I just took the cab home.
I promised myself that I would go to work after I visited her. In reality, I can't do that anymore. That couple accused me that I was the cause of her drug addiction. The saddest thing is. . . I believed them. I actually believed that I am the one at fault. For all I know, they might have just been gaslighting me, but it might have been real. Who am I to say? She never said anything. I can't trust that she hides no grudge against me.
In my silent tears, the cabman does not say anything. He just drives on until I get home. As I arrive at the entrance of my apartment, I can't even be bothered to check how much I gave him. It might have been way too much the normal cab fare, but I don't really care right now. I don't even pay attention to the guard at the lobby of the apartment. Even though he greets me well, I just drag myself towards the elevator to lift me away from here.
I open the door to my flat hurriedly and just toss myself on my bed. I can't even be bothered to change. All I could do is sleep away my pain.
*
I wake to the sound of a doorbell ringing. That's odd. I wasn't expecting anyone. I look at my alarm clock. It turns out that it's already 6 pm. I guess I must have slept that much. How could the doorman guard let a person into this building without my permission? I hesitantly open the door to take a peek of who it is.
In my groggy state, I must have been dreaming. Mateo! Still, even in his amnesiac state, he never fails to surprise me.
"Ms. Aguinaldo, good evening," he says brightly.
I clear my throat first. I know my hair is a mess and my eyes may be a bit puffy, but I try my best to be presentable. "Good evening," I say in return. "How did you find my home address?"
I know this is Mateo Macedo, but how can I know whether or not Ysabel is trailing behind him. I still hold the door just in case she might be there with her army of killers. "I asked your company," he replies. "Frankly, your boss questioned me quite too much for my taste. I merely explained to him the situation of my memory loss. Easily, he gave me the address as he sees that you might of help me in regaining my memories."
"Well, I suppose that explains everything," I say as I still hold on to my door out of suspicion.
"Don't be suspicious on me, Ms. Aguinaldo," he says calmly. "I will not harm you. I did not harm you the last time. What makes you think that I will harm you?"
"You do not know me!"
"I do know you. I just do not remember that I know you. May I come in?"
Seeing that no harm will come (and anyway, I can scream if he does harm), I let him in. I look outside first to see if anyone saw him come in. My neighbors are quite the gossip, and once they see this new person go in my apartment, they'll think we're unto something.
As he comes inside, I can see him already checking it out. I'm quite the minimalist in my décor. There's nothing much to see except elegance and what is needed. "You have a nice place, Ms. Aguinaldo," he says. "Did you decorate this yourself?"
Nobody ever complimented my decorations. Maybe it's because nobody ever comes here.
"Why, yes I did," I say in surprise. "Thank you."
All of a sudden, he pulls something from his back. I am surprised to see that he actually carries a bouquet of roses. And, suddenly, it all flashes before me as if it was just a summer day. It was a time where everything is good. It was a time when he was still courting her – my liar of a friend. This is the man that she betrayed – a genuine kind-heart that she broke into a thousand pieces. Who know what had happened? Maybe it was she who cheated first that led him to cheat in return.
"This is for you, mistress," he says.
I do not know how to take that thing. All I could do is stand as I see him try to hand it over.
"Why do you act so kindly to me?" I say while looking at the roses.
"Oh, was I rude towards you?" he asks innocently.
I nod silently. He had been rude to me, and yet, I had been rude to him. Many things had happened that I cannot even explain or apologize for.
"Well, consider this as my apology," he says cheerfully as he presents the roses once more.
Poor innocent Mateo. How could she break this kind-heart? I hesitantly take the bow away from him and set it aside. I don't want to reject his roses when he is just being kind. Actually, I am quite taken aback by this act. I know I'm a mess right now, but he does not judge me. So, thank you for being kind, I suppose.
Wait, what am I thinking? Why am I making this a big deal? I shake my head to clear my thoughts. This can't be. I turn to him again with a much serious face. I can't overthink this. "So, why did you want to see me?"
"I wish to talk to you about the memories of which I cannot remember," he says calmly. He turns to me with a serious face. "Tell me, if you really know, what caused my amnesia?"
That day. . . it flashes before my eyes as if it was only yesterday. That day. . . that day where she burned our hope. That day. . . that day I lost him. I shake those thoughts away. I need to be stronger than this. "It might have been caused by the drugs a murderer induced through a laced whiskey," I explain. "Ysabel, if you choose to believe me, killed some men. We were looking for evidence against her, until she tried to stop us. You had a drug-induced coma. That caused your memory loss."
"But then I woke up with her beside me," he answers back. "Something tells me that she was good to me."
"You can't know that for sure," I say. "I don't have enough proof to say it is her, but all you have from me is trust. Trust me. I will help you. I am just a journalist here to help you. I believe you now. I'm sorry if I ever doubted you."
He does not seem affected by my words. He just shakes his head as if he is in denial. "Will my memories return?" he answers blankly.
He sits on my sofa as if he thinks things through. I can't blame him for not believing in me. I have no proof to say that Ysabel did everything. I haven't even seen her directly face-to-face. I sit beside him to console him. Fortunately, he does not even fight it.
And then, the idea comes to mind. "What if I help you find your memories again?" I ask out of the blue.
All of a sudden, his face lights up. "Would you do that for me?"
"I am your friend," I say in return. "You helped me. I would do the same for you."
"How? Would you send me to a psychiatrist?"
"No, but I know of a person that would trigger an emotion within you," I say, grimly.
"Who?"
"Emma Concepcion."
The name comes bitterly from my mouth. As much as I don't want to see her for her lies, it must be. He needs her. She is the only one that would trigger a fire within him.