Page 21 of Manhattan State of Mind

My jaw clenches. I don’t think Lucy would call me either of those. Not anymore. I lean my head against the wall. “So Lucy feels nothing for me right now?”

She looks like she’s chewing on broken glass when she answers. “If your relationship progressed after the point where her memory ends, then she might not recall any emotions associated with it.”

“So that’s a fucking no.” My voice catches, and I clench my jaw to avoid showing any further emotion.

I stand up and pace, running a hand through my hair. How the hell does this happen? The mind cherry-picks parts of your life to keep and tosses the rest?

This is surreal. It feels like I’ve walked onto the set of some Hollywood drama. This kind of bullshit isn’t supposed to happen in real life.

I stop pacing and face her. “So if Lucy is blocking out painful memories, forcing them back could do more harm than good?”

Her nod confirms my understanding. “Lucy’s current distress seems predicated on the relatively minor matter of a forgotten comic convention. With more significant events, it’s better to let her mind take control, revealing memories when she’s ready. Trying to force her to remember too soon could harm her mental health.”

She pauses, her gaze unsettlingly perceptive. “Are there any major incidents that might be unsettling to her?”

Her question sets off a frenzy in my chest.

I clear my throat, my voice breaking the silence. “Lucy and I… we had a complicated relationship, to say the least.”

“Go on. It’s better for her recovery if we know what we’re dealing with here.”

The scene plays out in my mind like a well-worn film reel, each frame filled with anger, hurt, and regret. It feels wrong, recounting this private pain to a near stranger. But it’s not about me anymore. It’s about Lucy. It’s always been about her.

“I behaved in ways… ways that I regret deeply.”

She watches me, her face neutral. “You had a disagreement.”

“Disagreement,” I echo, a bitter laugh threatening to escape. “Yeah, you could say it was that.”

We didn’t just “disagree.” I was a monumental prick, and I pushed her away. No, that’s too mild. I practically shoved her off a cliff. And then I had the audacity to be surprised when she didn’t stick around.

This is me. This is all on me.

FIVE

Lucy

I might as well have been born yesterday.

As we leave the subway, Libby and Priya flank me on either side, like a toddler taking her first steps. The familiar concoction of BO and pee—the perfume of the New York underground—is oddly comforting. If it smelled like Yankee Candles, I might’ve had a proper freak out.

We’re bound for Washington Heights, where my apartment precariously straddles the line between bohemian chic and the less desirable elements of the neighborhood.

Health-obsessed hipsters crunching avocado toast on one side, drug dealers on the other.

After a week at Mom’s in New Jersey, I’ve learned… jack shit, really. Mom isn’t a great source of information about my life, it seems. Her idea of therapy wasn’t a heartfelt dialogue over steaming cups of cocoa or reminiscing through old photo albums. Instead, she dragged me through the garden center, as we scrutinized begonias, her critical gaze landing on my worn-out jeans more often than not.

My bank statements were more forthcoming. They told me I now have a subscription to an ethical, female-focused porn site and my odd fixation with a single movie I had streamed a staggering seventeen times.

The entire ride from New Jersey, I’ve been grilling the girls on the gaping black hole of my lost year. Every time I ask something, there’s a thirty-second delay, like they’re worried my brain might short-circuit if they tell me too much at once. I still have no clue who the mysterious guy I dated was.

“Why wouldn’t I tell you guys about him?” I ask, exasperated. Makes not a lick of fucking sense. “Do you think he’s a crook or something?”

“I thought he was really ugly, and you were embarrassed,” Libby says.

“Well, that’s nice.”

“You mentioned not expecting it to last,” Priya says.