cked asphalt and the crunch of metal. The next, I was sitting up in a bed that felt both strange and painfully familiar. The sunlight stream

ered scar on my right palm from when I' d fallen in the wreckage of my studio. My

all began to unravel. In my first life, this was the day of the big family dinner, the day before my husband,

ve. And I

mild impatience. He was still my husband. The sight of him didn' t bring love, or even the dull ache of betra

n thirty minutes," he said, his voice clipped. He didn'

said. My own voice sounded

of our perfect-on-the-surface marriage. Today, I moved with deliberate slowness. I chose a simple dress, plain and unadorned

r, Margaret, presided over the living room, a queen on her velvet throne. His sister was t

an H

erse of artistic pain. She wore a flowing white dress that made her look ethereal, almost angelic. She was

Margaret cooed, her smile genuin

ressions on that man' s face. I saw the way his shoulders relaxed, the way his eyes softene

s an audience member who already knew the ending. The conversation flowed around me, talk of a

ct piece of my memory slotted into place. Margaret

ng to give this to Vivian earlie

led with it for a moment before turning not to Vivian, but

he said, his voice a little to

ke a weeping willow. It was beautiful. And it was the exact hairpin Vivian had sketched in her notebook a month

mile, pretending not to know, pretending it was for me

r of panic in his eyes as he realized his mistake. He had mixed up the gifts. Or

shed it gently back acr

oice even and clear. The chatter at the table di

ence. Richard stared at me, his jaw tight.

plea anymore. It wasn't a reaction to a fresh wound. It was a calm, settled fact, a business decisi

e stunned table, "I' m feeling a litt

ight of their stares. But for the first time in a long, long time, I felt light. I was no