Chapter 1

The reason I almost died ten years ago is in the same supermarket aisle as me. How can something like this happen on a Friday evening? I avoid my initial reaction from settling by looking away as fast as I can. I must be wrong.

I try to get away, but the wheels of my cart have seemed to freeze with me; at some point, I decide to get lost in labels and prices instead. I know I have to move, I have to look up to prove it’s not real. What I saw was just my mind pulling the first face buried in sour memories.

But when I do and see him, a war unravels between my feelings and my common sense. My heart skips a beat the way it does when you drop something valuable but you’re able to catch it mid-air. My legs don’t go numb under my weight and there’s no trace of what I felt the night he abandoned me.

Resentment settles in my chest as I recall that night. I remember my younger self, fragile and sick because of all the meals I used to skip. Sleepless nights waiting for him.

“Shit…” I can’t turn away fast enough. I grab a piece of cheese from the dairy section when he looks in my direction.

Alarms go off inside my head. I turn my face away but I catch him from the corner of my eye. His gaze is framed by square glasses that weren’t there before, a beard he once insisted he’d never grow because it was unprofessional. I remember his lips quoted by dimples. Now, they hide behind a confused face.

He doesn’t recognise me and I don’t expect him to.

There’s nothing left of me he could recognise.

I keep myself busy by rolling a piece of mozzarella in my hands. I don’t like cheese; he knows I don’t. He pushes his cart, continuing his path after seconds that felt like hours. Finally, that breath leaves my mouth as I toss the mozzarella back into the fridge.

I take the opposite aisle to avoid any chance of coming across him. Doing what I, hypocritically, recommend my patients not to do.

Do not avoid what’s bothering you, Martha.

There are exceptions and he’s one of them.

If I would’ve woken up when my alarm went off, if I wouldn’t have hit the snooze button twice, if I wouldn’t have been late for work. I wouldn’t have asked Josephine if she slept on the idea of us moving and we wouldn’t have argued about it. I wouldn’t have stayed twenty minutes more at the office, I wouldn’t have caught that red light, and I wouldn’t have missed the parking spot closer to Whole Foods.

But I did.

And all of those things aligned with Murphy’s law to cause this situation. Turning at the corner of the aisle, I watch over my shoulder to make sure I won’t encounter him again. But my shopping cart crashes into someone else’s, hitting them in the gut and drawing a breathless sound out of him. He wraps his arms around his stomach.

“Oh God,” I whisper. There's no way I can escape this situation now. Not without me looking like a jerk, which I already am for hitting him in the gut. I walk to his side, that's what a stranger would do. Accompanied by profuse apologies. “I’m so sorry.” I’m not, but my voice comes with an unintentionally high pitch. “I’m sorry, are you alright?”

He straightens to look at me. “Yeah, yeah…” he rasps. “A bit breathless.”

I have to fight the urge to roll my eyes. His kind of humour. I guess it never changed.

“Alright.” I smooth my jumper. “I’m sorry again. It was an accident.” I go back to my cart, hoping to leave as fast as I can before he recognises me. He’s in my way. I’ll have to back up.

He fixes his glasses to take a second look at me and I keep a straight face, as if we just met and know nothing about each other. Which is true: I don’t know a single thing about him, and after ten years, he doesn’t know me either.

But his look turns scrutinising. There must be things that he finds familiar. Maybe he remembers the place where my nose ring was; now it’s a healed scar of a ripped piercing. Or maybe he remembers the slit in my left brow, which never grew back. You’ll always see the gap, even when my wild strands of hair do their best to try to cover it up.

“Do I know you?” He tilts his head. I know I can say no. I could walk away without giving him an explanation. I freeze in place, watching the lights fall on the bridge of his nose. Seeing him again, seeing him this close… It's disturbing.

“Not really. Not anymore.” I regret it as soon as it comes out of my mouth. I press my lips in a straight smile. A habit when I’m lost for words—one that gives me away.

“Emma?” He says my name and now my legs do go numb under my weight.

“Hi, Theo.” I have to pretend this is nothing, that I’m not cringing at how his name feels rusty on my lips.

He blinks a ridiculous amount of times. Perplexed, he tries to articulate something and fails. A fish out of its tank. My Oxford shoes grab his attention, then I realise he’s scanning me. I grimace.

“Fine.” Annoyed, I push my cart past him. “It was a pleasure. Bye.”

His hand on my shoulder stops me as I pass him. He frowns as though noticing my confusion.

“Were you the one staring at me back in the dairy section?” His brain’s probably processing why I, the person in front of him, don’t match the name and the face he used to know. I move; his hand falls from my shoulder.

“Whoa…'' There's an offended puff from me. “I wasn’t looking at you. I was panning around and you happened to be there.” I try to sound the way I do with my patients but it’s ridiculous once it comes out of my mouth. I shake my head to stop overthinking.

Theodore gives me a half-smile. I’m waiting for that lascivious look that he used to give me back in university before calling my bluff, but it never comes. His eyes have matured and that smile softens as if he’s promising to keep a secret.

“Sure,” he whispers, looking down and chuckling. It makes me uncomfortable how he talks to me, as if we’re friends, acquaintances, or as if we are glad to meet again. None of that is true. Theodore Eullie is a stranger to me.

“Yes, that’s what happened.” My voice feels heavy in my throat. I’m full-on Dr Emma Lamb at this point, treating him as a patient that I don’t particularly like.

He seems to notice the change in my voice, my deadpan look, how my shoulders are square and my chin lifted upward. The grip on the handle of my cart has turned my knuckles white.

He finally takes a step back and that sly smile comes back to his mouth. He either doesn’t care or doesn’t notice that I’m getting upset with this encounter.

He points to his face. “You keep doing that thing with your lips.” Muscle memory pulls the corner of my mouth a bit. My face starts to burn. “There it is.” There’s another chuckle before he rubs the back of his neck. “Nice to see you again; I have a completely different memory about how you used to look, though.”

“Oh.” I get myself together. “You look the same.” Consciously, I’m not trying to be an asshole. It just comes out that way when I realise he’s the same old Theo with the same old habits. Just like my resentment that settles again. I know it’s time to walk away. “It was… fine to see you, too.”

“Fine?” His hand goes to his stomach. “Ouch, words and actions hitting me all at once.” A playful tone to ease this moment—or the ones that happened ten years ago. It’s uncomfortable and it doesn’t matter anyway. He doesn’t matter to me.

My lips form a line. I’ve lost the ability to smile when he’s around. “Bye, Theo.” I push my cart, leaving him behind. I couldn’t avoid the situation but defusing it is the second best option.

I don’t look back. I sense his eyes are still on me, piercing through my skin. If I turn back now, I’ll give him the wrong idea. I shudder to shake away that five-minute encounter. It felt as if there was no getting out of it.

I chuckle to myself. Josephine would say that I’m exaggerating; she’d probably be right. It's been a while since I self-analysed.

Psychiatrists generally avoid doing so because of many factors. Our ego gets in the way, there’s zero critical thinking about our actions and feelings whatsoever, and, honestly, it’s so fucking embarrassing. Most doctors won’t even acknowledge the insecurity that studying your own behaviour and mental health leaves. It’s frightening, knowing that there’s no magic treatment to make it go away.

There’s an itch behind my ear; either my body is reacting to what happened or I walked way too close to the peanuts. My emotions aren’t intact. After all, it’s been years without a trace of him. Something that was essential for overcoming my trauma.

How is it that this one meeting can throw away years of therapy, sleepless nights, and making the hardest decisions of my life? I don’t get it. There’s too much to unpack. I don’t think five minutes are worth such a task.

“Emma, breathe.” I use those words to centre me. It was one run-in in several years, and probably the last. I’m fine with my life, my fiancée, and my father. This is not worth unpacking. I need to keep it in the back of my head forever. Even better if I forget about it.

I get to the queue for the self-checkout, where an old lady is fighting with the chip and PIN machine. My leg starts to shake. I can’t leave this place soon enough. It’s like something wants to delay me. She gives me a warm smile and thanks me for the patience. I give back a small grin as she leaves.

I start to put all my groceries on the conveyor belt. Someone clears their throat behind me, but not in a casual way. They want me to look up.

“So, since when are you this monochromatic, professional-looking, dark academia type of thing?” Theo is checking out on the next conveyor belt, scanning his things and throwing them into the bags without care.

I sigh. “I don’t know what impresses me more.” I scan the last few items and knot my bags. “That you know the term ‘dark academia’ or that you just called me a thing.”

“Hey, no, come on.” He checks out a carton of eggs, the only thing that he places down with care. “You know what I mean. You look quite different.”

The PIN machine beeps when I swipe my card. The green screen confirming my payment is my cue to grab my things and leave. “You weren’t expecting me to have green hair and wear a nose stud in my thirties, were you?” It’s a rhetorical question. I’m trying to keep the conversation about him and not about me.

“Well, yes…” His laugh could be him thinking he is funny or just about how much he’s struggling with the PIN machine. Those things have their favourite customers, I swear. “I kind of was expecting it.” The beep and the green screen come soon after, but I’m already walking to the exit. He’s treading on my heels.

“I’m sorry to disappoint.” I don’t really care if he hears me or not. I want to get in my car and drive away. I want to go home and forget about this mess.

The cold wind hits me in the face; the drizzle starts to fall and I’ve left my coat in the car. I search for my umbrella in my messenger bag and realise it is not there.

I pat myself everywhere, thinking that I’ve misplaced it, when, in fact, there’s no place where I could’ve put it. I’m wearing dress trousers and a turtleneck. I spot my car a few metres away: enough metres to know that I’ll get damp walking to it. When I pay more attention, I see a black cylinder resting on the top of my car. My umbrella.

“Oh shit…”

I’m about to embrace the drizzle and the possibility of a cold when a shadow is cast over me. An umbrella opens over my head.

“Which one is your car?” Theo stands beside me, clutching all his bags with one hand to keep the umbrella over our heads with the other.

A memory comes back in a flash. I remember banging on his door, twenty-two, sick, wet under the glow of the street lights. The rain stopped. A drunk, high twenty-six-year old Theo was behind me, holding an umbrella over my head. Where’s your car? he asked. He wasn’t even going to let me in. He wanted me gone, though I’d only been there cause he wanted me too.

I jolt back to the present; my face is hot and my nose is starting to itch. I shake my head and move out of the shelter of the umbrella.

“It’s fine, I’m fine. It's not that far, thank you.” I rush to my car as the drizzle becomes steady rain. Theo’s voice comes from behind, a repetitive chant of my name. I keep saying that it's fine, that I don’t need his help.

I open the trunk and toss in my bags. I close it with a bang and snatch my umbrella from the roof of my car. When I open the driver’s door and throw the umbrella inside, cursing it, Theo reaches me.

I don’t want him here. I don’t want anything to do with him, not right now. Not ever.

“Hey! What are you doing?” His voice is too close, making me turn around and face him before I get in my car.

“Stop!” I’m in the middle of a crisis triggered by an unsettling memory. “Please… just, stop. Don’t follow me. I don't need your help. I don’t need anything from you, please.” My professional voice is long gone; I sound like the old little Emma that he once saw pleading. “Just… don’t.”

Confusion sets in his eyes and it makes me angry. I hate that stupid, confused face that he’s been wearing this entire time. As if he doesn’t know all the crap he put me through. As though I’m acting crazy. Though I shouldn’t be surprised by a man patronising a woman.

He takes a step back before I sit inside my car, and I close the door so hard that I hit my elbow. I’m about to lose it. About to scream and hit my steering wheel. But I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me like that, not ever again.

I reach for the glove compartment and search for a small white bar of soap. I squeeze it and smell it. Aseptic and citrusy, the lemon fragrance fills my nostrils. Little by little, my breathing steadies. My heart is not pounding anymore. Time inside my car has frozen. It’s me and the soap bar that I’ve lost myself in.

Whether it’s been minutes or hours, I’m not sure. My vision, once foggy, starts to clear again. The soap is resting against my lips. I’m holding it with both hands like a prayer. The steering wheel comes back into focus and I feel the brakes under my feet. I look over my shoulder to see if he is still there, but he's not. The rain and a few cars have left, along with him. I start the engine and drive away.

After all these years, I don’t understand why this is happening. Why now? Why here? Why? The only thing that I could boast about was that I’ve never had second encounters with ex-lovers. Especially with those that hurt me to the point that I ended up in a mental health rehabilitation centre. Now, all those things that I was glad of are gone. Old scars have been torn apart with the sole movement of an umbrella opening.

I keep getting flashes of med school. The internship, the sleepless nights, the nervous hands. The way I was incapable of performing a simple cholecystectomy. How my teachers would whisper about me. How I couldn’t show up with the grades that I had in theory during practices.

I remember seeing him. Walking around those hospital wards like he was the boss of the place. Flirting with students, with patients, with doctors.

I want to throw up.

My driveway comes into view and I stop for a minute before opening the garage to bring the soap up to my nose again. My nausea diminishes, just a little.

The door that connects the house with the garage is open. I’m about to give in to my emotions again. I recline the seat for a moment and stay there. Smelling that old bar of soap and drawing around the shape with my fingers. Taking in all the little details of the words pressed into it. For a moment, the world doesn’t exist outside this car.

I walk inside with my bags, and sounds come from the kitchen, pots and pans moving around, the sizzle of something dropped in oil. All the spices Josephine uses to cook wrap through the air.

At the end of the hall, my dad is in the living room with his wheelchair facing the window. The rain hits the huge glass that extends to the ceiling. He’s watching the raindrops race with each other. One hand is holding his head pensively, the other resting on his lap. I wrap one arm across his chest from behind and leave a kiss on the crown of his balding head.

“Hey there!” He is enthusiastic, but he has been in a weird mood lately. He has been walking less than he used to. The wheelchair that once used only to take him to his doctor’s appointments and dialysis has become a constant.

“What are you doing?” I nuzzle my nose in his white hair.

“I like the rain.” He holds my arm for a moment before giving back the kiss I gave him on my hand. “I don’t know what Josephine is cooking, but it smells like I’m too weak for it. I think she keeps forgetting I’m white.” He laughs and I shake my head.

“I’ll see what she’s doing.” He lets my arm go and I caress his shoulder before directing myself to the kitchen, which is just steps away since it’s an open concept.

The need to open the windows and take off my coat goes from zero to a hundred when I get closer. The place is hot as hell, and the spices are making my white-woman nose itch. Josephine wears her hijab under-cap, but I spot two chords that go from her ears down to her pocket. She’s listening to something.

Seeing her restarts something in me. This morning's argument feels like an old dream. Something that doesn’t matter anymore. Even the fact that she left the door of the garage open doesn’t bother me.

I mean, it does a little, but right now I want to hold her.

I put the bags on the kitchen’s island to hug her from behind. I have to rise on my tiptoes to place a kiss on the back of her neck.

“Oh, hey, stranger!” She turns around from the stove and wraps her arms around my neck. I pull one of her ear buds out.

“Someone left the garage door open,” I say. “Happen to know who left it that way?” A sly smile appears on my face.

She looks around with pursed lips. “Maybe…” She drags the word out as she places a kiss on my face. And then another, and then another, to distract me from what we were talking about.

“I’m serious.” I try to sound serious while I’m still receiving all her kisses. “Dead serious, Josephine.”

“It won’t happen again, I promise.” Her eyes are full of truth. I can't get mad at her, not when she tips my chin with her knuckle. “Now go away, baby, you’re going to make me burn the seekh kebab.”

I chuckle as I take my messenger bag from the island and leave the kitchen to go back to my dad.

“Well, we are having kebabs again,” I say when I’m next to him.

He lets out a sigh.

“Do you want to stay here or do you want to lay down for a bit?” He lightly punches his legs. He doesn’t want me to notice, but I do. “Would you like to watch a movie with me? ” I hope the suggestion distracts him. Most of the time, he says no.

“That would be nice.” He looks back at me. I smile at him before moving him from the window. “Don’t get mad if I fall asleep.”

“I won’t, I promise.” I laugh, but he narrows his eyes at me. “What?”

“You’ve been stressed out lately…” He chuckles. He does that to make the situation easier for everyone. “I heard you and Josephine this morning. I know that moving sounds exciting for you, but remember that it’s a hard decision to make. We spend time arguing about things that won't matter when we could’ve seized the time.”

“Dad…” I wasn’t expecting my father to hear my relationship disagreements. “It’s nothing, Dad. It was dumb.”

“I thought I taught you not to argue about dumb things.”

I laugh. He does have a point. “You’re right.”

Entering my father’s room, I place one of his arms around my neck to help him stand. His knees have weakened, but he manages to take the three steps to reach his bed. I puff his pillows and let a blanket rest over his small legs.

“What would you like to watch?” I ask as if I don’t already know the answer.

“Have you ever watched the movie A Love Story?”

Just a thousand times.

“No, it sounds good to me.”

The movie starts to play on Netflix and, after half an hour, my father’s sleeping soundly. I roll my shoulder. It still burns where Theo touched me.