Page 19 of All The Ways to Miss You

Damn straight. Get dressed. I’m here.

Before I can make it off the couch, Aggie lets herself in.

“You have a key?” I fall back into the cushions, relieved about not having to get up, but a little worried about her having access to my place. I may return home to an apartment filled with random thrifted knickknacks.

“Don’t you have one of mine?” She sets her things down.

“How would I? You never gave me a key. I never gave you mine.” My forehead creases.

“What kind of bestie would I be if I didn’t break into your apartment every now and then?”

I nod, considering the genius of the coffeepot. A copy of her apartment key would have come in handy last night while she was out. It might have saved me. I inspect her, contemplating her eccentric genius, and find something unexpected.

“You’re glowing or something,” I say as she sprawls in the chair opposite me.

“If you’re wondering if I did the deed, the answer is . . .” After a flutter of jiggling body parts, she pauses, holding me in suspense.

“Just tell me.” I toss a pillow over my face, waiting to hear the details of her conquest while I have to wallow in the failure of mine. I can’t take it anymore. And what’s worse, I’ll have to text Lou and ask him to play along with my epic lie. He’s going to kill me. I groan.

“I did not,” she admits.

I peek from beneath my pillow. She’s moved over to the love seat and is sipping from my coffeepot. She places it back on the table.

“All those theatrics for nothing?”

“Charlie and I were having fun. It got complex. He went off on a nerd tangent. Amy from accounting dumped a gallon of iced cherry Kool-Aid on me. You know, one of those hurricane drinks? Anyway, it was right before we hijacked the Architectural Tour Boat, crashed it into the Downward Dawgs hot dog stand, and were arrested. Long story.” She wiggles her fingers at me, the pads blackened with fingerprint ink. A mischievous grin dances on her face.

“You’re happy because you have a rap sheet now?”

“Pfft. I’ve had one of those for years. I’m happy because I met Paul. He’s gorgeous and charming, and he has a white horse that he dresses like a unicorn. Sort of. And there’s a strong possibility we may never see each other again.” She sighs and lifts her shoulders to her ears with glee. “It was a brief and beautiful love affair.”

I clutch the pillow to my chest and belt out a hysterical giggle until my gut hurts. I curl into the pain and hold my midsection. Tears stream down my cheeks, blurring my vision. The movement makes my hangover pound, so I grab my head and rub the skull-splitting pain. But the longer I laugh, the more the tension releases until it’s gone.

“But I didn’t even tell you the good part,” she says.

“Oh, man.” I rein in the laughter and wipe the tears away. I needed that. “I should have come with you.”

“Didn’t you do your normal woe-is-me-sucky-non-happy-hour thingee and then run for five hours?”

“How did you know?”

“I just imagine the most boring thing in the world, and that’s usually what you’re doing.”

My lips twist. I could tell Aggie everything, but I’m too ashamed to confess my leap into possible awesomeness and then quick descent into epic crash-and-burn. Besides, I’d rather hear the details of her night than relive the horrors of mine. I reposition on the couch, moving closer.

She relays her story while sharing photos on her phone. In true Aggie fashion, it’s no less than amazing. By the time she’s finished her epic tale, I believe with my entire heart she and Paul belong together. At least, that’s what I tell her. I’m a little more of a cynic than that, but why kill her buzz? She’s happy and over weasel-boy Brad with one crazy night. Maybe there’s something to finding a new guy to replace the old one?

She turns and kicks her feet onto the arm of the love seat, relaxing into the cushions. Her attention swings around the room. “I should bring some stuff over to decorate. Your apartment needs some color. Some happy.”

“Or you could stay at your place and admire your crazy stuff there.”

“But you don’t even have a TV.” She rattles off the names of all the reality shows she’s missing, including the current season of some “psychic secret lover, wilderness tree house survival show” she’s obsessed with.

“Who even watches TV anymore?” I deflect.

I don’t share the reason I don’t have a TV. With my amnesia, watching is overwhelming. I avoid the news. Hearing of any violence sends me into a panic attack. Watching abstract commercials flash from one scene to the next leaves me with a thousand questions. Some things make sense while others don’t.

Recovering has been more than remembering my life. It’s been about sorting out and making sense of almost everything else too. During my recovery, I spent a large part of my time with various tutors and therapists who helped get me back into college so I could return to a normal existence—whatever that is.