Iwake to sunlight streaming through cool, Parisian curtains and the scent of maple bacon drifting up from downstairs. The bed beside me is empty, and I can hear Asher’s off-key rendition of Hotel California floating through the house.
My head feels like it’s been stuffed with sawdust, but the anvils have stopped falling. Small mercies.
As I get up to face the day, I catch sight of myself in the mirror above the desk.Yikes. My Sally costume is wrinkled beyond recognition, and my makeup has smeared into something that looks like abstract art.
Asher saying I looked like roadkill was being generous.
I peel off the costume and toss it onto the bed. There’s an Ariana Grande concert t-shirt draped over the back of the desk chair—soft gray cotton with a faded tour logo—and a pair of black stretch pants folded beneath it. They smell like lavender and vanilla, and something about the scent makes my skin tingle.
The clothes are a bit tight but not uncomfortably so. I guess I’ve grown a bit in the past five years. Mostly in my boobs and butt. Yay me.
I twist my hair up into a messy bun and head downstairs, following my nose toward breakfast. As I make my way, I run my fingers along the banister, testing myself.
Do I remember the smooth mahogany? The way it curves at the bottom? The small gouge near the newel post?
Nope, I’ve got nothing.
I have no active memories of my life here, just the persistent sense that I used to belong here, and this is where I’m supposed to be.
The parlor piano is still humming when I press my ear to the lid. What’s with the humming? The bench is pulled out slightly, as if inviting me to play.
Do I play?DidI play? I touch one key—middle C—and the note rings clear. My fingers want to find a melody, but my brain offers up nothing.
“Come on,” I whisper to myself. “Remember something. Anything.”
When nothing comes, I abandon the idea in favor of food.
In the kitchen, Asher has claimed the space like he owns it. He’s got bacon sizzling in a cast-iron skillet, eggs waiting to be scrambled, and his phone propped against the flour canister, playing some 80’s rock playlist.
He looks hilarious tromping around in his Jack Skellington pinstripe suit, but hey, maybe some of my dad’s clothes will fit him.
“Morning, baby girl.” He gestures toward the island with the spatula in his hand. “Sit. Eat. Recover from your life choices.”
“My life choices?”
“Halloween parties. Mystery men. Accepting magical house gifts. You know.”
I slide onto one of the bar stools. “Fair point.”
It doesn’t take long before he slides a plate across the granite surface—perfectly golden scrambled eggs, chewy bacon, andbuttered toast cut diagonally. There’s a steaming mug beside it, and I pull it closer. “Earl Gray?”
He snorts and gestures toward the pantry. “Your parents were even bigger tea freaks than you are. They’ve got thirteen different kinds in that cabinet. Seriously, I counted and there are thirteen.”
I sip at the edge of the mug, and the familiar warmth settles something anxious in my chest. “Did you find anything else interesting while you were playing house?”
“No. I waited for you. I figured you’d want to be in on all the fun.”
I bite a forkful of eggs. They’re perfect—creamy and seasoned with just a hint of sweet peppers. “Thanks, Ash. If I hadn’t been clinging to you when that portal thing swallowed me and I ended up here alone, I would be losing my mind.”
He winks, searching through the drawers on the opposite side of the island from me. “I was thinking about that as I was milling around down here. I’m not sure if it was the portal thing or us being drunk or what, but we should be losing our minds, shouldn’t we?”
I chuckle. “Objectively, yes, but I’m not.”
Asher closes the drawers near the stove, frowning. “Where the hell do they keep the oven mitts?”
I point past him to the cabinet by the dishwasher.
He follows my direction, retrieves the set of oven mitts, and stares at me. “How did you know they were there?”
