Collide by Megan Hart

crazy girl,” my mom said fondly. “Call me tomorrow?”
    “Sure, Mom. Bye.” We disconnected just as Jen sat down, pushing my plate and mug toward me.
    “Your mom must be pretty cool,” she said.
    “She can be. Oh, God. Chocolate fudge chip with fudge icing? This isn’t a muffin. This is a new pair of jeans in a bigger size.”
    Jen licked a fingertip. “It’s what he likes.”
    I didn’t have to ask her who “he” was. I wondered if I’d ever have to ask again. “Yeah?”
    She grinned. “Some stalker you are.”
    Our conversation turned from the tantalizing topic of Johnny Dellasandro, maybe because he was actually there and could’ve overheard us, or because he was with a woman, therefore making any fantasies about him sort of lame and pointless. Or maybe because we had other things to talk about, me and Jen, like our favorite television shows and books, about the cute guy who delivered pizzas in our neighborhood. About all the things good friends talk about over sweets and caffeine.
    “I should get going,” I said with a sigh when I’d polished off that sinful muffin and finished my third mug of coffee. I patted my stomach. “I’m going to burst, plus I have laundry to do and some bills to pay.”
    “Nice quiet Sunday afternoon.” Jen sighed happily. “The best kind. See you in the morning?”
    “Oh, probably. I’m sure I’ll swing by here for a coffee to go. I know I should make my own at home, but…I can’t ever get the brew to taste right. And it seems like a waste to make a whole pot when I can only have one cup.”
    Jen grinned and winked. “And the eye candy here is so much nicer.”
    There was that, too.
    She ducked out before I did, and not because I was lingering overlong trying to get a look at Johnny. I did take one last glance over my shoulder at him as I pushed the door and made the bell jingle. I was hoping he’d look up, but he was still locked deep in conversation with that woman, whoever she was.
    It wasn’t until much later that night—bills paid and laundry washed, dried, sorted, folded and put away—that I thought to look for the necklace in my pocket. I searched them all, even the ones of my jeans, though I knew I hadn’t put it in there. No necklace. Somewhere, somehow, I’d lost it.
    Like I’d said to Jen, it was no big deal. It wasn’t a piece I’d had any sentimental ties to, and I was sure it hadn’t been expensive. Still, the fact I’d lost it disturbed me. I’d lost things before. Put them down when I was having a fugue and didn’t remember it. I’d found things that way, too. Once, I’d walked out of a store clutching a fistful of lip balms I must’ve grabbed up from a bin. I’d been too embarrassed to tell my mom I stole them. Every once in a while I found one in a pocket of a coat or a purse. They’d lasted me for years.
    I hadn’t lost the necklace in a fugue, I was almost certain of that. I’d walked home from the Mocha with the wind so cold in my nostrils it had frozen my nose hairs, making it possible but not likely I’d missed any scent of oranges. On the other hand, it was possible I’d had a fugue without that warning sign. Lots of people with seizure disorders never had any warning, or memory, of what had happened.
    This thought sobered me faster than a high school kid pulled over by the sheriff on prom night.
    Blinking fast to keep the tears suddenly burning my eyes from slipping out, I took a long, slow breath. Then another. By the time I’d focused on the third, in and out, I felt a little calmer. Not much, but enough to slow the frantic pounding of my heart and quell the surging boil in my guts.
    I’d discovered alternative medicine a few years ago when traditional techniques could no longer diagnose whatever it was the fall had done to my brain. I was tired of being stuck with needles and taking medicine that often had side effects so much worse than the benefits they provided, it wasn’t worth taking them. Acupuncture