I’m sitting on the sofa, watching television on our wide-screen high definition television, while Camila cleans upstairs. Camila is my babysitter. They don’t say it like that—she’s the housekeeper—but it’s obvious what her job really is. I’m not allowed to leave the house without her. Only she has the key that opens the front and back door.
But you know what? I’m okay. I took the advice I gave myself in my letter and I’m trying to relax. I still don’t understand why I wrote what I did on my leg, but it can’t possibly be true. Graham is doing the best job he can. He’s not trying to drug me. I don’t believe that anymore.
Ziggy is lying on the couch next to me, his head on my lap. I stroke his fur absently as I watch television. At first, I put on the news, curious at what events had taken place over the past decade. But almost immediately, it started to feel like a bad idea. The news was an onslaught of unfamiliar names of politicians and terrifying revelations about the state of the world. It was so unsettling, I changed the channel. Anyway, there was no point in upsetting myself with the news when I was going to forget it all by tomorrow, anyway.
So instead, I’m watching The Price is Right. I used to love to watch this show with Harry because he was insanely good at guessing all the prices. Even though the letter assured me Harry isn’t a part of my life anymore, that’s one thing I still can’t wrap my head around. But watching this show makes me miss him a little less.
The contestants are bidding on the price of an air fryer, whatever that is. It seems like something ridiculously extravagant, but it wouldn’t surprise me one bit to find out there’s an air fryer sitting in our own kitchen. But I have no idea what it costs. I can’t even ballpark it. A thousand dollars? Fifty bucks? Nothing would surprise me.
My phone is sitting on the coffee table and it lets out a little buzz. My heart speeds up. Is that Lucy or my father? I found both of their numbers on my phone, and I left anxious, rambling messages for each of them to call me. I’m desperate to speak to somebody from my old life.
But when I pick up the phone, there’s a text message from an unknown number:
$121.
I frown at my phone. I type in a response:
Who is this?
Maybe it’s a telemarketer. Do telemarketers send text messages? I don’t remember anything like that, but things are different now. Any message involving money has to be a scam.
$121 for the air fryer.
My eyes snap up. What is going on? Why is somebody texting me bids for an air fryer?
Then the host announces to the audience, “The actual price of the air fryer is one hundred and twenty-four dollars.”
I write again: Harry?
It couldn’t be, could it? Harry is gone. That’s what the letter said. That’s what Graham said.
I wait for a reply. Three little bubbles flash repeatedly on the screen. After a minute, it finally comes:
Meet me.
It’s entirely possible this is somebody who’s messing with me. But for me and Harry, watching The Price is Right was kind of our thing when we had a weekday morning free together. Nobody else knows that.
And if it’s him, what does he want?
But it doesn’t matter. If this is really Harry—if there’s even a chance of it—I’m meeting him. There’s no way I’m not.
Camila said that after she was done upstairs, we could walk Ziggy to the dog park together. I look down at my watch—it’s ten-thirty. She’s probably almost done up there. So I compose my response:
Meet at dog park at 11.
The reply comes almost instantly:
I’ll be there.
And then a few seconds later: Delete these messages.
I do as he tells me.
Chapter 21
At five minutes till eleven, Camila and I set off in the direction of the dog park.
I put Ziggy on a leash, and he is almost deliriously happy to be going out with us. I wish I could feel as much happiness over anything as my dog feels over going to the park. You would have thought having memory problems might help me to live in the moment, but it doesn’t.
Although to be fair, I was a lot happier a minute before I got that text with the price of the air fryer.
“How long have you been working at our house?” I ask Camila as we fall into step together on the sidewalk.
Camila blinks up at me. She is beautiful—the kind of woman men write poetry about. She has these big brown eyes with the longest eyelashes I’ve ever seen, and big pouty lips. She was obviously born with these features—no fake lashes or lip filler. And the worst part is she doesn’t even seem aware of how gorgeous she is. “About a year. Since your accident.”
“So you probably know just about everything about me, huh?”
She flashes me a smile that shows just a bit too many teeth, but it’s strangely endearing. “Try me.”
I bite on my thumbnail, trying to think of a fact about myself that could not have changed in the last seven years. “When is my birthday?”
“Easy! February fourteenth—Valentine’s Day. You said you always get shafted on presents.”
That’s true. Before I met Harry, every guy I ever dated combined my birthday gift and my Valentine’s gift into one uber-gift. But Harry made a thing out of insisting both occasions needed to be celebrated separately. So he would give me my birthday present at one minute after midnight on my birthday, then a Valentine’s Day present the next evening.
I wonder what Graham does.
“What’s my favorite movie?” I ask.
She tuts. “You don’t think much of me, do you? It’s The Princess Bride. Obviously!”
“Favorite song?”
“Trick question.” She flashes that toothy grin again. “It’s a tie. Between ‘Unchained Melody’ and ‘Hey Jude.’”