When I come downstairs, I feel much better than I did when I woke up this morning. I still have that slight headache, but it’s barely noticeable. Just a twinge. I feel like a different person now that I’ve had a hot shower and put on some clean clothing. My drawers and closet were filled with outfits that were unfamiliar to me. But that wasn’t a bad thing. It was like getting an entirely new wardrobe.
A wardrobe of incredibly expensive clothing. I checked some of the tags—Gucci, Fendi, Louis Vuitton. How could I afford any of this stuff? Graham must be loaded.
Most of the clothing seemed ridiculously fancy for a day at home, so I picked out a pair of designer skinny jeans and a fitted T-shirt. I may be older than I remember, but thankfully, I seem to be in good physical shape. My waist is still slim, my muscles toned. The only part of me that’s messed up is my brain, apparently.
As I reach the bottom of the stairwell, I see a flash of gold and brown, and then something nearly knocks me off my feet. For a split second, I’m terrified, until I hear the frantic and happy barks.
It’s a dog. We have a dog.
“Sorry to startle you.” Graham wanders out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “I try to keep him out of the second floor during the night so you won’t be startled when you wake up.”
I notice now that there is an open gate in front of the bottom of the staircase. He must close it at night to keep the dog out. The dog looks up at me with those puppy dog brown eyes and licks my hand. Now my hand is covered in dog saliva, but I can’t be mad. I just met this dog thirty
seconds ago, but I’m already in love with him. My first genuine smile of the day tugs at my lips.
Then again, I didn’t really meet this dog thirty seconds ago. This is my dog. I’ve probably had him for months, maybe even years. It’s like my heart has a memory of loving this dog.
Except why don’t I have any memory of loving Graham? “What’s his name?” I ask.
Graham smiles. “His name is Ziggy.”
My own smile freezes on my lips. Ziggy. I named the dog Ziggy.
Harry and I always wanted a dog, but there was no room for it in our tiny apartment. And then when we moved here, the place was still such a disaster and Harry wanted to put up a fence around the backyard before we got the dog.
But we did have one pet.
Harry’s full name is Harrison Finch. So ever since he was a kid, he always owned a finch. I’m a Finch so I’ve got a finch. It was kind of his thing. He had a giant cage he kept on the first floor of our house, with an almost blindingly yellow finch inside. He loved that bird. When I saw the way he took care of his finch, I knew what a great dad he would be someday. It was something I loved about him.
And the bird’s name was Ziggy.
I keep the smile plastered on my face as I run my fingers through the dog’s soft fur. Ziggy pants happily. “Was I the one who named him?” I ask.
Graham nods. “You did. You said you were a fan of the comic strip.”
I never read Ziggy comics in my life.
I lied to my husband. I must have named the dog after Harry’s bird. Except why would I do that? I’m happily married to Graham, so why would I name my dog after an ex-boyfriend’s bird? It doesn’t make any sense.
But either way, Graham has no idea. And I’m not going to be the one to tell him.
Ziggy follows me to the kitchen, where the tantalizing aroma of eggs and bacon fills my nostrils. When we bought the house, all the appliances were old and rusted. I remember Harry kicking the refrigerator to get it to turn back on. But the entire kitchen has now been renovated. We have a giant stainless steel fridge with a built-in ice and water machine. There’s a gleaming black stove that has so many dials and knobs, I’m sure I will set myself on fire if I attempt to cook anything on it. And our old rickety wooden kitchen table has been replaced with a brand new marble island with padded swivel chairs surrounding it.
This could be one of the nicest kitchens I’ve ever seen.
And it’s mine.
“Wow,” I breathe. “This is… amazing.”
Graham laughs at my expression. “It should be. You picked all the stuff out yourself.”
“I did?” I run my fingers over the flawless marble surface of the kitchen island. “Are we rich?”
He hesitates. “We’re… comfortable.”
I want to ask more questions, but I feel strange prying like that. Of course, it’s not prying if this is my own life, is it? Anyway, it’s not like we live in a giant mansion somewhere. This is the same house that Harry and I picked out together and got for a bargain. We live in Queens, New York—not Beverly Hills.
Graham grabs two white ceramic plates from a cupboard above the sink and scrapes the contents of the frying pan onto them. He sets one of the plates down in front of me and keeps the other one for himself. He also pours a cup of coffee for himself but doesn’t offer one to me.
I look down at my plate. There’s a little yellow pile of dry-looking eggs and two strips of bacon that are cooked to the point of being black. I take a nibble from one of the strips of bacon—it’s hammered. I’m sort of relieved that Graham didn’t cook the perfect breakfast. So far, my
husband seems like this absolutely perfect man, so it’s good to know he has at least one flaw.
I hear whimpering at my leg. Ziggy is begging for food, his face on my lap as a glob of drool drips down onto my jeans. I look down at one of the crispy bacon strips and slip it to him. He happily gobbles it up.
Graham frowns. “You shouldn’t feed him from the table.
It will make him expect it.”
“Sorry,” I say. “I didn’t know.”
He opens his mouth as if to say something else but then shuts it again. Instead, he digs into his own plate of food. He even eats the burned bacon. He doesn’t seem bothered by it. There must be something wrong with his taste buds.
I’m hungry, but I can’t seem to stop staring at this man sitting across the table from me. Graham. My husband. My freaking husband. Here we are, sitting at the kitchen table like a normal husband and wife, but we’re anything but normal. First, I know nothing about this man. Not even the slightest thing.
He’s attractive—objectively speaking—but I don’t feel anything for him. I don’t feel that pull I used to feel around Harry. Even after being together for four years, Harry and I could never keep our hands off each other. But the idea of this man even touching me makes my skin crawl. I don’t know why, because there’s nothing objectionable about him. Maybe it’s the idea that he’s a stranger who is apparently sharing my life.
That’s exactly what he is to me. A stranger. “What’s your last name?” I blurt out.
Graham looks from his eggs and bacon. It’s such an odd question for a woman to be asking her husband, but he does not look perturbed. “Thurman.”
“Oh.” I toy with the handle of my fork. “Did I take your name?”
He nods. “Yes. You liked the alliteration.”
He certainly has my number there. I love alliteration. Tess Thurman. Although it’s not quite alliteration because the first letter of both names make a different sound. But it’s still pretty.
“How old am I?” I ask. My cheeks burn at the question. It’s humiliating to have to ask something so basic. My age. Even a preschooler can tell you how old they are.
“You’re thirty-six.”
Thirty-six. The last thing I remember before I went to bed was being twenty-nine years old. And now suddenly, I’ve lost seven years. Seven years. I’m now within throwing distance of forty. And this is not anything like the way I pictured my life at age thirty-six.
I push some of the brown eggs around my plate with my fork. “How long have we been married?”
“Four years.”
Four years. I’ve been married to this man for four years. Wow. Even though Graham is a stranger to me, he must know me very well. “Do we have children together?”
He sips from his coffee. “No.” “Why not?”
“We just don’t.”
He acts like it’s a stupid question, but I don’t think it’s a stupid question. I wanted children—very much. It’s something Harry and I used to talk about before we were even engaged. I want to press Graham further on this, but he doesn’t seem to want to talk about it. And it’s not like there’s any shortage of questions running through my head.
“What do you do for a living?” I ask.
“I’m an accountant by trade.” He dabs his lips with a napkin. “But right now, I’m managing My Home Spa.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “My company? You’re working there?”
“Somebody had to keep it going.”
He doesn’t have to say the obvious: I can’t do it anymore.
It makes me wonder about how successful my little company has become. It must do decently if Graham felt it was worth his time to keep it going when I couldn’t. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
He smiles—it’s a bit condescending. “I don’t think so.
But thanks for offering.”
I pick up my own napkin from the table and start ripping it into little shreds. It’s a nervous habit I have. Whenever I go to a restaurant, I always leave behind piles of ripped tissue. Harry always says to me, I’ll always know how to find you because of the trail of paper you leave behind. Then he cleans it up before we leave.
Did. Did clean it up.
“How did we meet?” I ask.
“You were about to cross thirty-fifth street.” He scoops up the last of his eggs. “And there was this car rushing at you, but you didn’t see it.” He pauses dramatically. “I grabbed you just before the bastard ran you down.”
I cover my mouth with my hand. “Oh my God. So… you saved my life…”
He nods slowly. “The second I laid eyes on you, I just knew we were going to be together for the rest of our lives. You said the same thing. It was… fate.”
That’s just about the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard. It’s like something out of a movie. I stare at Graham across the table, now seeing him in a little new light. This man saved my life. He’s been taking care of me for the last year, since my accident. He’s a good guy. And his cologne smells awful nice…
Oh my God, what am I thinking? I hardly know this man.
I drop my eyes, my cheeks burning.
“So.” My throat tightens. “Do I ask you the same questions every single morning?”
“More or less.” He shrugs. “I don’t mind. I mean, how else are you supposed to know what’s going on? It’s okay. You can ask me whatever you want.”
“I…” I reach into the void of my memory, feeling a burst of frustration. He’s being so patient, but the sad truth is, I could ask him questions all morning and still feel lost. It’s better just to go about my day. “Could I have something to drink?”
A smile twitches at his lips. “A little early in the day for that, isn’t it?”
The heat in my cheeks intensifies. “I mean like some water or juice…”
“But of course.” As he gets to his feet, he does a little bow. He is awfully cute. “Your wish is my command, m’lady.” I’d love to get my own drink, but it would be embarrassing to fumble around the kitchen, unable to find anything. I don’t even know where we keep the glasses. I’ll look around later and figure out where everything is. For now, I can only watch as Graham grabs a glass from the cupboard over the sink. He pours a blood-colored liquid into the glass, filling it to the top. As he picks up the glass, Ziggy leaves my side and growls at him, baring an impressive set
of teeth. Remind me not to get on Ziggy’s bad side.
“Ziggy.” Graham’s lips set into a straight line as the dog’s growls become more menacing. “For Christ’s sake…”
“What’s wrong?”
“Your dog doesn’t like me.” As he says the words, Ziggy lets out another low growl. “He’s overprotective of you. Can you call him off, please? I don’t want him biting a hole in my suit. This is Armani.”
I pat my hip. “Ziggy… Come over here.” I take the other strip of bacon off my plate. “Want more bacon?”
Graham doesn’t look thrilled about me feeding the dog the rest of my bacon, but he doesn’t say anything this time. He picks up the glass of strange dark red liquid and places it on the kitchen island in front of me.
I crinkle my nose. “What is that?” “Pomegranate juice. You love it.” “I do?”
“You have a big glass of it every morning, so I would say you do, yes.”
I look down at the red drink. It’s so… red. It looks like a big old glass of blood. I take a sniff of it—it smells sweet. It’s probably not blood. It’s probably actually pomegranate juice. Maybe it’s good. If I drink it every morning, I must like it. Graham is watching me, so I tilt the glass towards me and take a sip.
Ugh!
“I like this?” I cough, tempted to wipe my tongue with one of the napkins on the table. “This is terrible!”
“Usually you do,” he insists. “Honestly. You love this stuff—really love it. I have to buy a quart of it every week. Just… maybe you need another sip or two to get used to it.”
I love this stuff? He can’t be serious. But I guess he knows me better than I know myself.
I take another sip.
This time I outright gag. I leap out of my seat and run to the sink. I want to splash some water in my mouth, but the stupid sink has strange controls the same way as the shower did. I jab at one of the buttons and there’s a crunching sound—I think I just turned on the garbage disposal.
“Graham,” I gasp.
He leaps out of his seat to help me. He presses a button over the sink and cold water shoots out of the tap. He watches me with his brow furrowed as I splash water in my mouth. I feel ridiculous that I needed his help just to turn on the faucet, but it’s not my fault all of the water faucets in this household require a Ph.D. to operate.
“Tess, are you okay?”
“That’s the worst thing I ever tasted!” I take another handful of water and swish it around in my mouth, then spit it out. “I feel like I’m going to throw up.”
“You know, that stuff is expensive.” He sounds hurt by my reaction. “You usually finish the whole glass and want
more. I have to make a special trip to buy it for you.”
“Oh.” Another flash of guilt. It must be hard for him to not know who I’m going to be and what I’m going to like on any given day. “I’m sorry.”
I look up at Graham, who is watching me with a concerned expression on his handsome features. He’s wringing his hands together. “You’re having a bad day today,” he acknowledges. “You’re not yourself.”
No kidding. I don’t even know who myself is anymore. “I’m okay.”
But that worried expression is still there. “Maybe we should go see the doctor. After the accident, they said that there’s a possibility the blood could re-accumulate in your brain. Maybe you need to have a CAT scan or…”
“No. No.” I swallow a bubble of fear in my chest. “I don’t want that.”
I hate doctors. So much.
When I was a kid, my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. It was stage three when they caught it. I still remember her sitting me down on the sofa while I clutched my favorite doll, and she explained to me what cancer was. I was eight years old.
Soon after, she had surgery to remove the cancer, followed by chemotherapy and radiation. Lots of hospital visits, lots of doctors’ appointments. She spent months at the hospital with tubes coming out of every part of her and oxygen prongs in her nose. Whenever I asked about it, she would explain that the doctors were making her better.
But it didn’t seem like she was getting better. Every time I saw her, she was skinnier and the circles under her eyes were darker. It got to the point where I was scared to even visit her, because she didn’t look like my mother anymore. I figured I would wait until she was better—until she was her old self again.
Then when I was ten years old, while I was trying to think of an excuse to get out of our daily visit to the
hospital, my father told me she had died that morning.
You might say I’m scarred from the experience. I’ve got a terrible phobia about doctors and hospitals. And especially tests. Whenever I used to go for my annual OB/GYN visit, I would make Harry come with me and hold my trembling hand in the waiting room until the nurse called my name.
“Let me give your doctor a call,” Graham says. “I just want to know what they think.”
“Please don’t. I’m okay.” “But—”
“Please, Graham!” I snap at him. He jerks his head back like I slapped him, and I feel guilty yet again. I soften my voice. “Sorry. I just don’t want to go to the doctor. I’m fine, I promise.”
Graham studies my face for a moment. I smile and do my best to look as perfectly healthy as possible. At least, as healthy as a woman who had a massive brain trauma could possibly look. If I say I don’t want to go to the doctor, will he force me? Could he? Has he?
“Okay,” he finally says. “But if anything changes…”
I place a hand over my heart. “I promise I’ll tell you.” I definitely won’t.
“Also…” Graham reaches into his pocket and pulls out a little black rectangular object. He places it down on the kitchen island, right in front of me. “This is for you.”
I stare down at the object. What now? “That’s your phone,” he explains.
“My… phone?” This looks about a hundred times fancier than my phone. I have a little silver flip phone. Harry and I are on the same account. We recently got unlimited texting and were super excited about it.
“It’s an iPhone,” he says. “You should hang onto it.”
I have an iPhone? Wow, we must be pretty wealthy. “How does it work?”
One corner of Graham’s lips quirks up. “You usually figure it out on your own.”
I’m about to ask him what the hell he’s talking about, because I’ll never figure out how to use this fancy phone in a million years. It’s even more confusing than the shower. But then I pick it up and almost instinctively, my thumb goes to the little button at the bottom of the screen, and the screen jumps to life. I don’t know how, but it’s like I already know how to use this phone, even though I’ve never seen it before. Obviously, I learned how to use it at some point and the memory never left me. Sort of like riding a bike.
I bring up the list of phone numbers programmed into the phone. Graham’s name is listed first. Then there’s a listing for “Dad”—thank God it seems like my father is still alive and well. And then there’s Lucy. I feel a rush of relief at the sight of her name. Lucy has been my best friend since the first day of college, even before I knew Harry. It’s a comfort to know that with just one click, I can hear her voice. I’m tempted to call her now, but with Graham right next to me, it seems rude.
There’s only one other name on the favorites list. And it’s one I don’t recognize.
“Who is Camila?” I ask.
Before Graham can answer me, the doorbell rings. He swivels his head in the direction of the sound. “Actually,” he says, “you’re about to meet her.”
