Chapter One (Jane POV)

The tension is almost tangible within the walls of Rafael's tiny apartment. It feels thick, like a shroud, confining and oppressive and distinctly uncomfortable. I am vaguely aware that somewhere behind me, Rafael has dropped down onto the nearest chair and has buried his head in his hands. I don't know if he's crying right then but I suspect that he wants to.

I can imagine that this is a difficult moment for him. Witnessing firsthand your almost live-in girlfriend and hopefully soon-to-be fiancée have a reunion with her not so dead husband whom she had once rejected you for could not be easy. I know how he feels about Michael, all the deep-seeded insecurities he has harbored all these years and it breaks my heart to think that they might be resurfacing now.

And there is a very real part of me that yearns to go to him and offer heartfelt reassurances. There is a part of me that wants to tell him that nothing has changed, that I love him as much now as I did last night and that I will always love him. I want to tell him that this will not derail our lives in any way but…I can't. Because, right now, I don't know if I can make those promises at all. I'm not sure of anything anymore. Everything I thought I knew wasn't in the least bit true. It reminds me very much of how I felt when I first learned I was pregnant with Mateo, only back then, the circumstances had been reversed between Michael and Rafael. The irony of our present situation is not lost on me.

The truth is, I cannot let myself focus on Rafael and his pain because I can hardly see past my own. I can't comfort him when I'm crying out for comfort myself, when I'm so twisted up in confusion and questions and grief that I can hardly think. I have no idea how we've come to this moment. Surreal is too insufficient a word to describe it.

Michael is supposed to be dead. I grieved for him. I buried him. And then I tucked him away deep inside my heart so that I could move forward with my life. I did move forward. I fell in love again. I found my purpose again. I could believe in a future again, a future that didn't include him and I made my peace with that painful reality. And now here he is, standing in front of me as if none of that had ever happened.

There are two possibilities before me now…that Michael intentionally faked his death and allowed me to grieve for him this entire time or that someone had kidnapped him and, in the process, turned all of our lives inside out. Knowing Michael as I do (or, at least, I had), I am more inclined to believe the latter, especially when I suspect that Sin Rostro must be involved in this mess up to her perfectly plucked eyebrows. The Michael I knew and loved would have never put me through such hell, not on purpose. Never on purpose.

Still, I cannot dismiss the reality that the Michael standing before me now is not the Michael I had fallen in love with. This Michael is clearly uncomfortable in my presence and appears rather eager to be out of it. This Michael quite likely places no value on the history we share. This Michael doesn't seem half as shattered to see me as I am to see him. Honestly, the expression on his face, the blank way he's looking at me, this man doesn't seem like my Michael at all but it's difficult to reconcile myself with that particular truth when he has my Michael's face. And, for that reason alone, I know I'm not going to be able to let him go.

He is starting to shift and fidget and it's pretty obvious by the way his eyes keep darting nervously towards the door that he wants to get out of there. That prospect terrifies me more than I can put into words because I have no doubt that this Michael would have no problem walking out of my life and never looking back. I can't let that happen. I know that if it was to happen, it would shatter me into a million pieces and this time and I wouldn't recover. Not again. This time I wouldn't be able to put myself back together. So I do the only thing I can think of to get him to stay. I ask him to tell me a story.

It is evidently the last thing he expects because he blinks at me in startled confusion, his brow creased with an incredulous scowl. "Excuse me? You want me to what?"

"Where have you been all this time?" I ask him softly.

A few anxious ticks of silence pass before he finally says, "Texas. Houston mostly."

I regard him with a perplexed frown before glancing back at Rafael for confirmation. He merely shrugs, making it clear by his body language that Houston is indeed where he had found Michael but, beyond that small detail he is unable to provide me the answers I really needed. I turn back to Michael.

"Houston? I don't understand. What were you doing in Houston? Why did you leave in the first place? What happened to you?"

Now it's Michael's turn to shrug noncommittally. "I don't know. I was hoping you could tell me. I woke up in a hospital there six months ago."

His explanation only serves to confuse me further. I take an unconscious step closer. "A hospital? Why were you in the hospital?"

To my everlasting frustration, he simply responds with another shrug. "Your guess is as good as mine."

"That's not an answer."

"Okay. I will give you the details as they were told to me," he says, "Apparently, I was found in a ditch off the highway, half dead. The doctors told me if I had been there any longer, I would have been all dead and that's all I know."

"You don't know how you got there?"

"Nope. But if the ass beating I took is any indication, somebody wanted me dead." His levels me with a probing look that borders on mistrust and it guts me a little to see the suspicion in his eyes. "You wouldn't happen to know who that might be, would you?"

"No!" I cry vehemently because I almost sense a mild undercurrent of accusation in his tone, "I didn't try to kill you, if that's what you're implying! We were happy together. Everyone loved you, Michael!"

"Obviously not everyone," he avers sarcastically, his mouth twisted in a humorless smirk.

Strangely his acerbic reply unfurls a tiny thread of optimism inside of me because he almost sounds like my Michael and fills me with the hope that the man I married is still in there somewhere. "You were a police detective. You definitely made enemies with your work. It's very possible that one of them came after you. It's happened before." Truthfully, that is my primary theory right now. I'd stake my life on it. Michael, on the other hand, seems less than convinced.

He snorts a laugh at the very possibility. "You've got to be kidding me."

"What do you mean?"

"Lady, if you knew what I've been doing for the last six months just to survive, a police detective is not the first thing you would take me for."

My heart withers a little to hear the wry rancor in his tone. When I think about what his life must have been like all this time, how lonely and terrifying it must have been for him, I literally feel sick. "Well…you did used to steal cars with your brother when you were a kid," I whisper, "so your relationship with the law has always been little…spotty."

The faint smile that wobbles briefly at the corners of his mouth collapses completely when Rafael scoffs, "I guess old habits die hard."

I whip around to face him with a narrowed glare. "Really? You think that's necessary right now?"

Rafael's steely glare does not waver. His expression is stony with anger when he replies, "I'm just saying, Jane. He's not a boy scout. Stop trying to make him out to be one. That's always been your problem when it comes to him."

"That's not what I'm doing," I hiss before lurching around to give Michael my attention once more.

I can only imagine what he must be thinking following my terse exchange with Rafael. I'm not surprised when I see that he is darting a careful glance between me and Rafael, his keen, blue eyes filled with wariness and unspoken questions. He may not remember being a detective but that doesn't mean he's impervious to picking up on unspoken cues. Based on his frown, I'm almost certain he is wondering just what the hell he got himself into and whether or not he wants to be a part of it.

"It's complicated," I mutter in a terse tone when I read that exact expression on his face.

"I'm picking up on that," he replies, "Are you sure you want me to stay? Cause I'll be happy to take off if you two need to work some things out…"

I sidestep and block his path when he moves to do exactly that. "I don't want you to go anywhere. I want to know where you've been and what's happened to you all of these years."

"I've already told you what I know."

"What about before that?"

"I don't know about before that."

"Michael, you've been gone for five years and you're telling me you only remember the last six months of it?"

"That's what I'm telling you. I don't know where I was before. I don't know how I got to where I was. All I know is that I've been trying to figure that out for the last six months and a week ago…" he pauses to point at Rafael, "…that guy shows up at my house and tells me he knows who I am."

"Really?" I utter, turning this new information over in my head, "A week ago." I pin Rafael with an accusing glower. "Seven whole days and he never said a word."

"My God, Jane," Rafael cries in exasperation, surging to his feet, "Do you really blame me for needing some time to process the situation? Your husband just literally came back from the dead! Forgive me for reeling!"

"Oh well, please accept my sincerest apology, Raf," I fling back, sarcasm dripping from my every word, "Because, of course, this is all about you and your feelings! How could I be so thoughtless?"

Rafael hangs his head with a small, frustrated huff, resting his hands lightly on his hips as he takes a moment to collect himself. When he looks at me again, his gaze is imploring. "Don't look at me like that. I was trying to protect you. I couldn't come to you right away. I had to be sure that I was dealing with Michael and not an imposter. You know our history with that! I had to be sure."

"And how long did that take? When exactly were you sure and how long did you stay quiet about it?"

"I wasn't going to keep it from you indefinitely. I planned to tell you as soon as I knew for sure. That's why I invited you here tonight. I wanted you to know the truth."

"Yeah…just on your timetable, like always, Raf."

From the corner of my eye, I glimpse Michael fidgeting anew, growing increasingly discomfited as Rafael and I fight over him. He shifts his weight anxiously, his arms crossed in a defensive gesture and it's easy to discern that the only thing he wants to do is to get out of there. His next words confirm my suspicions.

"Hey…um…listen, I can see you two have a lot to work through and I don't want to get in the middle so I'm gonna head out and leave you to it…"

"NO!" Rafael and I shout in simultaneous vehemence. I slice Rafael with a withering glare before directing my attention back to a "ready to bolt" Michael. "Don't you dare move," I order him.

Michael holds up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Okay. Simmer down now."

"Where do you think you're going? You can't leave," I tell him, "You just got here."

He splays out his hands in a helpless gesture, as if supplicating reason from me, as if the expectation that he stay is irrational in itself. "I don't know what to tell you. I came here hoping to get some answers about my past. That's obviously not going to happen. I don't want to waste your time or mine."

"You wouldn't be wasting my time," I tell him gently, "You're my husband, Michael. You belong here."

"You see, you say those words but they don't mean anything to me," he says gruffly, "I want them to mean something. I really wish they did but they don't. And I just don't see the point in prolonging this whole thing."

"You don't see the point? Michael, you have a family. Your parents think you're dead. You have people who love you, who were devastated when they thought they had lost you. How can you not see the point?"

"Like I said…none of that means anything to me. I don't know those people and I don't know you."

"Well, how do you expect that to change if you leave?"

He might feel like we're perfect strangers but it's pretty easy to discern his motives right now. It's clear to me that what's driving him isn't disinterest but a loss of hope instead. He came here with high expectations for recovering his memories only to have them dashed. He doesn't want to stay because he fears the disappointment, the possibility that he may never find himself despite being surrounded by the familiar. He's afraid of the potential loss if he tries. His next statement to me confirms my assumption.

"Maybe it won't ever change," he replies obstinately, "It hasn't this entire time. I can't spend the rest of my life hoping for something that's never going to happen."

You've done it before. I nearly say the words aloud. I nearly remind him that, in times past, he had waited out my relationship with Rafael, even when it had seemed bleak, even when I rejected him again and again, because he had known in the end it would be the two of us…and he had been right. But that was the Michael I married and this Michael has clearly been broken too many times to have that kind of optimism. He has no point of reference for it. So I know I can't rely on the past to convince him because, at this moment, our past means absolutely nothing to him.

I decide to appeal to his reason instead. "You don't know for sure that you won't get your memories back and you won't know for sure…unless you stay here and try."

"Why would you want me to stay?" he retorts, "You seem like you've got your hands plenty full right now. I don't want to be dragged into the middle of your relationship drama."

I blink at him in dismayed incredulity. "Excuse me."

He shoves his hands into his pockets and regards me with a frank expression. "Why don't we just be honest here? You and him…" he jerks his chin curtly in Rafael's direction, "You're a thing. Am I right?"

Though I don't acknowledge it, I can practically feel Rafael's eyes boring into my back as he and Michael wait for my answer. Rather than confirming or denying the accusation, however, I circumvent his question altogether. "This isn't about Raf and me," I tell him, earning simultaneous groans of consternation from him and Rafael. "And it's not about you and me either!" I rush to add before Michael attempts to counter, "This is about family. You are my family, Michael. I can't let you just walk away. How am I supposed to live with myself if know you're out there confused and alone?"

"I won't be alone."

"That's not the point!"

"You don't have to feel guilty! I'm absolving you of responsibility."

"It doesn't work like that."

"Says who?"

"Says me! I can't go back and pretend you're still dead! Sorry to disappoint you!"

"It's not my disappointment that you should be worried about."

I almost throw up my hands in aggravation. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means that you don't know me and I don't know you," he reiterates, "We don't owe each other anything. I don't want you to get your hopes up or and I don't want to get my hopes up for something that seems like it's not going to happen. You know I'm alive. I know where my past is. Maybe this is all we can hope for. We should just move on from here."

"Are you kidding me? You are my husband! Until ten minutes ago I thought you were dead. Nothing is the same anymore! Do you not get that?"

"Yeah…I understand this complicates your life."

"You think?"

"So let me go. I don't want to make this harder for you."

"Then stop trying to leave! Do you think that's going to help? My whole world is upside down right now!"

"So is mine!" he fires back, startling me with his intensity and the loss of the guarded detachment he's held to so firmly. A beat of silence passes between us as he takes a second to compose himself. When he speaks again, his tone is softer and devoid of anger. "When I agreed to come here it was because I thought you might be able to help me find who I am," he replies gruffly, "I wanted that so much but… That's obviously not going to happen and I need to find a way to live with that."

"There you go again. How do you know it's not going to happen?" I charge him once again, "It sounds to me like you're just making assumptions because you're afraid."

"You're damned right I am!"

"The man I knew is not a coward!"

"And that's the point," he flares, "I'm not the man you knew! I don't even know who that is!" But he completely belies that statement when he winces guiltily after I begin to sniffle, losing the fight to keep my tears a bay. "Look, don't do that," he begs penitently, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry…I didn't mean to make you cry. Please stop doing that."

He rakes both hands through his shaggy, blond hair and expels a shuddering sigh. "I'm not blaming you. This is all my fault. I did this. I thought that if I came here, if I knew where home was, if I could be with the people who loved me, that all my memories would come flooding back and I would be who I was before," he says in a thickened tone, "But I'm here and I'm looking at you and you're saying all the things I've wanted to hear for so long and I'm still in the dark…and I can't help but feel defeated.

"I've been stuck this whole time because I don't know who I am, so I've never felt like I could go forward," he finishes hoarsely, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears, "Now it seems like I have no other choice. So I just want to do that. Just let me do that."

I whisk away the tears falling on my cheeks and square my shoulders. "Well, that's the difference between us, Michael. Maybe you want to move forward and pretend like none of this matters but…I'm not ready to give up on you yet. I just got you back."

"You haven't been dealing with this for the last six months! I have! I'm tired and I'm done."

He tries to walk away then but I'm beyond determined not to let him disappear from my life a second time. I snag hold of his sleeve to waylay him. "You haven't given it enough time," I argue stubbornly, "Yes, maybe you've been back in town for a week but you've been hidden away from your family and your friends this entire time.

"Instead of running, spend some time with us. Get to know us. Let us know you. Give yourself time to be home again…and I know your memories will come back."

He won't look at me. It's as if he's trying to build an emotional wall between us so that nothing I say to him will penetrate. But something in my gut tells me to keep fighting, that somewhere deep inside of him, Michael wants me to keeping fighting too. After all, he's the one who taught me how. And so I can't give up, even in the face of his continual rejection. I just can't.

"Don't you want to know what happened to you?" I whisper, "Aren't you even the least bit curious about who stole five years of your life from you…from us? Because I sure as hell want to know! I want them to pay for what they've done."

"Will it matter in the end?" he wonders softly, "All that time is still gone. I can't go back and get it. This is the way it is now."

"I won't let us be strangers, Michael. There's no way in hell."

I watch as conflicted emotions flicker across his face he finally turns to look at me again his blue eyes are full of weary acquiesce. He slumps forward with a heavy sigh. "Why are you pushing this?"

"Because you're my family and I love you."

His internal battle wages anew. I can tell from his posture and the stubborn jut of his chin that he wants to refuse me outright. Later, I'll reflect on this moment and allow myself to feel the sting of his rejection and apathy but right now I don't have time to wallow in self pity. I'm prepared to dog him until he capitulates and that determination is stamped all over my face. He knows it. I'm not going to let him walk out of here without one hell of a fight.

When his shoulders at last stoop in defeat, I nearly breathe an audible sigh of relief. He closes his eyes briefly, his lips compressed in a thin, determined line before he says, "Fine. Six weeks."

"What?"

"I'll stay for six weeks," he clarifies, "If I don't make any progress in that time then I'm gone and this is done. Agreed?"

I don't want to agree. In fact, my first instinct is to argue with him about how arbitrary and irrational his terms are. Surely he can't be serious about placing a timeline on getting to know his family, on reconnecting with his life. The very idea is ludicrous to me. But I realize that isn't something I can convince Michael of using logic alone. I have to prove it to him. He has to live it. He has to see and feel it for himself. He has to experience firsthand what it is to be loved and needed, to be a part of a family. Once he's experienced that I seriously doubt he will ever want to leave. I'm counting on it.

"Agreed," I consent finally, "Six weeks."

He emits a short, stunned laugh. "Okay. That was easier than I expected. I was sure you were going to argue."

"Well, I'm pretty sure it's going to work out in my favor, so…"

That provokes yet another incredulous laugh from him. "Are you always this smug or is that a special quality I bring out in you?"

"Only when I'm right," I reply sweetly, "and I'm always right about you, Michael."

He doesn't bother to counter that statement but the answering eyeroll he gives me in return before stooping to retrieve the small duffle bag next to Rafael's bed is more than enough. "Well, on that note, I think I'll get out of here now. It's been a long night and I need a breather."

"Wait!" I cry, watching with rising panic as he slings the bag up onto his shoulder, "Where are you going? I thought we had an agreement!"

"I said I would stay," he clarifies, "I didn't say I would stay here. Besides, I don't think your boyfriend's too keen on the idea of us being roomies so…"

I spare Rafael a brief glance to confirm to the validity of Michael's assertion. He definitely looks less than thrilled, his eyes shimmering with a mixture of frustration, pain, anger and grief. His jaw is set tightly and even from a distance I can sense the tension coming off of his body in waves. I push down my apprehension over his mood and what he must be thinking right then to focus on Michael once more.

"Where are you going to go? You don't know your way around the city. You could get lost."

"I'm a big boy. I'll figure it out. GPS is a modern marvel."

"This is ridiculous. Why don't you just come stay with me and my family?" I offer a little desperately, "We would be happy to have you. My dad is going to go absolutely nuts when he sees you."

He is already shaking his head in refusal before I can even finish. "I don't think that's a good idea. This is overwhelming enough. I can't have too many people coming at me right now."

"Okay, okay, if that's too much pressure on you, Raf and I have friend who owns a hotel. We can get you a room there. It's really nice. You'll be very comfortable. How about that?"

"No, thank you. I don't need your charity."

"Michael, it's not charity. I-,"

"—Listen, if I'm going to do this then it has to be my way and on my terms, okay?"

I somehow manage a nod of agreement without bursting into to tears. "Okay."

Maybe he senses that I am very near to breaking down again because, inexplicably he softens after that, relaxing his guard completely for the first time since our whole crazy encounter began. "I'm not going to disappear on you. I can't tell you that this is going to work out the way you want but I don't go back on my word. If I make a promise, I keep it. You understand?"

"I understand." By some miraculous feat I manage to whisper out a weak, "Thank you," without breaking down into noisy tears.

"You're welcome." He straightens and secures his bag onto his shoulder once more. "You should probably give me your phone number so I'll know how to get in contact with you."

"Oh yeah, of course…" I am still rooting around aimlessly for a pen and paper when Rafael seemingly materializes from nowhere and provides them for me. I favor him with wordless look of gratitude before scribbling my contact information onto the sticky pad I've been provided. After I'm finished, I pass the note to Michael. I refrain from asking for his phone number even though I really want to. I know I'll be pushing my luck if I do.

"Call me whenever you want," I tell him, hoping I don't sound as frantic as I feel, "Day or night. I mean it. I want to hear from you."

He reads the note aloud. "Jane Villaneuva-Cordero? That's your name?"

"Yes. And your name is Michael Cordero. You were named after your father and you turned 34 years old last month."

"Thank you. It seems stupid but…I've been wanting to know how old I am for a while," he says in a wonder-filled tone, "So I'm a junior, huh?"

"You are a junior. Your mother's name is Patricia. And you have a younger brother. His name is Billy but you two haven't always gotten along."

His blues eyes become bright when tears when he asks, "What about us? Do we have kids?"

"No." There is an inexplicable sadness that settles in the pit of my stomach with that answer. I ignore it and finish by saying, "But I have a son and we were raising him together."

"What's his name?"

"Mateo. He'll be six years old in a couple of months."

After he takes a minute to let those small but profound fragments of information wash over him, Michael offers me a fleeting smile before folding the sticky note in half and tucking it into his breast pocket. "I'll be in touch," he promises before heading towards the door. He stops briefly to address Rafael. "Thank you again for me bringing here."

"I didn't do it for you," Rafael replies stiffly, his eyes locked on me as he does, "I did it for Jane."

Michael accepts that laconic response with little more than a nod and then he's gone. And it isn't until that moment, when the apartment is silent and empty of his presence that it really, truly hits me that Michael is alive. He is ALIVE…and somehow Rafael knew about it. And suddenly I'm consumed with the need to know how.

I meet his glittering stare with my own. "Alright, you're going to tell me everything you know…starting right now."