If you relax and try to have a good day, you will be much happier. Just remember that the people around you care about you very much, and only want you to be safe. Do what they say. You are in good hands. Trust me.
I repeat my own words to myself like a mantra as I sit in my palace of a kitchen, watching my handsome husband who I’ve never met before make me breakfast. This kitchen is unbelievable. I just wish I could remember how my kitchen got this way. And how I got this way.
I smell something burning on the stove while Graham takes a call on his phone. He obviously smells it too, because he rushes over to turn off the stove. I’m worried it’s too late though.
“It’s just a tiny bit burned,” Graham assures me as he ends his call and tosses his phone on the counter. “It still tastes good.”
That’s yet to be seen. “Do I have a phone?”
Graham hesitates a beat. “No. I’m sorry. You couldn’t figure out how to use it and you kept losing it.”
“Oh.” I’ve had a phone since college and it feels weird not to have one. Although it was nowhere near as fancy as Graham’s phone. “So what do I do if I want to call someone?”
He blinks at me through his wire-rimmed spectacles. “Who do you want to call?”
There is something in Graham’s voice that makes me uneasy. Something between patronizing and suspicious. But that might be unfair. He’s been nothing but kind to me since I woke up screaming when I saw him in my bed. I’m sure
that’s got to be hard for him. “Um… I’d like to talk to my father. Is he…?”
“He’s still alive,” Graham tells me.
I let out a sigh of relief. My father is the only family I have left since breast cancer took my mother when I was a kid.
“He’s on a cruise though,” he adds. “So he’s pretty hard to reach by phone. We can try him later if you want.”
My father is on a cruise? That’s atypical behavior for him. But it’s been a while. Maybe in the last decade, he’s turned into a cruise kind of person.
“What about Lucy?” I ask. “You’re still in touch.”
I clutch my knees under the table. “Can I talk to her?” “Maybe later,” he says vaguely.
Graham puts down two plates of food on the kitchen island where I’m sitting. As I’m staring down at the blackened hash browns and sausage, a scraping noise comes from the back door. I’ve heard it several times now, but the sound is clearer since the stove is off. “What’s that?”
He hesitates. “That’s your dog. But we keep him outside most of the day. He chews up the whole house.”
“My dog?” Harry and I always wanted a dog. I take a bite of the crispy hash browns—they taste bitter. “What’s his name?”
“Ziggy.”
I almost choke on the burnt shredded potato. In my defense, it’s easy to do that because they are super dry. But that’s not why I was choking. Ziggy was Harry’s bird. Why did I name my dog after my ex-fiancé’s bird? That is a very, very strange thing to do.
Maybe I shouldn’t read too much into this. Maybe it’s just a coincidence.
“Graham?” I say.
He looks up from his plate. “Yes?”
“We don’t… I mean, do we… have children?” “Do you see any children in this house?”
“No, but…” I attempt to stab a piece of sausage with my fork—it’s been overcooked so badly, it’s shriveled. “I always wanted kids. I would’ve thought… I mean, if we’re married…”
He chews on a bite of his sausage. “We tried to have kids. But the doctor said you were infertile.”
I suck in a breath. “Oh… but… aren’t there treatments for infertility?”
He lifts a shoulder. “You know how you are. You were always scared of going to the doctor because of what happened with your mom. And you’re terrified of needles. So we decided not to do IVF. You said it was fine just the two of us.”
“Oh…”
Of course, I knew we didn’t have children. It was fairly obvious. But to find out that we couldn’t, that we would never…
But what does it matter? It’s not like I’m in any shape to take care of a child like I am now. It’s a blessing we never ended up having kids.
Graham goes to the refrigerator and opens up the door. He pulls out a container of blood-red liquid. I watch in fascination as he pours a heaping glass of it.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Pomegranate juice.” He deposits the glass on the table. “You love this stuff. You drink like two glasses of it every morning.”
“I do?” The drink in front of me looks utterly unappealing. “Are you sure?”
He winks at me. “Which one of us has memory loss?
Trust me. This is your favorite thing in the whole world.” “No, thanks. I’d just like a cup of coffee.”
“Come on. You don’t want your favorite drink?”
I press my fingertips against the glass, pushing it several inches away from me. “Just coffee. Please.”
“Fine,” he grumbles.
Graham stomps across the kitchen to the fancy coffee machine that has more control buttons than our shower. He gets the coffee brewing, and I make a point of pushing that awful drink he poured me a few more inches away from me. That looks awful—I don’t even want it near me.
Graham returns to the kitchen island. His eyes stray down to the glass of red liquid. “You really don’t want it?”
“No thanks.”
“It’s expensive, you know.”
I don’t know what to say. Based on the appearance of this house, we can afford to waste a glass of juice. “You can have it if you want.”
Graham grumbles to himself as he swipes the full glass of pomegranate juice off the table and pours the contents into the sink, staining the bottom of the sink a deep red color. My stomach turns at the sight of it. Then he slams the glass down on the kitchen counter.
I don’t know why he’s acting this way. I didn’t do anything that horrible—I just refused a glass of juice. Why is he throwing a tantrum? This doesn’t seem like normal behavior.
The letter I wrote to myself says he’s a good guy. He’s my husband.
But I don’t trust him.
