a/n: sooooo... thanks so much for the reviews! :) There wasn't as many as I hoped, but still, thank you so much to the ones who did! :) I wrote this chapter a little differently. It is first person point of view. Sometimes I like writing that way. If you absolutely hate this way of writing, tell me. I'll try to avoid writing it this way, if you feel that way. Anyways, thanks so much for the reviews :) Also, not much Spoby in this chapter. Sigh. Sorry. I promise things will explode soon.

Chapter Three

"Happiness feels a lot like sorrow."

- The Fray; Happiness

"You're late," is the first thing he says to me, which produces a heedless eye roll.

"Yes, I may have lost my memory, but I didn't forget how to read a clock! I know I am," I grumble out, slamming the car door shut a little too hard.

He sighs, his hands clenching the steering wheel. He licks his lips, looking irritated as hell, and stares out the window. "I just—I know you don't want to go to these things, but Spence, there good for you. They'll help."

"I know, but I don't see why you, or my fiancé, or my parents, or anyone should have to drive me. I'm perfectly capable," I cross my arms, keeping my stare on the house.

"You should try being nicer to him," my brother, or half brother, obliges.

"I am nice to him!" I exclaim, moving my attention on him.

He cocks his head to the side, giving me a pointed look.

"What do you want from me? I'm trying my best…" I sigh, exasperated by all of this.

"I know you are," he claims, his voice becoming soft. "You're a real fighter, Spence. You're probably the strongest person I've ever known. You've been through a lot, but he's my friend. And he's kind of going through a lot, too."

"I'm trying to remember," I say, my voice breaking. Sometimes I get really emotional about this, because no one understands. They all think I'm just being selfish. Maybe I was before, but I'm not anymore. On Friday, I decided to make a change. I would try to be better—to give more effort in remembering. I just wish people would have a little more understanding with me. They have no idea how much it hurts—what the feeling of not remembering a portion of your life is like. I feel like screaming most of the time. "I just—can't."

"I know," he says after a minute, "I just—I'm sorry. I have no idea what you're going through."

I breathe out a thank you, because I don't need him on my back, too. My parents already give me a hard enough time about it all. They think I'm wasting my time—that I could be graduating from Law School right now if I would just remember it all—as if it were that easy.

He drives me to my therapy session, and a normal conversation spurs up between us. I'm relieved. So much talk of memory-loss gets nauseating after awhile.

"Bye Jason. Thanks for driving me, even though I'm—" I begin to say, but his words chop into mine.

"Perfectly fine doing it on your own, I know. I'll talk to your parents about it."

"I'm not twelve, you know," I reply dryly. "But thanks," I say, because it is the first time I feel like anyone has believed in me since the accident. I almost forgive him for accusing me of being rude to Andrew. Almost.

I go into therapy and Dr. Wellington, or Sandra, as she always beckons I should call her, already has that annoying clip board out. Every time she writes something in it, I just want to go over there and rip the page out. Why should she have documents about me? Who the hell is she? She is just some random person. I've only known her for a couple months. Why does she get the privilege to break in to my mind?

I take a breath, reminding myself that I promised I would try. And if I am going to try to remember, I should probably start actually opening up to Sandra. She is certified in psychology. She can probably help me more than anyone else can.

"Take a seat, Spencer," she nods toward the chair.

I follow her decree and take a seat, clasping my hands together. I put on my best smile, "Hello Sandra."

"Wow," her eyes widen. "Something good must've happened this weekend? Yeah?"

The first thing I think of is that carpenter. I curse myself. "Not much," I shrug. "I just," I take in a breath. "I'm ready to remember."

A pleasing smile comes across the middle aged woman's face, "I've been waiting for you to say that—or at least show it. You've covered the first part; now let's put those words into action. Being ready to face your turmoil, is the first step to recover from it."

We begin our session, like we always do; her asking me my last memory. Me, telling her it was the Fonder's Day festival. I tell her who I was with, and what the smells and sights were. But unlike all the times before, this time I tell her how I felt. How I actually felt that day. Not what I told everyone that day. Not what I told Dr. Wellington. I tell her the truth. I bring down my wall.

"I wasn't in a good place. I was more than stressed—it was like, I don't know. I was just so overwhelmed. I felt like I was going to break down at any second. No one was in my corner…I just…felt alone."

"And how do you feel right now?"

"Not like that, but...not good, either."

"Does that have to do with what happened?"

"Of course it does."

We continue the session, and I feel really emotional, and reckless. I cry. I let myself cry in front of her! It is embarrassing, but I know if I am going to get any better, this won't be the last time she sees my tears.

I leave the session, feeling a little better than I did before I went in. It's a nice feeling—getting things off your chest. It makes me feel lighter, in a way.

I try to find Jason's car, but I can't find it anywhere. I bring out my phone to call him, and I see I already have a text from him.

"Andrew's picking you up. Sorry. He begged me. – J"

"Spencer!" a voice calls out.

I look around, and see Andrew. He is leaning on his ford focus, wearing a cardigan, even though it is already warm enough outside to go without long sleeves. I walk over to him, offering a smile, because I'm in a good mood.

"Hey," I murmur.

He's sort of my acquaintance now, I guess. But it always just feels weird because we are supposed to be engaged. Or we were engaged. I don't know if we are still. I don't wear my ring, but he wears his. He seems to get it.

"Sorry, I know you were expecting Jason," he sighs, "but I don't have classes today, and I figure that maybe…we can hang out a little."

I take in a breath, "I'm kind of hungry."

"Great!" he grins, opening the passenger door for me.

I settle inside his car, and hear the door slam beside me.

He is soon in the driver's seat, buckling up his seat belt, and starting the engine.

We go to some pretentious restaurant. Like really, really, pretentious. Like, I've never seen anything quite like it before. Does it make me pretentious to judge it like this? I'm not sure. But I feel like I'm surrounded by pompous people. Arrogant, judging, people. I'm not even wearing anything for a restaurant like this! But I don't complain, because I feel bad for him, and he is trying to show me what we used to be like. In a way, it's sort of sentimental. He's sweet, really. He just…doesn't seem to think things through…

This place reminds me of somewhere my parents would bring me. I cringe. Was I on the verge of becoming them? Is this who I am now? Did law school really do this to me? It couldn't have. Maybe they just have really good food.

As our lunch date proceeds, I learn the food is okay, but outrageously overpriced. This food sure isn't quality enough to be priced like that!

I try to complain about the prices with Andrew once we leave, but he doesn't really think anything of it. He just shrugs, saying it doesn't really matter. I guess it doesn't when you have money coming out of your pockets. I question how I managed to pay for all of that. Then a horrible thought enters my mind.

"Andrew?" I say on the way back to my parent's house.

"Yeah, Spencer?"

"How did I pay…for all that?"

"Your parents' allowance," he answers like it is the most obvious thing in the world. He gives me a look of incredulity, an amused smile on his face.

I shrink back in my seat, afraid to ask anything else. My parents paid for my college tuition (well, the tuition that was not covered by my scholarships,) but everything else…I was doing all on my own. I sure as hell wasn't getting any allowances. I felt bad enough getting a loan from them! Oh, God. Who am I?

Andrew drops me off, telling me that today was really fun. He even hugs me. I hug him back, too. It is a little awkward, but comforting…in a way.

I go back into my parent's house, and find my sister, Melissa sitting at the counter, eating some fro-yo. She has been living here for a while. She's pregnant, and her husband is in London, doing some work, I don't know the details, but I can't help but feel bad for Melissa. She is already falling into what my parents' marriage is like.

"Hey, Spence," Melissa greets me.

She has been strangely nice to me. It feels unnatural, but I'm not going to complain about it.

"Hey. How are you feeling?" I ask. She is eight months pregnant. I'm kind of glad that I'll actually be able to remember her giving birth.

"Pregnant," Melissa responds, a chuckle escaping her lips after.

I offer a smile.

"You were out later than usual," she observes, putting a spoon of yogurt in her mouth.

"Andrew took me to some restaurant," I explain, coming closer, and dropping my bag on the counter.

"Oh. Was it The Revenue?"

I narrow my eyes on her, "how'd you know?" I ask skeptically.

"It was your favorite restaurant," she explains, sucking on her spoon.

God, it was? My self-loathing is increasing by the minute.

I need to sort this out. I need to talk to someone who is in my side. Someone who has always been with me. My mind wanders to three people.

But, first, there is someone else I want to talk to. Just because I like talking to him. I like having someone who doesn't know my past. "Is Toby still here?" I ask Melissa.

"What? The carpenter?" a wrinkle forms above her dark eyes. "I think so," she tells me. "Why?" she sounds more disgusted than confused. Typical Melissa; looking down on anyone who doesn't make 100,000 dollars per year, or more.

I gulp, "I have sort of befriended him."

She gives me a pointed look.

"What? I can't make friends?" I snap at her. Suddenly I feel like I'm in high school, again—both of us living at home; Melissa frowning at my choices.

She shrugs, "I'm just—surprised," she mumbles, looking at her spoon as it collects the lone yogurt from the sides of the cup.

"Surprised about what?"

"Nothing, Spencer," she sighs, getting up to throw away the empty yogurt cup. She gives me one last look before leaving the room, "I'm just not used to this—you. It's been awhile since you've acted this way."

"What way?" I demand, but it lacks conviction. It sounds too whiny for my liking.

"It doesn't matter. You'll get through this, and it will all be behind you. It's not your fault," she gives me a somber smile.

I don't smile back.

She walks away and I roll my eyes. What the hell was that about?

I go to the kitchen, neglecting the thought of Melissa and her ambiguous comments. Maybe the carpenter will be thirsty. I decide to make some lemonade for him.

I go outside to the worksite, which is really basically nothing right now. They are just clearing out the weeds, plants and foliage.

"Hey there," I greet him. He steps up from what he is doing, brushing the dirt of his gloves, and then taking them off.

"Hey," he replies, a smile on his face.

We walk a little away from all the dirt and work. I hold out my hand, directing his eyes to the patio table beside us, "I made some lemonade for you and your men."

He laughs, looking southward. He beams up at me, "that was really nice of you. You didn't have to do that," he says sweetly.

"My father has never really been diplomatic. I doubt that any of this is peaceful work," she goes on.

"Are you trying to get me in trouble? I'll bash on your father; my boss, and then you'll go tell him?" he accuses me, but I can he is only joking. At least, I hope he is.

"You caught me," I provide a smirk. He smiles at me.

"Seriously! Drink the lemonade. I promise it is not poisoned. In fact, I make a pretty good glass. Once, I earned forty seven dollars at a lemonade stand," I state proudly, swaying my linked hands a little.

He chuckles, "Just because you're a good entrepreneur, doesn't mean you make a product."

"Wow, rude, are we?" I laugh. "I go all out of my way to make a pitch of lemonade, and you insult me," I tsk, shaking my head, my lip smacking together.

"I'm sorry," he laughs, "I'll drink the lemonade. I'm sure it is amazing."

"It is," I state, staring into those beautiful eyes of him. Ugh, beautiful. Is that too far? It is true though. They are so intense. And not intense in the way Andrew's stares are—there is more to it; I just can't decipher what the difference is.

"Enjoy your lemonade," I roll my shoulders back before departing from the man. My play time is over. I need to get back to the misery of my life.

…

I sit in front of Aria Montgomery. She has been, sort of, weird around me. I mean, everyone has, but, I don't know, I expected more from Aria. She is my best friend, and all. Well, one of them, anyways.

She stirs her tea, adding sugar, and what not. She hasn't really said anything to me the whole time I've been here. She is probably confused on what to say, just like everyone else.

"Aria, there's a reason I'm here," I confess. "It wasn't just to hangout."

Aria looks at me, a bewildered look on her face. Her hazel eyes take up almost a half of her face at how much they gape. "Oh, really?" she says after a minute, her fingers stalling in stirring. "What it is?" she inquires.

"I just—who was I?"

"What?"

"Who was I? Before the accident…" I explain.

"Oh," Aria gulps, looking down at her tea. She sets her spoon down, and takes a sip of it. She sets it down before talking, "I don't know, Spence," she sounds weary.

"What?"

"I don't know how to explain it," she swallows, her eyes fidgeting back and forth. "We've all changed," she explains. "I mean, none of us are who we were three— three and half years ago."

"I know, I mean obviously, but how much did I change?"

She looks down, "a lot, Spence."

I swallow. Is it really that bad? "Please, Aria, just rip off the bandage. How horrible am I now? An exact model of how the Hastings should be? Worse?"

"What?" she darts her eyes up. "What makes you think that?"

"What doesn't make me think that?" I sigh, removing my eyes off of the small brunette across from me. "Andrew took me to some restaurant today—apparently it is my favorite. I love it so much that Melissa even knows…and if Melissa knows, then," I shiver, shaking my head a little.

"The Revenue?"

I laugh because of course Aria knows, too. "Yeah," my voice trails in disgust. "Everyone was so freaking pretentious."

"Your engagement party was actually held there…" Aria confesses.

"Of course it was," I sigh.

"Spence, I don't know what to say," Aria speaks up after a minute. "I just, we haven't been that close lately."

"What?"

"We sort of drifted."

"Why?"

Aria looks away, and I know it is because of me. Of course it is because of me. What the hell did I do?

"We all just changed," she shrugs. "I don't know. I don't really talk to Hanna or Emily anymore, either. I talk to Emily a tad more. Hanna and I occasionally go out to lunch. But, I don't know. It isn't your fault, really, it isn't. I mean…" she gulps. "People drift apart…" she sighs.

"Do I talk to any of you guys?"

Aria looks away again, "I mean," she looks up, a sort of hopeful look in her eyes, "you invited us to your engagement party."

I sigh, feeling nauseated. Maybe I don't want to remember. My motivation has decreased so much throughout the duration of the day.

"Probably to just rub it in…" I stare at the countertop, my voice void of emotion.

"Han actually said that," Aria muses. But I can tell from the look on her face she regrets it. "I mean—she was kidding," Aria fumbles on her words, not meeting my eyes.

I smile, shaking my head. "No, she is right. I can totally imagine Melissa doing that, and if I'm an exact clone of her now…"

"Spence, don't be too hard on yourself," Aria pleads. "You shouldn't be."

"I just feel like…" I think of what I want to say, "I'm three years behind everyone else. Like, do you remember that exchange student that came junior year? How she was still learning English? I feel like her. I know it's different, but…" I shrug. "I just feel out place, like I'm not fit chronologically. There's actually a word for it: anachronistic."

Aria stares at me, a faint smile on her face, and a, sort of, beam in her eye. I furrow my eyebrows, "what?"

"I just—I get what you mean, I mean, obviously, I don't get what you mean, but it is like you stepped through time. It's like I'm having a conversation with 2011 Spencer Hastings," she chuckles.

I laugh in spite of myself. Shaking my head, I say, "I don't know what I'm doing, Aria."

"You're trying. Just like you always do, and you'll get through it. You'll conquer it, and kick it in the ass, just like you do everything else."

I give her a grateful smile, but it is only followed up with a frown, "and then what? I go back to being this—arrogant, stuck up, version, Spencer Hastings?"

"You aren't arrogant, Spencer…" Aria declines. I can't tell if she is just saying it because she has to. I'm pretty sure she is. This new Aria has gotten better at hiding her emotions.

"Maybe, not currently. But I was, and will be…" my voice travels into melancholy.

"I'm not saying that you are, but if you really think that, you can change. You don't have to be the Spencer Hastings that threw her engagement party at some overly-priced, snob, restaurant."

"My, my, haven't you gotten wise in the last three years," I smile at her.

She looks conflicted on whether to laugh. In the end, she chooses to just give me a smile.

"It's going to be okay, Spence."

I sigh, letting a little time pass between our dialogues.

"Was I happy before…?"

"Like I said, we drifted…but, you seemed happy," she offers, a shrug accompanying her words.

And isn't that what I always wanted? Happiness. I've always been a fan of John Lennon's words, "When I was 5 years old, my mother always told me that happiness was the key to life. When I went to school, they asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I wrote down 'happy'. They told me I didn't understand the assignment, and I told them they didn't understand life." So, why don't I feel more joyous? Is it because I don't remember the life I had? The apparent happiness I felt? Or is it because I don't recognize the person I supposedly am now? I am not that person—that person is the one who is happy. Once again, I feel like I am watching a movie—watching someone else's life, not my own.

This morning I was so motivated to dive into my forgotten past, but now, I'm not so sure.