“Harry!”
To hell with waking him up. I’m going to drag that man out of bed by his ankles if he doesn’t get up in the next two seconds. I would do it right now, except my legs seem to be frozen in place.
“Harry!”
I could have dealt with the sink being different. I could deal with the toilet and the mystery bidet. Even the fact that somehow all our normal toothbrushes have been replaced by a single mechanical toothbrush with little rotating heads lined up on a plastic piece mounted to the wall.
But I can’t deal with what’s looking back at me in the mirror.
“Harry!”
Ever since I was in high school, I wore my thick, glossy cinnamon-colored hair long, running down my back. When I went to work, I would pull it back into a bun, secured with a spider clip. I have been doing that for more years than I can count.
And now my hair is chopped short. Chin length. A bob— not unattractive, but not me. Not the way it looked last night. And not just that. There are strands of gray weaved into my formerly dark hair. Many strands. Like, at least twenty.
Maybe I could convince myself that I gave myself a haircut last night, although it looks pretty professionally done. But that doesn’t explain my face. It doesn’t explain the fine lines around my eyes that weren’t there last night. I always thought I looked young for my age, maybe early twenties, but the woman staring back at me doesn’t even look twenty-nine. She looks… old.
Well, older.
“Harry!” The pitch of my voice is bordering on hysterical now. “Harry! Come here!”
Finally, our bed springs creak as my fiancé pulls himself into a sitting position. Thank God. I need Harry to explain what is going on here. Or at least, acknowledge that the two of us have entered some kind of crazy parallel universe where we have a brown comforter and a bidet. I hear the covers being shoved away, his heavy feet pounding against the floor.
The hinges whine as the bathroom door swings the rest of the way open. I wrench my gaze away from the mirror and turn to my fiancé. “Harry, what—”
Oh God.
It’s not Harry.
There’s somebody else standing there. Some other man, wearing a pair of boxer shorts and an undershirt, his sand- colored hair tousled. I have never seen this man before in my life. And somehow, he’s in my bedroom—has been sleeping in my bed, in his underwear.
This is even more shocking than the bidet. “Tess,” he says.
I don’t know who this man is, but this has gone from strange to terrifying. I look around wildly, searching for a weapon. Like a razor. There’s got to be a razor in here, doesn’t there? But there isn’t.
Then my eyes fall on a pair of tweezers. Not as good as a razor, but better than nothing. I snatch up the tweezers and brandish them in my right hand.
“Tess,” the stranger says again. “Put down the tweezers.”
“Where is Harry?” I say through my teeth.
A pained look passes over the man’s face. He lets out a long sigh. Admittedly, he doesn’t look dangerous. First of all, he’s in his underwear. Also, it’s hard not to notice that he’s quite attractive. Nice blue eyes, thick hair with blond
undertones visible under the bathroom lights, and a solid build with firm biceps peeking out under the wrinkled undershirt. He looks to be in his mid to late thirties.
“Harry doesn’t live here anymore.” His voice is calm and slow. Like he’s talking to a crazy person. “I’m Graham.”
I squeeze the tweezers in my right hand, waiting for more of an explanation. Finally, he gives it to me: “I’m your husband.”
What?
“Tess.” He raises his hands in the air. “I’m not going to hurt you. Can we talk in the bedroom?”
I look down at my right hand—I am gripping the tweezers so hard, my fingers are bloodless. I’m also shaking like a leaf. Tweezers or not, if this guy wanted to hurt me, he could. Easily. But he doesn’t seem like he wants to hurt me.
“Tess?”
Finally, I nod. “Okay.”
He looks at the tweezers. “You can hold on to those if it makes you feel better. And if you don’t like what I have to say, you can… reshape my eyebrows any way you like.”
He’s making a joke. But there’s nothing funny about this situation.
There’s a pink silk bathrobe hanging on the inside of the bathroom door, and I grab it and wrap it around myself. Then I follow this man, Graham, who claims to be my husband. Obviously, he’s not my husband. I can imagine forgetting about installing a toilet or cutting my hair, but I would never forget an entire marriage. I don’t know why he’s sleeping in my bed though. Or where Harry went. But I intend to get to the bottom of it.
Graham settles down on the edge of our bed. It’s only now that I notice our comforter isn’t the only thing that’s different about the bed. It’s a completely different bed. Harry and I had a metal bed with a saggy box spring, but this is a nice, firm mattress with an elaborate wooden headboard. It’s probably got memory foam and everything.
Graham looks like he’s going to reach for my hand, but I yank it away before he can grab it. He flinches and bows his head. I don’t know what this guy’s game is. Is this some kind of elaborate con? Am I missing a kidney now?
“I know this is disconcerting,” he says. “I understand.” Gee, you think? “Who are you really?”
His shoulders sag. “I’m your husband, Tess. Do you remember at all?”
When I shake my head no, he points to the dresser across from us. The dresser itself is unfamiliar. Last night when I went to bed, we had a warped wooden dresser from IKEA. That old dresser has been replaced with a chestnut brown wooden chest of drawers with burnished edges. It does not look like it came from IKEA. But what’s even more shocking is what’s on top of the dresser.
Photographs.
There are about half a dozen framed photos. And each of the photos has me in it. Me and Graham, usually. The two of us bundled up on a ski lift. Dressed up fancy, drinking champagne, our lips frozen with laughter. Lounging on a beach somewhere.
And then there’s the photograph right in the middle. Me and Graham. Holding hands. Him in a tuxedo. Me in a white dress.
“No,” I whisper.
I don’t understand what’s going on here. Last night, Harry asked me to marry him. Harry—the love of my life. He got down on one knee, for God’s sake. We celebrated with Cabernet. And now… he’s vanished. And somehow I have entered some other crazy life that I don’t even recognize.
Tears gather in my eyes. “Harry,” I whimper.
Graham drops his face into his hands and rubs his eyes. A few seconds later, he lifts his head. “I need to show you something.”
“What?”
“It…” He pushes up to his feet. “It will help. It usually does.”
Wordlessly, I watch Graham walk around our bed to the night table. He opens the top drawer and pulls out a piece of lined paper, folded into thirds. He hands the paper to me.
“What’s this?” I ask. “It’s a letter.”
“From who?”
He smiles crookedly. “From you.”
I put down the tweezers, although I’m still watching Graham out of the corner of my eye. I start to unfold it, but then I look up at him. He is standing over me, watching me.
He notices my expression and rubs the back of his neck. “I’ll go take a shower. Give you a little privacy.”
At first, I’m worried he’s going to strip right in front of me. If he is truly my husband, I suppose he would have the right to do that. But I’m grateful when he goes into the bathroom, still in his boxers and undershirt. A second later, I hear the water running in the shower. My shoulders relax— the stranger is gone.
Gingerly, I unfold the piece of paper. The creases of the letter are worn, like it’s been folded and unfolded dozens of times before. The entire page is filled with writing. I recognize my own handwriting.
And I start to read.
