“Yes.”
“A dentist.”
“Yes.”
“A life.”
She looked away.
“Yes.”
I laughed once.
Not humor.
Just disbelief escaping.
“All right.”
We drove.
After ten minutes, Lily said:
“There’s something strange about the call.”
I looked ahead.
“Everything about today is strange.”
“I didn’t consciously remember your number.”
“What?”
“When the receptionist asked who to contact, apparently I gave them your number.”
“That number has been mine since we were teenagers.”
“I know.”
“So you remembered it.”
“Some part of me did.”
I gripped the wheel.
“Did you know my name before today?”
Silence.
I looked at her.
“Lily.”
“Yes.”
The answer was too quiet.
A cold pressure formed behind my ribs.
“When?”
“Can we get to my apartment first?”
“No.”
“When did you remember me?”
She stared out the window.
“Not all at once.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
Her fingers found the ring again.
“I remembered pieces.”
“Mom’s kitchen.”
“Dad singing in the garage.”
“You stealing my sweaters.”
“You stole mine.”
A tiny almost-smile.
“That sounds more familiar.”
I did not smile back.
“How long?”
