Erin asks. She's got that calm look about her that says she's a great listener. And while these women are kind and wonderful, I won't share my memories with them before I tell Ryan. Instead, I give them something simple.

"Things are good. Ryan's back to work and once I get settled in again, I'll start looking for work, too," I tell them. They glance at each other, seemingly surprised, then both dig into their breakfast again and let me continue. I tuck this reaction in the back of my mind to ask Ryan later. "I need to stay busy. Staying home all the time gives me too much time to think."

And wonder. And worry...and I really want to be done with all of that. Trying to move on has helped me tremendously. If I stand around waiting to remember, I'd be missing out on all of this. I appreciate the way they're handling my situation; their smiles are more curious than sympathetic, and I don't feel like a victim.

Yes, I survived something I probably shouldn't have. I escaped with a few burns and a four-year vacation to dreamland while my parents suffered. I've steered clear of the details of that event so far because it's the one thing I'd be okay never remembering. I don't know how I got out. I have to assume I was there visiting my parents, since Ryan and I lived several states away, but I wonder what brought me back. Now that I know I'm safe, I'm itching for details about my relationship with them during the last years of their lives.

I do know one thing. I was a complete brat when I was 17, constantly doing things just to get their attention. And they weren't good things, like getting good grades or volunteering at senior living centers. No, I was a wreck, stuck somewhere between being a child and becoming an adult without any guidance. I'd make one horrible decision after another just to see if they'd scold me.

Since I attended boarding school, I did spectacularly bad things worthy of a phone call to my parents. I figured after awhile I'd get kicked out or they'd pull me out and bring me back so they could keep better tabs on me. I remember how shocked my teachers were that my actions seemed to flip overnight. I was the model student, well behaved until senior year. I wore pretty pearl earrings and my school uniform. I had perfectly pressed hair and was always playing the part of the dutiful surgeon's daughter with a bright future. But I realized I was acting, and the lies were getting me nowhere. In the blink of an eye, everything just snapped. I already had a ton of black marks on my name, and my purposefully bad choices made it worse. I lost myself in them. I became them.

Six years ago

"Miss Lewis. Are you with me?"

I'm sitting at my guidance counselor's desk in his big, organized office. His wall clock reads 9 a.m. I'm definitely off to a bad start of my day.

I focus on the papers on his desk so I don't have to look up at his eyes. We've been sitting here for ten minutes and he's yet to get a word out of me. He's 24 and gorgeous, and I'm 17 and drunk as hell. I can't promise I won't say something completely inappropriate. "Do you understand what you're doing in my office today?"

I nod, but it's a lie. I'm physically here, but my mind is everywhere else. I take a sip from my clear bottle and begin to scribble in my notebook. I'm numbed out and content to just sit here doodling.

"Henley," he says a little louder and takes the bottle from my hand. "Eyes up here."

I know what will happen when I look at him. He'll see the glazed look I'm sporting and send me to the school nurse, then to the psychologist, and finally the principal, where they'll determine I'm completely trashed and need to be suspended for a few days. But here's the thing. I just got off a round of suspension three weeks ago for repeatedly breaking curfew. I didn't get sent home. My parents didn't visit or come to talk sense into me.

I just got the usual, "Don't be foolish, Henley. You weren't put on this earth to tarnish our family name..." speech, and I'm pretty sure they sent a fat check to keep everyone quiet. The bastards at this school are money hungry enough to be paid off. No matter what I do, it doesn't work. But it can't hurt to keep trying. I just don't see any other way.

He unscrews the cap to my bottle and brings it to his nose.

"Surprise. It's not water," I say flatly. He shakes his head and recaps it, setting it on the other side of the desk away from us. His arms fold across his chest and gives me the you're-completely-unbelievable look. See, this isn't our first rodeo.

"You were sent here after your very first class of the day because Miss Barnes smelled alcohol on your breath. Never mind that it's not even 10 o'clock in the morning. You're underage. Do you understand the severity of your poor decisions?"

"I'm fine, Elias," I say. He's barely older than me, so I find it hard to take his reprimands seriously. I close my notebook and look up into his eyes, tucking a loose strand of my wavy hair behind my ear. Am I flirting? Who the hell knows. I can't separate right from wrong right now because it all just ends the same.

"For the hundredth time, it's Mr. Ellison," he says firmly. He takes in my full appearance and squeezes the bridge of his nose. "You're really working my nerves today, just so you know. Now be honest. How much have you had to drink today?"

I shrug and stare right back at him with a devious look on my face. I'm ballsy, and I think he sees it as a challenge. I swipe a framed photo of a yellow labrador retriever off his desk and attempt to focus on it.

"Cute puppy," I turn the frame around in circles, trying to wrap my head around the image. It's pretty blurry right now. I'm pretty blurry.

"I don't know what to say to you anymore, except you're too young to be ruining yourself. We've been in this office too many times this semester. From what I can see in your file, you didn't have any trouble until this year. Is there something we can do to help you?"

Yes. Kick me out.

"No," I say, setting the photo of his dog back down on his desk. "Like I said...I'm fine. I'm a kid. I screw up. End of story,"

"Get your things, Henley. I'll walk you to the nurse," he swallows. He follows me to the door and sticks his head into the hallway before I walk away. "We'll be placing a follow-up phone call with your parents. There are programs available to you if this becomes a problem. You're better than this. You've worked hard at school for years, but if you continue on the path you're treading, you won't be graduating with the rest of your class. Are we clear?"

"Crystal," I say, leaning against the doorframe. I move the strap of my bag up on my shoulder and do my best to walk a straight line to the other side of the building. Inside I know I haven't won a thing; I just can't stop.

Present Day...

Bratty doesn't begin to describe the way I remember myself. I'm regretful, even though I know it doesn't change a thing. I get the feeling it was only the beginning of my downward spiral, and that I have Ryan to thank for slowing me down.

I guess I did graduate on time. Ryan tells me we met when I was a freshman attending Stanford. I can't imagine I got there on my own, though. I doubt any of the staff would've written letters of recommendations. I'm sure my parents paid for Stanford to overlook my behavior, just so they didn't have to explain to the other country club members why their daughter didn't go to college.

Some parents, right? Always thinking of themselves.

I know I shouldn't compare Erin to my Mom and Dad, but sometimes I can't help it. Instead of parallels, I see opposites. To my parents, I was a problem they could shove off on someone else. Once I started acting out, it only got worse. They didn't bring me to their events anymore for fear I'd embarrass them. They wouldn't have approved of me marrying Ryan. His family is wealthy, but I get the impression he used to be as lost as I was. I'm not even sure they ever met him.

I'm thinking too much.

Harlow's up and pouring herself another cup of coffee and I'm jolted back to reality as I know it now. A warm house that feels like a home. A family I've only just begun to let in. I'm riddled with guilt thinking about how careless I was. Missing out on four years really puts life into perspective.

"I know this must be awkward for you," I manage. "I bet you never thought you'd get to meet your daughter-in-law all over again." I look at Erin and smile, because if I don't, I could easily