“In the—” I begin, but a familiar song blares from the radio on the porch and the back of my neck tingles. Oh no. It’s happening again. There’s nothing about Sonny and Cher’s “I Got You, Babe” that should inspire this level of dread-soaked anticipation （unless you’re Bill Murray in Groundhog Day）， but I’m not exactly normal. The opening lyrics drill into my brain, and I squeeze my eyes shut as an unwanted memory flickers to life.
No, not a memory.
In my mind’s eye, I’m no longer standing on a tree-lined street in Cleveland on a cool June day. I’m swaying on a dim stage in a beer-soaked karaoke bar, microphone in hand. And he’s there—Devin Bloom. He’s smiling at me, cheekbones illuminated by a spotlight, dark eyes crinkling as he changes the lyrics so the chorus includes my name: “I got you, Cass.” I clutch the cardboard box so tightly its contents threaten to rattle.
Most people wake up from a coma with memory loss. I woke up with memory surplus—specifically, countless memories of a man named Devin Bloom.
Except Devin isn’t real. He’s a figment of my coma-rattled imagination.
At first, I didn’t believe it. But the cloud revealed the truth: I didn’t have any photos of Devin, any text history, or even a contact labeled Devin. There was absolutely, positively no evidence that Devin Bloom, my supposed boyfriend of three months, was a real person. No one in my life had met him, knew him, or heard of him. Googling and obsessively searching social media revealed nada as well.
There have been cases before of coma patients waking up with false or conflated memories, but waking up with a full-on imaginary boyfriend? The doctors called it a “medical anomaly.” I call it a heart transplant without the heart and an unnecessary distraction from getting my life back on track.
Not that I feel sorry for myself or anything. In fact, I have a lot to be grateful for: I’m thinking, walking, talking, and back to my normal self—mostly. I could have died in that car accident. Or never recovered at all from the coma. If an imaginary boyfriend is the worst thing I have to deal with, I’m lucky. Shutting my eyes, I take a deep, reassuring breath.
“I’m here. I’m real. He’s not real,” I mutter my therapist’s mantra to myself.
“Oh, I’m real, honey,” says a deep voice.
My eyes pop open. The mover, Mr. Cat Daddy, is still staring at me, bushy eyebrows raised. “Dresser?” he asks.
My cheeks flame. “Upstairs bedroom. First door on the right.”
“Want me to take that up too?” He nods at my box.
I hug it tighter to my chest. “No, thanks.”
Shrugging one massive shoulder, Mr. Cat Daddy pulls the dolly up the cracked stone stairs leading to the century-old Ohio City Victorian that’s officially my new home. Just before he reaches the porch, he steals a wary glance at me over his shoulder. Irritation bursts through my nostalgia, burning away the last fragments of imagined memory like smoke.
“I’m not crazy,” I call after him.
“Whatever you say, lady.” He disappears through the front door.
With a huff, I march up the steps toward the house. The soles of my white Adidas thud against the porch as I stride over to the radio. Balancing the box on my hip, I switch the station. “I Got You, Babe” cuts out and a jaunty, bass-heavy pop song takes its place. I nod.
Much better. This is a day for new beginnings.
The cobalt-painted front door is already propped open and I step inside. But before I can climb the stairs to deposit the box in my bedroom, Brie strides into the foyer. My heart lightens automatically. Ever since I met Brie on the first day of seventh grade and we swapped lunches—her nanny-prepared ham and Gruyère for my generic PB and J—we’ve been best friends. Now we’re twenty-six, and we’re finally, finally moving in together now that I’ve more-or-less fully recovered from the accident and her last roommate moved out.
Her gold glasses sparkle, highlighting her light brown eyes. “Cass, there you are! Can you please tell your mother to chill out? Marcus stopped by a few minutes ago to drop off your key, and she’s been haranguing him ever since. For a landlord, he has the patience of a saint, but I can practically see him contemplating tearing up our lease.”
An ear-splitting squawk steals my attention, and I register the African gray parrot perched on Brie’s shoulder. I take a hasty step back out of habit. “I didn’t know Xerxes was here. I thought you said he was living with your parents.”