He managed to lose himself in that kiss for just a moment - for just a heartbeat, all that mattered were warm lips against his and someone who cared about him. But then the moment shattered - Summer stepped back, mumbling words that felt like a slap in the face to him, somehow, before she turned and was gone, leaving him standing in the drive of a house that was supposed to be home to face people that were supposed to be his family.
He watched her disappear into her house, and watched her door for longer than that, as though it could somehow explain things, help him through this. But of course it couldn't; by the time he shook himself out of his stupor, the sky was turning red and orange and he turned on his heel, walking with no little trepidation up to the door of the little white house and knocking.
What ensued was nothing like what he'd imagined. The elderly couple that opened the door and welcomed him into their home were supposed to be his parents, but after two days he felt more like a boarder than their son. Yes, they'd been happy to see him back - his mother had given him a stiff hug and his father had given him a stiffer handshake; they'd cleared the room that was supposed to be his of four years of accumulated junk and so he'd been sleeping on a little twin bed that he suspected, given that he couldn't remember, he'd had since he was a kid. The desk held a typewriter and the bookshelf a number of dusty, worn books, and he'd spent the next day with them because his parents had puttered around the house but seemed to not be quite sure what to do with him, how to talk to him, and he certainly wasn't sure how to talk to them. Oh, they talked, but it was about which of his siblings had said what and how thin he'd gotten and how he could help clear the leaves from the backyard now that he was home - nothing about how to remember who he was, nothing about Summer, the girl across the street who'd hung their star in her window, nothing about how to get back whatever life it was that he'd left behind.
On his second day home, his mother had asked him why didn't he go down to the news office and ask for his job back. Robert had just stared at her - how was he supposed to do that when he hadn't even remembered he was a newswriter? He'd made some excuse, saying he'd do it that afternoon, picked at the breakfast his mother had set in front of him, and gotten the hell out of that house as fast as he could. Somehow another minute there felt like it would drive him crazy, and he'd only been home for a day. He'd wandered the town until his feet hurt, garnering looks and waves in his uniform (his clothes had apparently been packed or sold and no one had found them yet) but no memories surfaced past a feeling when he passed the park or a little glimmer of something when he passed the bookstore, things like that. Nothing solid, no evidence of the life he'd clearly had, and even stopping in a soda shop for lunch and looking through the book he'd grabbed off his shelf - Homer's Iliad - did little for his memory or his mood.
He spent nearly all day simply wandering, never actually finding the news office (though he hadn't really bothered) but eventually he found his way back to Carmita - but his feet took him to the other side of the street, to the house with the blue star in the window, and almost before he knew what he was doing he'd knocked on the door, feeling at once miserable, nervous, and hopeful.
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He watched her disappear into her house, and watched her door for longer than that, as though it could somehow explain things, help him through this. But of course it couldn't; by the time he shook himself out of his stupor, the sky was turning red and orange and he turned on his heel, walking with no little trepidation up to the door of the little white house and knocking.
What ensued was nothing like what he'd imagined. The elderly couple that opened the door and welcomed him into their home were supposed to be his parents, but after two days he felt more like a boarder than their son. Yes, they'd been happy to see him back - his mother had given him a stiff hug and his father had given him a stiffer handshake; they'd cleared the room that was supposed to be his of four years of accumulated junk and so he'd been sleeping on a little twin bed that he suspected, given that he couldn't remember, he'd had since he was a kid. The desk held a typewriter and the bookshelf a number of dusty, worn books, and he'd spent the next day with them because his parents had puttered around the house but seemed to not be quite sure what to do with him, how to talk to him, and he certainly wasn't sure how to talk to them. Oh, they talked, but it was about which of his siblings had said what and how thin he'd gotten and how he could help clear the leaves from the backyard now that he was home - nothing about how to remember who he was, nothing about Summer, the girl across the street who'd hung their star in her window, nothing about how to get back whatever life it was that he'd left behind.
On his second day home, his mother had asked him why didn't he go down to the news office and ask for his job back. Robert had just stared at her - how was he supposed to do that when he hadn't even remembered he was a newswriter? He'd made some excuse, saying he'd do it that afternoon, picked at the breakfast his mother had set in front of him, and gotten the hell out of that house as fast as he could. Somehow another minute there felt like it would drive him crazy, and he'd only been home for a day. He'd wandered the town until his feet hurt, garnering looks and waves in his uniform (his clothes had apparently been packed or sold and no one had found them yet) but no memories surfaced past a feeling when he passed the park or a little glimmer of something when he passed the bookstore, things like that. Nothing solid, no evidence of the life he'd clearly had, and even stopping in a soda shop for lunch and looking through the book he'd grabbed off his shelf - Homer's Iliad - did little for his memory or his mood.
He spent nearly all day simply wandering, never actually finding the news office (though he hadn't really bothered) but eventually he found his way back to Carmita - but his feet took him to the other side of the street, to the house with the blue star in the window, and almost before he knew what he was doing he'd knocked on the door, feeling at once miserable, nervous, and hopeful.