Do You Remember(7)

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.”