“I only remember this one,” she says softly. “I can’t remember anything else.” Traces of panic thread through her voice.

I cup her face in my hands. “That’s okay, baby. The rest will come. But this is awesome. You’re remembering things, little by little. That’s all that matters.”

“I said yes to you.”

I laugh, and my heart feels like it might explode. “You sure did.”

She wiggles her finger, and the stones glint and sparkle. Her eyes do the same.

“It’s so pretty. Can I keep it?”

“Hon, it’s yours.”

“I want to wear it. Should I keep looking around?”

“I was hoping you would.” I pick up her cane and hand her the cup of tea. She thanks me and drinks a little as her eyes rove the room.

“We each have a walk-in closet,” I say, sitting on the chaise so I don’t hover on top of her. “Yours is still filled with clothes.”

“Aren’t they rock star clothes?”

“There might be some stage clothes in there, but there’s a lot of jeans, blouses, yoga pants, dresses, about a hundred pairs of shoes,” I tease.

A leery glance is cast toward the closet. “Maybe I’ll look later. I like my own clothes.” She walks to the glass doors overlooking the balcony. “This is nice.”

I sit quietly as she walks around the room like it’s a museum, touching little trinkets, peeking into drawers. She pauses beside the bed and stares down at it.

“Is this our same bed?”

“Yup. You slept on that side.”

I always stayed on my own side, even sleeping alone. In my mind, and in my heart, she was always right there next to me.

She sits on her side and runs her palms over the comforter.

“It smells like you in here,” she says. “I don’t mean that in a bad way. You always smell like a holiday I can’t remember, or maybe it doesn’t exist at all.”

“It’s funny you say that, because I can still smell your perfume here.”

She crinkles her nose and smiles at me. “I only smell you.”

Her eyes stay on me as I walk to the nightstand next to her side of the bed and open the cabinet door beneath.

“This is what I really wanted to show you.” I pull the leather journals out and lay them on the bed in front of her.

“What are these?”

“These are your journals.”

Curiosity flashes in her eyes. “All of these?”

“Yes. I made one for you every year. My grandfather taught me how when I was young. I gave you the first one not long after we met.”

She brushes her fingertips over the aged leather cover of one of the books, nudging at the brass lock.

“They’re locked?”

“The key is on a necklace in your jewelry box. It opens all of them.”

She points to the old key around my neck. “What about that one?”

“This one,” I lift the chain from around my neck and untangle it from my long hair, “opens something very special. You used to wear this every day, but when you got hurt, I started wearing it.” I hold the chain over her head, and she ducks into it as I put it around her neck. “Now it’s yours again.”

She touches it lightly. “Does it open a journal?”

“I can’t tell you. If you remember what this opens, then I think you’ll remember everything.”

“Wow. No pressure there,” she teases.

“I have faith in you.”

Smiling, she lets out a breath and turns her attention back to the journals. “It’s cool that you made all these. What did I write about?”

I wish I knew.

“I never read them. I was hoping if you read them, it might help you connect to yourself. It might be a good way for you to revisit your past in your own voice rather than me or someone else telling you.”

She tilts her head and shuffles the journals around. “Which one is first?”

“There’s dates on the inside. You’ll have to open them to see.”

“What if there’s bad stuff inside?”

Good question.

“I don’t think there is, but if there is, you have a right to know. We’ll cross those bridges if we have to.”

“What if I find out Ember was having a torrid affair with the gardener or the pool boy? Or both? That happens a lot in your mom’s books.”

Thanks, Mom…

“Well, that’s not real life. It’s fantasy stuff in a book.”

“People have affairs in real life.”

“That’s true, but I’m sure Ember wasn’t having an affair.”

Shit. I just referred to her as someone else.

“We were happy. Me and you,” I clarify. “Both of us are against any sort of cheating.”

She arranges all the journals in a neat tower.

“This many journals happy? This is years of writing down thoughts.”

“I’m sure.”

“You seriously never read any of these? Not even a peek?”

“Nope. They’re private.” I was tempted to read them. Many times. I can’t count how many nights I sat here with a journal in my hand on the verge of unlocking and reading it. To be close to her. To learn more about her. To find out if there were things she thought about or wanted that I didn’t know. I always put the journals back. Unread. No matter what, they weren’t mine to read. It would’ve been worse to read things that might have dredged up questions that I’d never be able to talk to her about and get the answers to.