A sudden dizzy sensation almost overtakes me. I hold onto the door frame of the bathroom, but then I end up sinking onto our beautiful toilet before my legs give out. I don’t know what’s going on here, but it’s very strange.
We have a gorgeous bathroom. This is exactly how I imagined it looking when Harry and I bought the place. But how did it happen overnight? I mean, Harry knows computers better than anyone, but he’s not great with a hammer or a screwdriver. I’ve heard of people having superhuman strength when they’ve been drinking. Did the two of us somehow get superhuman home improvement power? Is that a thing?
“Harry?” I call out in a shaky voice.
He still doesn’t stir.
I grab onto the sink and pull myself back to my feet. I just need to splash some cold water on my face. I’m sure it will all come back to me.
My hands are shaking as I turn on the cold water nozzle, figuring ice-cold liquid is the best thing to snap me out of this haze. I let some water run into my hands, then I splash it on my cheeks and eyelids. And then raise my head to look into the vanity mirror.
And I scream.
Chapter 2
“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 Even the fact that somehow all our normal toothbrushes have been replaced by a single mechanical toothbrush with little rotating heads lined up on a plastic piece mounted to the wall.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.