Do You Remember
Freida McFadden
DAY ONE
Chapter 1
An ice pick is jabbing me in my right temple.
It feels that way, anyway. The pain is enough to make my eyes fly open, giving me a view of the cracks on my bedroom ceiling. The intense light pouring through the window by the bed doesn’t make the situation any better. But after a few seconds, the pain dulls to a mild ache behind my right eye. Bearable.
This always happens when I have too much wine at night. I haven’t been able to hold my liquor since I was twenty-five. And last night, I definitely had too much wine.
But I couldn’t help it. It isn’t every night that I get engaged.
I roll my head to the side and gaze at the sleeping lump beside me. No, not just a sleeping lump. My fiancé. The man I’m going to marry. Harry.
It’s not like it was a huge surprise. We have, after all, been living together for over a year. And after our one-bedroom apartment on the lower east side went condo six months ago, we bought a big old house in Queens together, within reasonable commuting distance of Manhattan. After we went in on the mortgage together, we were pretty much stuck with each other. Even more so than if we got married. I mean, a divorce is easy. But splitting up this house would be such a hassle.
As I lie in bed, I replay the events of last night in my head. I have a feeling I’m going to be telling this story a lot. To my father. Possibly to our future children someday. At the very least, my best friend Lucy will want to hear every juicy detail.
So we had just finished dinner and were going to watch a movie together, but I told Harry I wanted to check my email first. I was confused by the way he followed me to my laptop, tripping over his feet in his eagerness. It didn’t make sense until I opened my laptop—he had replaced the keys on my keyboard. The new keys spelled out: WILL YOU MARRY ME?
And then when I turned to look at him, he was down on one knee, holding a blue velvet box, gazing up at me with his deep brown eyes. The diamond was small, but the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life.
I was shocked. So shocked that I made the poor guy wait just a little too long before answering, and he looked a bit nervous. He reached out and grabbed my hand. “Please marry me, Tess,” he said. “You’re my whole life.”
Of course, I said yes. I mean, I’m crazy about the guy.
To celebrate our engagement, Harry popped the cork on the really good bottle of Cabernet that he had stashed away in the kitchen cabinet for a special occasion. I’m pretty sure that bottle is now lying empty on our coffee table, hence my pounding headache. We spent the evening talking about what we wanted to do for a wedding, but especially where we wanted to go for our honeymoon. Someplace hot with lots of beaches.
After that first glass of Cabernet, the rest of the events of the evening are kind of foggy. But clearly, we made it back into bed. And I managed to change into one of the oversized T-shirts I always sleep in, even though I don’t quite remember doing so. But I must have. I’m wearing it, after all.
I rest a hand gently on the blanket covering my fiancé. （Does that sound pretentious? I love saying it.） He has dark brown hair that always sticks up a bit, but somehow, in the morning light streaming in through the window, it looks much lighter. He doesn’t stir at my touch. Harry could sleep through an earthquake, but especially when he’s had a few drinks. Usually he snores after he drinks, but he’s dead silent now.
I kick off the blankets and sit up in bed. I feel another jab of pain in my right temple, but then it eases up, replaced by a dull ache at the base of my spine. Wow, I really need to stop drinking. It’s not worth it to feel so crummy in the morning. And why can’t I remember anything that happened after Harry proposed?
I stumble in the direction of the bathroom in my bare feet, trying to ignore the various aches in my body. I’m not even thirty yet—it seems like I should be able to drink a little wine without feeling like a decrepit old lady the next morning. But maybe this is what happens when you get older.
I flick on the lights in the bathroom, bracing myself for the brightness. I squint into the master bathroom, waiting for my pupils to adjust. And…
What the hell happened here?
I stare at the sink, utterly confused. Okay, the events of last night are sort of fuzzy, but is it possible Harry and I went on a home repair spree after drinking the Cabernet? Because the sink that was rusted and cracked when we bought the house—and still was as of last night—is now a flawless, gleaming white. And the toilet… when we first saw this place, Harry commented, “Hey, it’s a prison toilet!” He sounded way too excited about it, but he had a good point. Our toilet did look like something out of a prison bathroom.