Chapter 1
lan experienced his tenth memory lapse, which unfortunately coincided with the night before our wedding.
Just as I had done the previous nine times, I climbed to the thirty-third floor, attempting to call back his spirit. To my dismay, I overheard him talking to his friend, Griffin.
It turned out the memory loss was a ruse, and he was planning to bolt from the wedding.
Griffin asked, “Aren’t you worried Lydia will be hurt?”
Nolan lazily replied after exhaling smoke, “She won’t know.” “Even if she finds out, she won’t leave me.”
“Do you think she could make it without me?” “Do you think everyone can be as independent as Aurelia?”
Aurelia. Nolan’s girlfriend during his ninth supposed memory loss.
They still kept in touch. I felt tears as I touched my face.
Instead of taking the elevator down, I walked from the thirty-third floor to the first and back up again.
I did this repeatedly through the night until 3 a.m., when the makeup artist bombarded my phone with calls and dragged me back.
She informed Nolan that I had a fever and couldn’t walk.
Ten minutes later, Griffin messaged me. “Nolan’s memory problem isn’t solved yet.”
“But I’ll ensure he picks you up on time.”
I sat in a daze as the makeup artist worked on me, clutching my phone.
From 5 a.m. to 7 a.m., 8 a.m., and then 9 a.m. The bridesmaids I had hired started to grow impatient, whispering among themselves:
“The groom isn’t coming, is he?”
“You mean… a runaway groom?”
“Impossible.” One bridesmaid firmly refuted. “I was personally chosen by Mr. Nolan. I’ve seen how he cares for Fiona.” “I’d rather believe it’s… an accident on the way.”
Perhaps it was an accident on the way. When Nolan first lost his memory, I thought the same.
It was my 23rd birthday, and Nolan had just received his first paycheck after graduating college. We planned to have a buffet.
I waited at the restaurant entrance, but he never showed up.
I called Nolan, but he didn’t answer. He didn’t reply to my messages either.
I called all his friends and searched the entire city. I finally found him at an unknown bar.
He held a glass, looking at me with a confused expression, and asked, “Who are you?” I could only cry.
The hospital couldn’t determine why Nolan lost his memory. A fortune teller claimed it was a lost soul.
A close relative needed to climb high and call his name all night; there was a good chance he’d recover.
Despite my fear of heights, I climbed to the thirty-third floor, closed my eyes, and called out with trembling legs:
“Nolan.” “Come home.” I shouted all night, cried all night.
My eyes swelled like walnuts. I couldn’t see clearly and accidentally fell from the thirty-third floor.
There was a large platform on the thirty-second floor, and I fell onto it, breaking a leg. Luckily, Nolan remembered me.
Later, he lost his memory a second, third, fourth… ninth time. I gained experience and was forced to overcome my fear of heights.
But the duration of Nolan’s memory loss grew longer each time. During the ninth time, he even met a new girl.
They had a fresh romance.
That girl was Aurelia. I was treated as the other woman and got doused in red paint.
Aurelia threatened, “If you keep bothering my boyfriend, next time it’ll be worse.” She also posted my embarrassing photos online everywhere.
I was cyberbullied, overwhelmed with insults.
I didn’t give up. I showed Nolan our wedding photos.
“We’re almost getting married.” He only said—dream girl. “Even daring to Photoshop wedding photos.” Aurelia slapped me several times, cut off my long hair, took photos of me naked, and almost posted them online.
Nolan’s memory returned just in time. He took me home, held me while I was terrified, and said, “Let’s get married.”
I closed my eyes, avoiding the mirror showing my messy hedgehog hair. I wiped away my tears and nodded. It was the fifth time I forgave him.
A tear was about to fall but vanished from my eye. I stood up. My overworked legs, after a brief rest, felt even more swollen and sore.
I almost lost my balance. I gritted my teeth and persevered. I took off my veil, pulled off my wig, revealing my messy short hair. I told the bridesmaids, “Your task is over early.”
For the tenth time, I wasn’t going to forgive Nolan.
During Nolan’s fourth memory loss, I knew he was lying. I couldn’t find a reason. I repeatedly told myself, “Just forgive him one last time.”
I convinced myself five times. Until last night, when I heard Nolan and Griffin’s conversation. “She’s not as good as Aurelia.” “She’s too boring.”
“Only knows how to crochet.” “Tease her.”
Until this morning, I waited and waited, but he never appeared. I staggered to find my suitcase and took out two crocheted dolls.
They were of an eight-year-old Nolan and me. When I was six, my dad was a long-haul trucker and rarely came home.
My mom, unable to bear the loneliness, cheated, and my dad caught her in the act. I watched them fall from a high building, both dying.
After a year in an orphanage, Nolan’s parents adopted me. Another year later, Nolan’s parents went mountain climbing with friends.
They died from hypothermia in an accident. On the day of the funeral, people surrounded me, looking down. They said, “Jinx.”
“Killed your biological parents, and now your adoptive parents.”
Hundreds of fingers poked my forehead.
I stood there helplessly. Nolan’s eyes were red, silent, staring at me. I instinctively wanted to say sorry. But he took my hand.
We passed a photo booth and took a picture together. He stared at the photo for a long time and said, “I’ll take care of you from now on.”
That ‘from now on’ lasted until I was twenty-seven.
I cut up the dolls. Packed all the crochet needles and yarn into my suitcase.
As I was leaving, the bridesmaid who defended Nolan stopped me. “Maybe you should give Mr. Nolan more time.” “He really loves you.”
I ignored her, but she persistently blocked me. “I’ve seen the wedding venue Mr. Nolan arranged for you, romantic and luxurious.”
“He even custom-made a wedding dress for you.” “Even we bridesmaids were personally chosen by him.”
“He said you’re slow to warm up, shy, and reserved, and asked us to take good care of you.” “He’s done so much for you, how could he not want you?”
I was silent for a long time. Finally, I raised my eyes and curiously asked, “Why is it that he doesn’t want me?” “And not that I don’t want him?”
I took off the custom-made traditional wedding dress.
Handed it to the talkative bridesmaid. Left the place and hailed a cab. The driver kept asking where I was going. “Anywhere.” I leaned back against the seat with my eyes closed.
My phone kept vibrating. The affluent lady, who frequently ordered crochet dolls from me, transferred money at 4 a.m. At 9 a.m., she inexplicably sent an apology. Followed by: “If you want a change of scenery, come to Bay City.”
She sent her home’s door lock code, assuring me she’s not a bad person and I shouldn’t worry about safety.
“While you’re here, I won’t return home.” “There are no cameras at home.” “Neighbors can vouch that I’m a good person.” “Or… I can show you my ID.”
The sticky and bitter wind blew against my face. I replied, “No need.” Three and a half hours later, I arrived in Bay City.
The fatigue was blown away by the fresh air of Bay City. I took two deep breaths and suddenly heard someone calling me from behind.
“Miss Fiona, Mr. Asher sent me to pick you up.”
The year Nolan got into college, I became a weaver, using crochet to support his studies.
At first, I was inexperienced. The dolls with crooked noses and eyes lay on the stall, ignored. In despair, I gave a doll to a boy who was bullied.
Later, as my skills improved, more customers came. I ran a stall and opened an online shop. I met the affluent lady through the online shop and added each other as friends.
Her profile picture was a silly doll, never used voice messages, and her texts were always polite. She regularly placed orders from me. I assumed she was a woman.
Only today did I realize the affluent lady was actually a wealthy young man. The driver wouldn’t say why. Until he parked in front of a villa.
I entered the password, and as the door opened, I was captivated by rows of handmade dolls. They were neatly displayed behind glass, warm and delicate.
On the coffee table in the middle of the living room was an envelope. Inside were tickets to the hottest male star Asher’s concert. Asher, too familiar.
Most customers who ordered dolls wanted his fan merchandise. I crocheted so many, so well, they became more lifelike, and business boomed.
Putting down the tickets, I tidied up and sent a message of gratitude to Mr. Asher. Halfway through typing, I received a call from Nolan.
The same old routine. He ‘forgot’ again, and his phone notes showed I was his future wife. “So, may I ask, are you really my fiancée?”
The voice on the other end was cautious, curious.
Early this morning, even three hours ago, I had been hoping for such a call. But now, all anticipation had been crushed into nothing by the high pressure and airflow.
I couldn’t help but laugh and said, “You got the wrong person.” Nolan and I grew up relying on each other, without the love of a father or mother. As I matured and learned more about love and how I wanted to be loved, I gave everything I could to Nolan.