Then my eyes fall on a pair of tweezers. Not as good as a razor, but better than nothing. I snatch up the tweezers and brandish them in my right hand.
“Tess,” the stranger says again. “Put down the tweezers.”
“Where is Harry?” I say through my teeth.
A pained look passes over the man’s face. He lets out a long sigh. Admittedly, he doesn’t look dangerous. First of all, he’s in his underwear. Also, it’s hard not to notice that he’s quite attractive. Nice blue eyes, thick hair with blond undertones visible under the bathroom lights, and a solid build with firm biceps peeking out under the wrinkled undershirt. He looks to be in his mid to late thirties.
“Harry doesn’t live here anymore.” His voice is calm and slow. Like he’s talking to a crazy person. “I’m Graham.”
I squeeze the tweezers in my right hand, waiting for more of an explanation. Finally, he gives it to me: “I’m your husband.”
What?
“Tess.” He raises his hands in the air. “I’m not going to hurt you. Can we talk in the bedroom?”
I look down at my right hand—I am gripping the tweezers so hard, my fingers are bloodless. I’m also shaking like a leaf. Tweezers or not, if this guy wanted to hurt me, he could. Easily. But he doesn’t seem like he wants to hurt me.
“Tess?”
Finally, I nod. “Okay.”
He looks at the tweezers. “You can hold on to those if it makes you feel better. And if you don’t like what I have to say, you can… reshape my eyebrows any way you like.”
He’s making a joke. But there’s nothing funny about this situation.
There’s a pink silk bathrobe hanging on the inside of the bathroom door, and I grab it and wrap it around myself. Then I follow this man, Graham, who claims to be my husband. Obviously, he’s not my husband. I can imagine forgetting about installing a toilet or cutting my hair, but I would never forget an entire marriage. I don’t know why he’s sleeping in my bed though. Or where Harry went. But I intend to get to the bottom of it.
Graham settles down on the edge of our bed. It’s only now that I notice our comforter isn’t the only thing that’s different about the bed. It’s a completely different bed. Harry and I had a metal bed with a saggy box spring, but this is a nice, firm mattress with an elaborate wooden headboard. It’s probably got memory foam and everything.
Graham looks like he’s going to reach for my hand, but I yank it away before he can grab it. He flinches and bows his head. I don’t know what this guy’s game is. Is this some kind of elaborate con? Am I missing a kidney now?
“I know this is disconcerting,” he says. “I understand.”
Gee, you think? “Who are you really?”
His shoulders sag. “I’m your husband, Tess. Do you remember at all?”
When I shake my head no, he points to the dresser across from us. The dresser itself is unfamiliar. Last night when I went to bed, we had a warped wooden dresser from IKEA. That old dresser has been replaced with a chestnut brown wooden chest of drawers with burnished edges. It does not look like it came from IKEA. But what’s even more shocking is what’s on top of the dresser.
Photographs.
There are about half a dozen framed photos. And each of the photos has me in it. Me and Graham, usually. The two of us bundled up on a ski lift. Dressed up fancy, drinking champagne, our lips frozen with laughter. Lounging on a beach somewhere.
And then there’s the photograph right in the middle. Me and Graham. Holding hands. Him in a tuxedo. Me in a white dress.
“No,” I whisper.
I don’t understand what’s going on here. Last night, Harry asked me to marry him. Harry—the love of my life. He got down on one knee, for God’s sake. We celebrated with Cabernet. And now… he’s vanished. And somehow I have entered some other crazy life that I don’t even recognize.
Tears gather in my eyes. “Harry,” I whimper.
Graham drops his face into his hands and rubs his eyes. A few seconds later, he lifts his head. “I need to show you something.”
“What?”
“It…” He pushes up to his feet. “It will help. It usually does.”
Wordlessly, I watch Graham walk around our bed to the night table. He opens the top drawer and pulls out a piece of lined paper, folded into thirds. He hands the paper to me.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“It’s a letter.”
“From who?”