01
804 Words
CHAPTER ONE
I decide pretty quickly that there are only three possible explanations.
One: I’m dead.
Two: I’m hallucinating.
Three: Kit Walker is an incredibly committed psychopath.
Personally, I’m rooting for hallucination.
I stand frozen in the middle of the room while my heartbeat tries to punch its way out of my chest.
My house.
That’s what he said.
My house.
I look around again.
Navy blue everywhere.
Too much navy blue.
Picture frames. Rugs. Planters. Throw pillows.
Whoever decorated this place had either incredible commitment to a color palette or untreated issues.
It shouldn’t feel familiar.
It does.
That’s the part that scares me.
Not familiar enough to recognize.
Familiar enough to ache.
Kit is standing a few feet away watching me like people watch injured animals.
Carefully.
Quietly.
Like if he moves too fast, I’ll bolt.
I straighten.
“Okay.”
My voice sounds weird.
Thin.
Too calm.
People in movies scream during moments like this.
Apparently I negotiate.
“Okay,” I repeat. “Either explain what’s happening or call an ambulance.”
His face changes.
Just slightly.
Like something inside him folds.
“You don’t remember.”
Not a question.
A statement.
I stare at him.
“What exactly am I supposed to remember?”
His jaw tightens.
Nothing.
Everything.
He doesn’t answer.
I laugh.
Short.
Sharp.
“Oh my God.”
He blinks.
“Oh my God.”
My hands go to my head.
“This is a prank.”
No response.
I point at him.
“You’re filming me.”
Nothing.
I spin in a circle.
“Della put you up to this.”
Still nothing.
I stop moving.
“You drugged me.”
His eyes snap to mine.
“No.”
Too fast.
Too serious.
Not offended.
Scared.
Interesting.
I cross my arms.
“So then explain.”
He opens his mouth.
Closes it.
Looks down.
Looks back up.
And says—
“You had coffee this morning.”
I stare.
“…What?”
“You forgot breakfast and grabbed a banana on the way out.”
I blink.
He continues.
“You always say black coffee tastes like regret but drink it anyway.”
I swallow.
My stomach drops a little.
That means nothing.
People notice things.
Normal.
Fine.
Then—
“You hate when your socks slide down inside your shoes.”
My arms loosen.
“You cut sandwiches diagonally.”
He takes a breath.
“You pretend you don’t like kids but you cry at videos of babies laughing.”
I stop breathing.
Because—
I never told him that.
Not Della.
Not Neil.
Nobody.
His voice gets quieter.
“You sleep cold.”
I don’t move.
“You always steal blankets.”
Still quiet.
“You leave cabinet doors open.”
The room feels strange.
Like it tilted a degree to the left.
Because those aren’t impossible things.
They’re small.
Private.
Collected.
The kind of things somebody only knows after years.
I shake my head.
“No.”
His eyes close briefly.
“No?”
“No.”
I step back.
“You dated Della for a few months.”
His expression flickers.
Then disappears.
“You think that.”
Think.
Not know.
Think.
I hate that word immediately.
I point toward the kitchen.
“The child.”
His eyes soften instantly.
Dangerously instantly.
Like his entire body rearranges itself.
“Lucas.”
I hate that he gave the child a name.
I hate that he said it so naturally.
I hate—
“He called me Mom.”
Kit nods once.
I wait.
Nothing.
That’s it.
No dramatic reveal.
No apology.
Just—
yes.
I laugh again.
A little hysterically.
“Okay.”
I nod.
“Cool.”
I walk toward the front door.
I grab the handle.
Turn it.
Locked.
I turn slowly.
His face changes.
Not guilt.
Fear.
Like he thinks I’ll disappear.
My chest tightens unexpectedly.
“Unlock it.”
Immediately.
He walks over and unlocks it.
No hesitation.
No tricks.
I open the door.
Outside—
there’s a white mailbox.
There’s a blue bicycle tipped over in the grass.
Tiny.
There’s a porch swing.
Wind chimes.
A garden.
A neighborhood.
Real.
Too real.
I look across the street.
An old woman waves at me.
Like she knows me.
Like she has known me.
I close the door.
Slowly.
Turn back.
Kit is still standing there.
Watching.
Waiting.
Like he already knows what I’m going to ask.
And somehow—
I do too.
I look at him.
And for the first time—
really look.
The tired eyes.
The scruff.
The way he’s standing like he hasn’t slept in weeks.
Like he’s scared of hope.
My throat goes dry.
I ask the question I already know I don’t want answered.
“…How long have I been your wife?”
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