The Stranger in the Mirror(10)

“What are you doing out of bed so early?” I say, nuzzling his ear.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he says, and gives me a long kiss on the lips. He slides an arm around my waist and presses his body to mine. “On second thought, I think I’ll come back to bed.”

As we make love, I relish the feel of his body—tall, strong, and athletic—against mine, feeling safe and protected in his arms. When we finish, we stay in bed, tangled up together, and he drifts off to sleep. In this moment I feel peaceful and connected, something I couldn’t have conceived of six months ago. Gabriel changed everything the day he walked into Exposed, the photography store where I work. There was something appealing about the way he casually strolled around, looking at camera equipment, or maybe it was his warm and generous smile when he came up to the counter.

“Hi there,” he said.

“Hi. Can I help you with something?”

“Yeah. I’m looking for a new camera. A mirrorless DSLR.”

“Follow me,” I said.

He examined several models in the case and chose a Sony A-7. As we headed back to the register, I asked him what he was going to use the camera for. I didn’t usually attempt small talk with customers, but something about him was so approachable.

“I’m photographing some artwork, actually. I manage my family’s gallery, and I have to shoot a painting for a prospective buyer in California, and my old camera wasn’t cutting it.”

“I understand,” I said. “Would I know the gallery?”

“Maybe—the Oliver on Second Street?” he said.

“I’ve been there. You have wonderful pieces.”

He looked right at me then, and I noticed how perfect his face was—the dark brown eyes and full lips. I felt my face flush and quickly looked down at the credit card machine.

“I must not have been there when you came,” he said. “I’m sure I would have remembered you.”

I shrugged, giving him an I-don’t-know look, too flustered to speak.

“Are you a photographer?” he asked.

To my utter horror, my face grew hot again. “Not really. I mean, not professionally. It’s just something I love to do.” I pointed to a wall of landscapes. “Those are some of mine.”

Gabriel walked over and stood there for a while, seeming to take in every picture, and then turning to me. “These are amazing, what you’ve captured.”

“They remind me of a fresh start. Going from one place to another. That’s what I see when I look through the camera lens.”

He looked at me a long minute, and I saw something in his expression change. “Are you doing anything for lunch today, Miss . . . what is your name?”

“Addison. Addison Hope. And I’m not doing anything for lunch.”

That was the start, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t scared to death at the beginning. Gabriel was the first man I’d dated since coming to Philadelphia. What was I supposed to tell him about myself? That I was a woman with no past, a woman who knew nothing at all about herself or her family? I was sure he’d think I was some kind of freak and run as fast as he could. But that isn’t at all how it happened. After our lunch that day, where I’d been able to steer clear of personal topics, we made plans to go to dinner on Saturday night. I knew I’d have to tell him then.

He took me to an old-world French restaurant with soft lighting and small tables. The candles on the table, the wine, the handsome man sitting across from me, all made for the most romantic night of my life, although I realize that I have no actual basis for comparison.

I can recall our conversation that evening almost word for word, and when I told him I remembered nothing about my life before the last two years, he looked completely confused.

“I’m not sure I understand,” he said. “You have no idea who you are?”

“Yes, exactly.”

“But your name. You remember your name.”

“No. Um . . . I made up a name,” I lied. “It’s Addison Hope.”

“I like it. And the last name. Hope. You’re struggling, but you have hope.” He reached across the table and squeezed my hand.

His hand felt strong and comforting. “I do. It’s hard, though. There are times I feel overwhelmed, like I’m all alone in the world, connected to nothing. I try to imagine what it must be like to have a mother and father, siblings maybe, to belong to someone. And then I think maybe they’re out there somewhere, my family, wondering where I am and what happened to me. I’m not a whole person, and I’ll never be until I know my real identity.” I slid my hand out from under his.

“You’ll find out someday, I’m sure. I can’t imagine going through this, but whoever you are, really are, that’s in here.” He pointed to his heart and then leaned forward. “I know you’re a good person. I can just tell.”

“How can you know that?”

“I sense it. And you know what else? I think we were supposed to meet.”

I raised my eyebrows.

He took my hand again. “I felt a connection the minute I came into the store. I don’t usually go there, and I only did because my regular camera store had been broken into the night before and was closed. It was no accident that I walked in that day. It was meant to be.”