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“Grated cheddar, cilantro, and sour cream?”

She gives the faintest smile and raises an eyebrow. “Like I said, you already know.”

—

We have dinner at the table beside the huge window with the candlelight reflecting in the gla.s.s and the city lights burning beyond—our local constellation.

The food is spectacular, Daniela is beautiful in the firelight, and I’m feeling grounded for the first time since I stumbled out of that lab.

At the end of dinner—our bowls empty, second wine bottle killed—she reaches across the gla.s.s table and touches my hand.

“I don’t know what’s happening to you, Jason, but I’m glad you found your way to me.”

I want to kiss her.

She took me in when I was lost.

When the world stopped making sense.

But I don’t kiss her. I just squeeze her hand and say, “You have no idea what you’ve done for me.”

We clear the table, load the dishwasher, and tackle the remaining sink full of dishes.

I wash. She dries and puts away. Like an old married couple.

Apropos of nothing, I say, “Ryan Holder, huh?”

She stops wiping down the interior of the stockpot and looks at me.

“Do you have an opinion about that you’d like to share?”

“No, it’s just—”

“What? He was your roommate, your friend. You don’t approve?”

“He always had a thing for you.”

“Are we jealous?”

“Of course.”

“Oh, grow up. He’s a beautiful man.”

She goes back to her drying.

“So how serious is it?” I ask.

“We’ve been out a few times. n.o.body’s leaving their toothbrushes at anyone’s house yet.”

“Well, I think he’d like to. He seems pretty smitten.”

Daniela smirks. “How could he not be? I’m amazing.”

—

I lie in bed in the guest room with the window cracked so the city noise can put me under like a sound machine.

Staring out the tall window, I watch the sleeping city.

Last night, I set out to answer a simple question: Where is Daniela?

And I found her—a successful artist, living alone.

We’ve never been married, never had a son.

Unless I’m the victim of the most elaborate prank of all time, the nature of Daniela’s existence appears to support the revelation these last forty-eight hours have been building toward….

This is not my world.

Even as those five words cross my mind, I’m not exactly certain what they mean, or how to begin to consider their full weight.

So I say it again.

I try it on.

See how it fits.

This is not my world.

—

A soft knock at my door startles me out of a dream.

“Come in.”

Daniela enters, climbs into bed beside me.

I sit up, ask, “Everything okay?”

“I can’t sleep.”