I really don’t want to do that. I want to get out of this hospital and learn to live. It just seemed less scary talking about it than actually doing it.

“I promise if you don’t like living there, we’ll make other arrangements.”

“Okay,” I whisper. “I guess you can take me home.”

Pulling into the long driveway of the house doesn’t spark any feelings or memories. I was hoping I’d be struck by a blinding burst of light, and all my memories would flash through my brain and settle back into their little niches where they belong, and everything would be normal.

Not that I know what normal feels like, because I can’t remember what normal is.

I only know what this feels like. And this feels awkward.

It actually feels a little scandalous when Asher grabs my suitcases from the back seat of his car and helps me walk the distance to the front door. I almost expect Ember Valentine to come flying down the stairs to confront her husband when we enter the foyer together holding hands.

Don’t mind me, Ember. I’m just here to be the new wife. Thanks for the house, by the way. You can go now.

I pictured Asher’s house to be smaller and messier than it is. The foyer faces a huge, curved stairway that comfortably divides the main floor in half, leaving the space airy and open.

One would think a rock star living alone for years would’ve turned their house into a bachelor pad with dirty dishes, clutter everywhere, and a pool table planted in the middle of the dining room, but there’s none of that.

Next to me, hopeful expectancy is rushing through Asher’s veins like a stormy river. I can feel it bouncing off of him.

I put him out of his misery. “Please breathe. Being here isn’t making me remember anything yet.”

He grins. “Can you blame me for hoping?”

“No.”

“How ‘bout a tour? Or would you rather just go to your room and unpack?”

“A tour sounds good if you don’t mind walking slow.” I gesture to the cane I have to use for balance.

“Not at all.”

He holds my hand as he slowly walks me through the main floor, helping me steady myself. The kitchen, dining room, and living room are modern mixed with dashes of rustic warmth. It’s chic but cozy, and I like it more than I want to.

“This is the guest suite the nurse will be staying in.” He points to an open door. “Her name is Sarah, and she’ll be here later this afternoon. She’ll help you with your physical therapy, and she’ll also help with house stuff like cooking and cleaning, little things like that. She’s had an extensive background check and signed an NDA.”

That sounds very businessy. “Why would she need that?”

“We don’t want anyone leaking information about your recovery, taking photos of the inside of our house or of us, and selling them or uploading them to websites.”

“People do things like that?”

“’Fraid so. Social media is insane.”

He leads me to a four-season porch with sunlight pouring in. A cream sectional with huge, fluffy pillows that looks like the most comfortable couch in the world takes up almost half the room. There are tons of plants—hanging from the ceiling, in the corners, on little stands. Several watercolor paintings of butterflies hang on the walls. Standing in this room gives me a sense of warmth and comfort, and I feel an odd pull to climb on that couch and never leave.

Does a part of me remember being in this room? Or is a big cozy couch just very tempting?

“We’ll talk about social media stuff when you’re ready. You’re going to have to be careful online.”

Confusion about social media is swept from my mind as I move closer to the wall of glass and view the backyard, which is like an oasis with its in-ground pool, jacuzzi, massive deck, stone statues, bird baths, and flower gardens with waterfalls.

“Wow,” I breathe. “It’s beautiful.”

He comes up behind me and rests a hand on my waist and his chin on top of my head. Affectionate, intimate touches of a couple comfortably in love.

“I knew you’d like it. You spent most of your time in this room, cuddled up on the couch with a big blanket, a cup of tea, and your journal. You loved watching the birds and the squirrels outside.”

Turning, I find myself with my face in his chest and his hand on the small of my back. I touch his arm with my free hand, wanting to be part of the affectionate moment instead of feeling like I’m in the way of it—like a wall between him and the real Ember.

I breathe in the scent of his cologne, which always calms me. I wonder if, in another time, I purchased it for him.

“I like this room. I like the butterfly paintings. They remind me of…” What do they remind me of? Where I was? Something else? I don’t know. “Did you hang them because I was coming here?”