this morning. Perhaps he suffered a concussion? Or he’s recovering from anesthesia?
“You haven’t had surgery or played hockey recently, have you?” I ask.
“What?”
“Never mind.”
“What is this place? What’s all this stuff?” he asks.
“Target,” I say.
“A target for what?”
That’s the last bit of evidence I need.
“Can I please get you some help?” I ask. “Call someone?”
“No!” He grabs my wrist. A shot of heat races through my body from the point of contact. It’s not lust but something different, some connection for which I cannot find the proper word.
“Oh my,” I say.
He keeps a tight grip on my wrist.
“I want to go home,” he whispers. His eyes search my face, and suddenly he reminds me of Allison, jolted awake by a nightmare, lost in the blurry place between reality and dreams.
“Of course you do,” I say, peeling his fingers off my wrist. “Do you remember your name? Do you have a wallet?”
He obediently checks his back pocket and the inner jacket as well. Nothing.
“And I don’t remember my name,” he says as if this fact surprises him. What must it be like to forget that most basic fact about yourself? Who are you if you don’t have a name? You’re a blank slate. You’re nobody. For some reason, this idea leaves me cold.
I walk the man toward the store manager’s office. He comes willingly, shuffling his muddy thousand-dollar shoes along the floor. As I go, I dial 911.
Twenty minutes later, I hand the man over to an EMT with gray hair and a low, comforting voice. She inspires confidence. The man gives her a tentative smile. She takes my name and address and phone number. Standard procedure, she says. And thank you for being a good, upstanding citizen. Okay, she doesn’t exactly say that part, but I can tell she thinks it.
I turn to my new, crazy friend and smooth down his hair.
“You’ll be okay,” I say.
He looks skeptical but nods his head and returns his attention to the EMT as she slaps a blood pressure cuff around his arm. I am dismissed.
Only when I pull into my driveway do I realize I abandoned my cart with the carefully selected two-ply toilet paper somewhere near Baby Products.
Chapter 8
I ’m back home by eleven o’clock and seated at my desk. Although I hate to admit it, the Target man threw me. He was lost and confused and totally at the mercy of strangers. Relying on others for anything important is among my greatest fears. What if they fail you? Better to do what needs doing yourself and avoid the possibility of being let down altogether.
I probably could have survived the Target interaction with little drama, but layer on top fifteen hundred words appearing as if by magic in Stolen Secrets and you have the ingredients for a pharmaceutical intervention. I pop open the Xanax and toss back two little white pills. Some days are one-pill days, other days are two. Today is a two, and it’s not even lunchtime.
I stare at my open computer screen. My hands tremble. Something very bad is happening. Probably a brain tumor. A psychotic break from reality. I remain in my chair perfectly still, and wait for the medication to kick in.
Chapter three was going just fine. Per my outline, Aidan and Lily were to leave the restaurant, go back to his place, and get naked in a slow and agonizing fashion. He’d tie her up and tease her, and she’d be shocked but ready. I knew exactly where this story was going when I went to bed. And there was nobody named Clarissa in it, that’s for sure. Did my brain tumor slip me into some sort of creative trance? I throw back another Xanax for good measure. The doctor told me to mind my dosage because antianxiety medicine can become addictive, but right now I could not care less. A witch named Clarissa has hijacked Stolen Secrets .
A chirp from my cell phone interrupts the noise in my head. Jason is on his way.
I push back from the desk. I have twenty minutes tops until he arrives, and the least I can
“You haven’t had surgery or played hockey recently, have you?” I ask.
“What?”
“Never mind.”
“What is this place? What’s all this stuff?” he asks.
“Target,” I say.
“A target for what?”
That’s the last bit of evidence I need.
“Can I please get you some help?” I ask. “Call someone?”
“No!” He grabs my wrist. A shot of heat races through my body from the point of contact. It’s not lust but something different, some connection for which I cannot find the proper word.
“Oh my,” I say.
He keeps a tight grip on my wrist.
“I want to go home,” he whispers. His eyes search my face, and suddenly he reminds me of Allison, jolted awake by a nightmare, lost in the blurry place between reality and dreams.
“Of course you do,” I say, peeling his fingers off my wrist. “Do you remember your name? Do you have a wallet?”
He obediently checks his back pocket and the inner jacket as well. Nothing.
“And I don’t remember my name,” he says as if this fact surprises him. What must it be like to forget that most basic fact about yourself? Who are you if you don’t have a name? You’re a blank slate. You’re nobody. For some reason, this idea leaves me cold.
I walk the man toward the store manager’s office. He comes willingly, shuffling his muddy thousand-dollar shoes along the floor. As I go, I dial 911.
Twenty minutes later, I hand the man over to an EMT with gray hair and a low, comforting voice. She inspires confidence. The man gives her a tentative smile. She takes my name and address and phone number. Standard procedure, she says. And thank you for being a good, upstanding citizen. Okay, she doesn’t exactly say that part, but I can tell she thinks it.
I turn to my new, crazy friend and smooth down his hair.
“You’ll be okay,” I say.
He looks skeptical but nods his head and returns his attention to the EMT as she slaps a blood pressure cuff around his arm. I am dismissed.
Only when I pull into my driveway do I realize I abandoned my cart with the carefully selected two-ply toilet paper somewhere near Baby Products.
Chapter 8
I ’m back home by eleven o’clock and seated at my desk. Although I hate to admit it, the Target man threw me. He was lost and confused and totally at the mercy of strangers. Relying on others for anything important is among my greatest fears. What if they fail you? Better to do what needs doing yourself and avoid the possibility of being let down altogether.
I probably could have survived the Target interaction with little drama, but layer on top fifteen hundred words appearing as if by magic in Stolen Secrets and you have the ingredients for a pharmaceutical intervention. I pop open the Xanax and toss back two little white pills. Some days are one-pill days, other days are two. Today is a two, and it’s not even lunchtime.
I stare at my open computer screen. My hands tremble. Something very bad is happening. Probably a brain tumor. A psychotic break from reality. I remain in my chair perfectly still, and wait for the medication to kick in.
Chapter three was going just fine. Per my outline, Aidan and Lily were to leave the restaurant, go back to his place, and get naked in a slow and agonizing fashion. He’d tie her up and tease her, and she’d be shocked but ready. I knew exactly where this story was going when I went to bed. And there was nobody named Clarissa in it, that’s for sure. Did my brain tumor slip me into some sort of creative trance? I throw back another Xanax for good measure. The doctor told me to mind my dosage because antianxiety medicine can become addictive, but right now I could not care less. A witch named Clarissa has hijacked Stolen Secrets .
A chirp from my cell phone interrupts the noise in my head. Jason is on his way.
I push back from the desk. I have twenty minutes tops until he arrives, and the least I can
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