We found two lounges in the corner, away from everyone else, but still with a view of the whole pool, and the entrance to the center beyond it. I spread my towel out on the chair and took off my cover-up, getting nervous goose bumps across my belly. I could feel Chris staring at me before I even got the cover-up over my head.

“What?” I asked, sharp, unfriendly.

“Nothing,” he said. “Nice suit. I didn’t really take you as a ruffle type of person.”

“It’s old, okay?” I snapped. I wished I had taken the time to go shopping this afternoon. Gotten a one-piece. A plain black one-piece. Ugly and boxy. With a skirt.

Chris stretched back on the lounge, then took off his shirt and draped it over his head to shield himself from the sun.

“You’re going to get a stupid-looking tan line doing that,” I warned.

“I’m not here to tan,” he said.

“Fine. Look ridiculous. See if I care.”

“Says the girl in a thirteen-year-old’s bikini.”

I felt myself blush and crossed my arms defensively. “I was fifteen, thank you.”

He gestured toward my chest. “You’re going to get a stupid-looking tan line doing that.” I glared at him; he chuckled.

Slowly, I uncrossed my arms. “Whatever.”

“Seriously, you look great. I’m just giving you trouble,” he said. “Not that I’m looking. I know how you are about that. Especially when you’re half-dressed in front of a camera.”

“Funny how selective your memory loss is.” I made air quotes around memory loss.

“I’m starting to remember a lot of things.” He leaned back in his chair again and crossed his arms behind his head. “Now I’m just hoping to remember why I was at this place. And what it has to do with that guy whose name you saw on my computer. If it has anything to do with him.”

I sat back, too, and was silent. Several employees came and went, relieving the lifeguard, chatting with one another; there was a shift switch at the snack bar. Every time I saw a new person, I flicked a glance at Chris, who was watching, nearly motionless. Either that, or he was sleeping. Impossible to tell behind those glasses. The late afternoon sun warmed us, then baked us, and suddenly he stood up and tossed his shirt onto the lounge next to him.

“Hot,” he said. He kicked off his flip-flops and headed toward the pool. I got a full view of the scars—surgery scars and some slick, pink spots where the road had ripped off his skin. I glanced away before he could notice I was looking. “Come on. I know you’re hot. I can see you sweating.”