Chapter 2 Fake Sweetness, Revealing Details

# Chapter 2: Fake Sweetness, Revealing Details

A week into my new reality, and I still felt like an impostor in my own life. My closet was filled with designer clothes I didn't remember buying. My bathroom counter displayed skincare products I didn't recall using. Even my coffee mug—a custom-made ceramic piece with "J+T" embossed in gold—felt like it belonged to a stranger.

And then there was Terry.

I had to admit, this adult version of Terry Walker was nothing like the arrogant teenager in my memories. He was patient, giving me space when I needed it, answering my endless questions about our shared past. He cooked meals I apparently loved, though they tasted foreign to my 18-year-old preferences. He worked from home to help me adjust, taking video calls in the guest room to avoid disturbing me.

It was... unsettling. Like watching an expert actor play a role.

"Ready for lunch?" Terry asked, appearing in the doorway of what he called my home office—a beautiful room with drafting tables and architectural models.

"I guess," I replied, setting down a portfolio of my recent work. It was strange seeing my design aesthetic evolve in ways I couldn't remember.

Over sandwiches (mine with avocado, which 18-year-old me had always disliked), Terry suggested, "Maybe we could look through the love diary again? Dr. Chen said familiar stories might help trigger memories."

I nodded reluctantly. The diary had become a daily ritual—Terry would point out entries, explain the context, show me photos that corresponded to the stories. It felt like studying for an exam about my own life.

"Here's one from last year," Terry said, flipping to a page. "*2021.5.20 – You said my handwriting looked like a child's, but you still accepted my love letter.*"

Something about the entry nagged at me. I took the diary and examined it more closely.

"Did I really accept your letter?" I asked.

Terry's smile faltered slightly. "Of course. Why would I write it otherwise?"

A memory flashed—vivid and sharp. Senior year, Valentine's Day. Terry Walker approaching me in the school courtyard, holding out a red envelope. The snickers of his friends watching nearby. Me, suspecting a prank, taking the letter and deliberately dropping it into the trash can. Walking away as his friends erupted in laughter.

"Because in high school, I threw your Valentine's card in the garbage," I said slowly. "In front of everyone."

Terry's face paled. "You remember that?"

"It's one of my last clear memories before graduation. You tried to humiliate me with a fake love note."

"Jackie, it wasn't—"

"Don't call me that," I snapped. Only my closest friends called me Jackie, and in my mind, Terry Walker was still firmly in the enemy category.

"Sorry, Jacqueline," he corrected, looking wounded. "That Valentine wasn't a prank. My friends were laughing because they'd bet me I wouldn't have the courage to give it to you."

I shook my head. "Then why does this diary entry contradict what actually happened? If I threw away your letter in high school, why write that I accepted one later?"

Terry's expression shifted—so briefly I almost missed it. A flicker of panic before his features settled into earnest concern.

"Different letter," he explained. "That entry is about a letter I wrote you for our anniversary last year. You teased me about my handwriting but kept the letter anyway."

His explanation made logical sense, but something felt off. I turned back to the diary, scanning other entries with newfound skepticism.

"*2020.3.8 – You laughed when I tried to cook paella and nearly burned down the kitchen. You ordered Thai food and said it was the thought that counted.*"

I looked up. "I hate Thai food. I'm allergic to peanuts."

Terry's eyes widened. "No, you outgrew that allergy in college. We eat Thai at least twice a month now."

"That's medically improbable," I countered. "Peanut allergies don't typically disappear."

"Yours did," Terry insisted. "You discovered it accidentally at a restaurant in 2014. You have an EpiPen in your purse just in case, but you've never needed it."

I retrieved my purse from the entryway and rummaged through it. Sure enough, buried in a side pocket was an EpiPen. Still, the diary entry felt fabricated, like someone trying too hard to create a cute domestic scene.

Over the next few days, I began cataloging inconsistencies. Some were small—preferences that didn't align with what I knew about myself. Others were more significant—events that seemed physically impossible given what I knew about my personality.

"*2019.6.30 – We went skydiving for your birthday. You were terrified but said it was worth it to see my face when you pretended to pass out mid-air.*"

"I would never go skydiving," I told Terry when he showed me photos of us in jumpsuits, standing before a small aircraft. "I'm terrified of heights."

"You conquered that fear," he explained. "It was part of your 'thirty before thirty' bucket list."

But there were no photos of us actually in the air, just before and after shots. No video of this supposedly monumental moment when I overcame a lifelong phobia.

Then I found an entry that truly didn't make sense:

"*2020.11.14 – You cried during the meteor shower in Sedona. Said you'd never seen anything so beautiful. I almost proposed right there.*"

"We couldn't have been in Sedona in November 2020," I said, confronting Terry with the diary. "The world was in lockdown. International travel restrictions were still in place."

Terry's composure slipped. "Domestic travel was possible with precautions. We rented a private cabin, completely isolated."

"Then why does my work portfolio show I was completing the Henderson project that exact week? There are dated revision notes in my own handwriting."

Terry ran a hand through his hair—a nervous gesture I was beginning to recognize. "You might be confusing the dates. The medication you're on can affect your perception of time."

"I'm not confusing anything," I insisted. "You're the one who seems confused about our supposed history."

That night, while Terry slept in the guest room, I did some investigating. My laptop was password protected, but I knew myself well enough to try combinations of my mother's birthdate and our childhood dog's name. I was in within minutes.

My email history confirmed my suspicions about the Sedona trip—I had been in virtual meetings that entire week in November 2020. My calendar showed no gap for a romantic getaway.

I also discovered something else—photos of me at a conference in Chicago the same weekend Terry had written about us celebrating our anniversary at a vineyard in Napa. Unless I could teleport, one of those stories was fabricated.

The next morning, I confronted Terry with my findings.

"The diary entries don't match reality," I said, sliding my laptop across the kitchen island to show him the evidence. "Either I'm losing my mind, or these stories aren't true."

Terry stared at the screen, then at me, his expression unreadable. For a moment, I glimpsed the calculating teenager I remembered—the one who always had an angle, a strategy, a way to win.

Then his shoulders slumped. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I was just trying to help."

"By lying to me?"

"By giving you the relationship you deserved!" he exclaimed. "The doctors said familiar things might trigger your memory, but all you remembered about me was the worst version of myself from high school!"

"So you decided to rewrite our history?" I felt dizzy with betrayal and confusion.

"Not all of it," Terry insisted. "We really are engaged. We really do love each other. But some of the details... I embellished them to make our story seem more romantic. I thought if you believed we had this perfect love story, you might fall for me again while your memories returned."

I stared at him, this stranger who claimed to love me. "How much of the diary is real?"

Terry couldn't meet my eyes. "About half."

My stomach churned. "Which half?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he stood up and paced the kitchen. "I panicked, okay? I woke up one morning to find the love of my life suddenly hated me again. Do you know what that feels like?"

Despite my anger, I felt a twinge of sympathy. If I truly had loved this man before my accident, my memory loss must have been devastating for him too.

"I need to know the truth," I said firmly. "All of it."

Terry nodded, his expression grim. "I'll tell you everything. But first, let me get something."

He disappeared into his study, returning minutes later with a different notebook—this one plain and well-worn, not the fancy leather-bound "love diary" he'd been showing me.

"This is my actual journal," he admitted. "I've kept it since college. Everything in here is real—the good and the bad."

As he handed it to me, I noticed something odd about his fingers—ink stains and what looked like paper cuts.

"What happened to your hands?" I asked.

Terry looked down, as if surprised to see the marks himself. "Nothing. Just work stuff."

But I caught him slipping something into his pocket—what looked like crumpled paper and a calligraphy pen.

Later, when Terry left for a meeting he couldn't reschedule, I found myself drawn to his study. The door was unlocked, and curiosity overwhelmed my sense of propriety.

Inside, the desk was meticulously organized—except for a stack of papers hastily shoved into a drawer that hadn't fully closed. I pulled it open to find dozens of practice sheets covered in handwriting exercises.

My handwriting exercises.

Terry had been practicing forging my handwriting—presumably to add "my" entries to the fake love diary. Next to these sheets were printouts of old emails and notes I'd written, clearly being used as references.

I sank into his desk chair, my suspicions confirmed. If Terry had been manufacturing evidence of our relationship, what else was he lying about? Was our engagement even real? Were we even together before my accident?

As I turned to leave the study, my elbow knocked against a framed photo on the bookshelf. It was us at a charity gala—the meeting Terry claimed had rekindled our relationship. I examined it closely, noting the date on the event banner visible in the background: April 2019.

At least that part seemed to align with his story.

I replaced the photo and noticed a small box tucked behind several books. Inside was a collection of coffee cup sleeves—all from the same café, all with the same logo. Some were worn and faded, as if years old. Others were newer. All had dates written on them in tiny script.

The oldest one read: "First time she smiled at me. 2009."

I stared at it, a chill running down my spine. Had Terry been collecting mementos of our interactions since high school? Was this evidence of a long-term obsession rather than the whirlwind romance he described?

Just then, I heard the front door open. Terry was back early.

"Jacqueline?" he called. "There's something I need to tell you."

I quickly replaced the box and slipped out of the study, my mind racing with questions. Who was Terry Walker, really? And more importantly—who had I become in the years I couldn't remember?