Page 69

I wake up to the chirping of birds and the worst headache in history. I pull the pillow over my head, but it doesn't help, so eventually I throw the blankets off and sit up.

That's when I see it.

Ibuprofen, on my nightstand.

I didn't put it there...

What the hell?

I stare at it while snippets of yesterday slowly start coming back to me. The bar. The guy behind it who looks a lot like Jude and somehow doesn't. The girl with the blonde hair and gentle smile. And Jude.

I remember him sitting beside me and then...

Nothing.

Did he take me home?

I take some ibuprofen and walk out of the bedroom, but I'm barely halfway down the hallway when the smell hits me so hard I stop.

Lasagna.

Not just lasagna.

Damiano's lasagna.

No.

I stand perfectly still, breathing it in. The slow-cooked tomato sauce that simmered for hours every Sunday, filling our apartment before I even woke up. Damiano always got up before me to start it, and eventually the smell would pull me out of bed and into the kitchen, where I'd find him cooking while I stole tastes of sauce whenever his back was turned.

It smells exactly the same.

But that isn't possible.

I hurry down the hallway and walk into the kitchen.

Nothing.

The stove is cold, the refrigerator nearly empty.

I don't even own tomato sauce.

But the smell grows stronger.

My heart starts pounding as I stand there breathing it in, every part of me knowing this doesn't make sense while something else inside me doesn't seem to care.

“Damiano?”

The name leaves my lips before I can stop it.

Silence.

I throw open every cabinet, then the drawers, even the oven, searching for a pot, a jar, anything that could explain why my kitchen smells exactly the way ours used to every Sunday morning.

There's nothing.

Tears blur my vision.

“No...” I whisper.