“So just so I’m clear,” she says after I’ve filled her wineglass, “the strategy is, basically, take it easy, see the therapist a couple of times a week, and get a second opinion from a neurologist.”
“Yup, and suck away on Altoids to stay in the moment. I still can’t believe this has happened. I don’t do unraveling.”
Gabby smiles. “That’s for sure. Do you like this therapist? I mean, you went to her originally for a whole different reason.”
“I do like her, and this latest stuff is in her wheelhouse. She’s worked regularly with people who’ve experienced trauma.”
“And she’s been helpful?”
“It’s been good to vent, but the process is going to take time. And she told me today that my memories might actually be too ‘fractured’ to retrieve, which is driving me crazy.”
“I’ve already given you my opinion on that front. Hire a private detective. Once he’s figured out where you went, it might trigger you to remember what you were doing.”
“You probably think I’m going to hire someone superhot who calls himself a private dick, and that you could date him after he’s done with my case. But I haven’t spotted any Chris Hemsworth types in the mix.”
She raises a ginger eyebrow. “You’ve started looking?”
“Just a basic Google search, that’s all. It looks like there’s a wide range of options. At one end are the really big agencies, which help companies deal with major risks and security issues. And then there are some small, local operations, often made up of ex-cops or ex-military guys.”
“Try one of them.”
I let out a long sigh. “Yeah, maybe I should. Plus, it’s not simply a matter of wanting to know where I was those days. I keep wondering if something happened to me last Tuesday, something bad.”
“While you were in this so-called fugue state?”
“Either in it or immediately beforehand, and that’s what made me disconnect. Not the argument with Hugh.”
Absentmindedly, Gabby uses her right foot to wiggle off the black suede ankle bootie on her left foot and then performs the same maneuver on the opposite side.
“Here’s a thought,” she says, once her legs are tucked beneath her on the couch. “What if you were freaked out by a bad thing that happened to someone else?”
“You mean like seeing a person being attacked?”
“Right. Or being hit by a car or, god—jumping from a building. Something. There was this woman I knew ages ago, a big-shot lawyer who dated my cousin Bradley. I bumped into her a couple of years ago and she told me she’d left her fancy law firm to get an MFA in poetry. And when I asked her why, she said that on one single day in Manhattan, she came across three different scenes with cops standing around a dead body under a white sheet. Three dead bodies all in one day! And it threw her so much she ended up changing her life entirely. That kind of stuff can fuck with your head.”
“Your theory would explain the tissues I found in my pocket,” I say, rolling the concept around in my head. “If someone near me was injured, I might have tried to stop the flow of blood.”
“Exactly.”
I circle the rim of my empty wineglass with a finger. Leave it to Gabby to see the matter from a fresh perspective.
“Okay, that’s definitely worth mulling over,” I say. “Now, if you’re so damn good at this, tell me why I ended up at Greenbacks Thursday morning.”
She takes a long drink of wine, then shakes her head. “Not sure on that one. Why do you think you did?”
“You sound like my therapist! I have no clue—but I’m hoping Damien might. I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow.”
“Danger, Will Robinson. Danger.”
She knows how nuts I was over Damien, and how crushed I was when it ended.
“You think I’ll try to tear his pants off the minute I set eyes on him.”
“You said it, not me.”
“I simply want to find out if he has an inkling of why I went to his company.”
That’s not a hundred percent accurate, I realize as soon as I say it. Yes, I’m eager to learn what I can from Damien, but I’m starting to think it’s more complicated than that. I want to make sure that his most recent image of me isn’t of a totally unglued woman. And, as much as I hate to admit it, I’m curious as to what his life is like now.
“But you already said you checked your email and you two haven’t had any recent contact. What can he provide that’s more than a wild guess?”
“At the moment I’ll take anything I can get my hands on, including wild guesses.”
I reach for the bottle of wine and raise it off the coffee table, flashing Gabby a look that asks if she wants more.
“Un poco.”
I don’t add any to my own glass. I’d love more wine, but my better instincts override the urge. Instead I jump up, grab a bottle of Perrier from the fridge, and carry it to the table along with two glasses. While I pour us each a few glugs of water, Gabby yanks the tie from her ponytail and shakes out her hair so that it fans out around from her head like a wildfire.
“I admit, part of me wants to set eyes on Damien again,” I say, back on the couch. “The old touching-a-bruise thing. But if it wasn’t for the chance of getting information from him, I wouldn’t have responded to his text.”
“Have you told Hugh?”
I glance away. “No, but not because I’m trying to deceive him. I’m just having a hard time slipping back into a groove with Hugh again, and I don’t want to make it worse.”
“What do you mean?”
“When we’re together, it feels like we’re on one of those awkward third dates—you know, the kind when, despite the fact that everything seemed great on dates one and two, you can’t recapture the rhythm.”
“Have you slept together already?”
“What?” Her question catches me off guard. Is she asking if I’ve had sex with Hugh since this happened? The answer, of course, is no.
“I’m asking about this imaginary third date you’re on. Have you already fucked?”
“Gabby, it was just a dumb analogy.”
“I’m trying to determine what made those first two dates so good. Maybe you need to figure out whatever it was.”
“Okay, I see what you mean. Of course, there’s still the kid issue. I bet he’s terrified about bringing it up again.”
“Well, he’s going to have to chill on the topic for now.”
Gabby untucks her legs and reaches for her boots.
“You’re leaving?” I moan.
“I hate to bail, but if I don’t beat it home soon, I’m afraid I’ll pass out on your couch.”
“But I haven’t even asked about you yet. About London . . .”
“I’ll call you tomorrow and fill you in,” she says, stuffing her feet back into her boots. “And let’s have dinner soon—whenever you’re up to it.”
“What’s happening with that new guy you’re seeing—Jake? Any potential there?”
She shrugs. “Reply hazy. Ask again later.”