The Love of Her Lives: A BRAND NEW unforgettable and utterly emotional summer romance (Must-read Rom

June, this year

“You okay, miss?”

Someone’s arm is reaching in the car door, lifting me back by the shoulder, away from the steering wheel my forehead is resting against.

“You okay? Your airbag didn’t deploy,” the voice says again. I turn towards it. It’s an old guy, maybe in his seventies.

I touch my forehead. It’s a little sore, probably bruised, but there’s no blood.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I think.” I attempt to smile at him. “Thanks for stopping. Uh, I’m not sure what happened.”

The old man grins back. “You were a couple cars ahead of me, and you just swerved right onto the verge and into the hedge. Guess it wasn’t enough impact for the airbag.” He raises his thick, white eyebrows. “D’you know why you drove off the road?”

I look ahead of me to see the hood of the green, not-really-mine VW Golf encased in a thicket of hedge. Parked on the grass next to my car is a beat-up old pickup, presumably belonging to my rescuer.

“I... uh... dunno. I got distracted for a second, I guess, looking at the map on my phone. Next thing I knew, I was in the hedge.”

New Buffalo.

That’s what happened. Siri’s map telling me I live where I don’t live.

Bonnie’s house, inhabited by a random family who were shocked to see me there.

Bonnie’s store, disappeared, replaced by a bagel shop.

None of my friends listed in this weird navy-cased cellphone that’s still in its holder on the dash.

“If you’re feeling okay, you wanna try to back out of the hedge, and get back on the road?” asks the old guy. “Doesn’t look like there’s much damage, other than some scratches to the paintwork.” He steps back from the car and closes my door.

I nod. Not that I know where I’m going, anymore.

“Sure,” I tell him, with more certainty than I feel. The car’s engine is still running, so — with a trembling hand — I put it in reverse and pull slowly out of the hedge, straightening on the grass verge. I roll down the window. “Thanks for stopping — I’ll be fine,” I tell the old man. “Have a great evening.”

“You take care now,” he replies with a wave, ambling off to his truck.

I wait for a pause in traffic, then pull out onto the road, still a little shaky. In a few moments I’m at the I-94 intersection, so I turn left to head into Chicago. Siri is still telling me to go “home” to New Buffalo, but that’s not where I live.

I have to go to my home.

I tap “End Route” and, after forty-five minutes of pretty unsteady driving, I pull up outside my building. I don’t have my usual keys with me, so I have no fob to get into the underground parking garage. Instead, I find a spot in a nearby side street and park hurriedly, too far from the curb.

Keys. That’s my problem now — I don’t have my own building and apartment keys on me either. Just the set that has the Golf car keys and a weird set of house keys that presumably belong to somewhere in New Buffalo.

Maybe I can get Graeme, my next-door neighbor, to buzz me in. He’s got a spare key to my studio in case of an emergency. And this definitely qualifies.

I punch the # for the building’s buzzer directory, and hit it three more times to get to the twelfth-floor units. Graeme’s name is there, as usual, for 1205.

But mine is not. Instead, the electronic directory reads, “Johnson: 1206” where it normally reads “MacKenzie: 1206.”

This is ridiculous. I punch in 1205, and wait as it beeps. “Hello?” It’s Graeme’s voice.

“Graeme? It’s me, Millie. I, uh, lost my keys and need to get into my place. You still got my spare?”

A pause. “Sorry. Who is this?”

My stomach drops. “Millie. Millie MacKenzie. Your neighbor, next door.”

Another silence, longer this time. “Uh. I don’t remember a Millie in the building. Are you new? And no, I don’t have your key.”

“Graeme. It’s me, it’s Millie.” I’m trying to keep the panic out of my voice, but it’s bubbling up. “I live right next door in 1206. I gave you my spare—”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know any Millie.” Graeme’s voice is ice-cold through the intercom. “Jake and Savannah live in 1206. I can’t buzz you in. Have yourself a nice evening.” The intercom beeps, and is silent.

Fuck.

Some random couple are living in my unit, and Graeme has no idea who I am.

I’m really in... in an alternate reality of some kind.

The panic that was bubbling up spills out of my mouth, and I find myself emitting a wordless shriek of horror and frustration into the street. A woman and her child on the sidewalk stop, alarmed, and cross to the other side to avoid me.

I’ve become that person. In a matter of a few hours, I’ve gone from a relatively happy, albeit imperfect, person with a good job and friends, to the disturbed weirdo that people avoid on the street.

A disturbed, friendless, apparently homeless weirdo.

I stare down at the set of keys in my hand. Okay, maybe not entirely homeless. After all, these house keys open a door somewhere.

Maybe there will be answers in New Buffalo. I don’t really have much choice but to go and find out.

Back in the Golf, I reset Siri to “home” from my current location, and follow her instructions to drive south out of Chicago, along the lakeside highway, and out of Illinois into the northwestern corner of Indiana.

The evening sun is lowering to my left as the highway gradually turns northeast, through Burns Harbor, Michigan City, and Michiana Shores. Just before I get to New Buffalo, I drive over another state line into Michigan, entering the Eastern Time Zone, and my phone’s clock jumps forward an hour. By this time, the shadows are lengthening and the light is a golden shimmer through the trees and low buildings.

“Take the next left onto Harbor Isle Drive,” Siri instructs me, and I turn down a narrow street leading to the water. “Your destination is on the right.” I pull up next to a row of gray-shingled, white-trimmed townhomes overlooking a gorgeous marina. A boardwalk runs next to them, with a white-painted pagoda at the central junction with the outstretched dock leading out to the marina itself. Beyond a parking lot, a set of bigger homes in the same gray-and-white style are jutting right out over the water, partly held up on stilts.

Wow. This place is beautiful.

But which one is — supposedly — mine?

Maybe Siri knows. “Siri, what’s my home address?”

“Your home address is set to Unit 17, Seashore Mews, Harbor Isle Drive, New Buffalo, Michigan.”

Huh. Thanks, Siri.

I park in what looks to be a residents-only parking lot, hoping I haven’t taken somebody else’s regular spot, grab the black purse, and lock up the car. Unit 17 seems to be one of the smaller townhouses to my right. I step along the boardwalk until I find it, and pull out the set of keys as I reach the white front door.

What am I going to find inside?

I pause, my hands trembling so violently the keys are jangling a little. The low sun casts my shadow on the door, which has a large picture window next to it. A window that has thin, gauzy curtains obscuring the interior from view... but there’s definitely a light on inside the house. And, now that I can hear over my own racing heartbeat, soft strains of music are coming from inside too.

There’s already somebody in there.

Should I knock? Or just try the keys?

I have to know if these keys open this front door. I just have to.

Very quietly, and with my stomach pitching, I slip the key into the lock, and turn. It clicks open with ease. I put my hand on the door handle and pull it open.

My heart in my mouth, I step into a little enclosed vestibule. Ahead of me, hanging from an adorable row of hooks with anchors painted at each end, is my own denim jacket that I’ve had for more than ten years, the one with the patch. Below the coats is a row of shoes, including two pairs of my own that I also recognize.

This is definitely my house. Some of this is my stuff.

I reach out for the jacket and trace my finger along the hand-stitched seam, uneasily. It gives me little comfort to see such a familiar item in a house I’ve never been to before. Especially given that next to my jacket is a man’s sports coat. And at my feet are two pairs of men’s shoes — dress shoes, and sneakers.

So, who the hell is already here? Do I live with a guy, in this insane version of reality?

I quietly open the door to the front living area. The space smells like roast chicken and garlic. The room is small but pretty, with a loveseat couch in front of the modern fireplace, and a small dining table next to a pass-through into a kitchen at the back. To my right is a narrow set of stairs leading upwards.

“Hello?” I call out, my voice weirdly high-pitched and wobbly.

“Hey.” A man’s voice, warm and familiar. “You’re late. Where did you get to? I’m sorry, I was so hungry, I had to eat already.”

A dark, male head pops round from the side of the kitchen wall, with a friendly, open face, beaming widely at me, teeth bright. A face I know very well, but haven’t seen since the end of my final year at Northwestern.

Chris.

My long-ago ex-boyfriend, Chris — someone whose heart I broke — is in a house that I now appear to share with him, in New Buffalo. And he’s cleaning up the kitchen and acting like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

He looks exactly the same... maybe a little older around the eyes. But the same soft, very short, curly hair; the same doleful, puppy-dog, chocolate eyes. The same adoration in them, with just a touch of melancholy.

His smile disappears when he realizes I’m staring at him and saying nothing. “Mill?” he says, taking a step towards me. “What happened? Why are you so late home?”

I shake my head. I have absolutely no idea what to say to him in this moment.

Chris comes forward to meet me, and raises his hand to my forehead. “What did you do?”

I touch my forehead — I’d forgotten about the bruise. It’s probably turning darker by now. I look up at Chris. “I got in an accident.” My voice is small and weak.

He pulls me towards him in a gentle hug. “Oh, honey. Are you okay?”

I nod into his shoulder, and feel my body breaking down into sobs. Once they start to come, I can’t stop them. I’m shuddering against Chris’ chest, silently, tearlessly. My knees buckle a little and he gently lowers me to the couch, still holding me. That’s when the tears start. A torrent of tears, and an embarrassing amount of mucus, floods out of me. He hands me tissue after tissue, keeping me close, his arm around my shoulder.

I weep for my terror and panic at how utterly wrong this world is. I weep for my lost friends, and my lost home.

And I weep for how carelessly I treated Chris when we were together. I was never in love with him, but he was a sweet guy who deserved way better.

I blow my nose one last time, and look up at him. How on earth did I end up living with him, in this upside-down world? We were in the vocal group at Northwestern together for three years, and we’d dated nearly a year before I ended things with him. Things between us had been kind of awkward, after that, but he’d graduated a year before me so I never saw him again.

Clearly that wasn’t the course of events in this version of reality.

Chris is still holding me, kind and patient. He strokes my hair, and pulls back to look at my face. “Can you tell me what happened?” he asks, gently.

I blow out a big breath, and shake my head. “I ran off the road. I was... distracted by my phone, I guess, and didn’t realize I was swerving to the right. The car’s fine, I only ran into a big hedge, but I bumped my head on the wheel.”

I scan the living room. On each side of the fireplace is a set of shelving with books, potted plants, and framed photos. Mostly photos of the two of us, it seems, on various vacations. And is that—?

Chris interrupts my thoughts. “My sweet girl. I’m just glad you’re okay, and that you didn’t total the car.” He smiles, pats me on the leg, and rises from the couch. “You hungry? I can make you a plate.”

I nod, realizing it’s past eight and I still haven’t eaten dinner. The world in which I should be sitting on Bonnie’s lake-view deck, drinking wine and giving her the last spring roll, seems a million light years away.

Bonnie. What happened to her? Is she waiting for me? But no, she can’t be — at least, not at the Lake Bluff house, with that family there. Am I still friends with her in this weird reality?

And how did I end up living here, with Chris, of all people?

Chris brings me a plate of chicken, broccoli, and potato salad, and sits with me as I eat it greedily at the small dining table.

“Where did this accident happen?”

I swallow. “Just near the intersection before I got onto 94.” That’s true, at least. That highway runs all the way from near Lake Bluff to New Buffalo. He doesn’t need to know I was closer to the former when it happened.

Chris nods, absorbing this, a frown line between his brows. “And there was a hedge that stopped you? At your usual intersection? I can’t picture a hedge there at all.”

Crap. My story obviously has holes in it. “Uh, no. I’d taken a detour, so it wasn’t my usual route. That’s why I was distracted, I guess — asking Siri for the best way home.”

Chris examines my face, seeming to accept this. “Well, that’s a nasty bruise — it’s getting good and purple. I hope you don’t have any whiplash. How about I run you a bath after you finish dinner — soothe any aches and pains?”

I smile at him through another mouthful of chicken. He always was so thoughtful.

“That’d be great.” Maybe I can get him to give me some more clues about our life together first. I touch my sore forehead. “I gotta admit, I’m feeling... weird. Kind of headachey, and confused. After the accident, I couldn’t remember how to get here, and had to get Siri to direct me home. I’m... not remembering a lot of stuff.”

“Shit, Millie,” Chris replies, his nose crinkled in concern. “Maybe you have a worse head injury than it seems. We should get you checked out.”

Hospital is the last thing I want right now. I’d end up getting admitted to a psych unit.

“I’m sure I’m fine,” I reply, hurriedly. “Just feeling a bit shaken and mixed up.” I pause as an idea strikes me. “I know what will make me feel better. Why don’t you tell me the story of how we decided to live together, from your perspective?” I take another bite of dinner, trying to act casual.

Chris pulls his mouth down at the corners, clearly skeptical. “Oh-kay,” he replies slowly. “From my perspective... yeah, I guess that could be slightly different from your memories. Sure.” He looks above my head, perhaps at the photos on the shelves behind me. “Well, I guess after our off-and-on relationship at Northwestern, and then with you being in Asia for so long after that—”

What? I’ve never been to Asia.

“—I wanted to give you the security you’d never really had at home, right? So when you got that job at Magnolia, and seemed to be settling back into Chicago, and we got back together, it just made sense that we’d live together. I mean, you didn’t really even know anyone else in the city anymore.”

I didn’t know anybody? What about Bonnie, and Ben?

My mind jumps back to the navy-cased cellphone. Their numbers weren’t in it. Seems like I’m really not friends with them in this version of reality.

“I guess you needed me, and I still loved you,” Chris continues. “I was just so happy, living with you in our first place downtown. And then when we saved for this place, you were so excited to be living on the marina — and you were getting, I guess, the stability that you hadn’t had growing up. It’s made me so happy to give that to you.” He smiles at me as I scrape my plate. “Is that any different than how you remember it?” He rises, holding his hand out for my dish, eyes shining and full of love.

“Uh, no,” I lie. “That’s about it.”

Only my job at the agency, Magnolia, is the same — and that through sheer coincidence, probably. Everything else is different. Everything.

Chris washes my dish in the kitchen as I rise, slowly, from my seat. A bath is a pretty great idea about now. It will calm me, soothe my nerves, help me think. Not that I can think my way out of this impossible situation.

I turn to the wall of shelving behind my chair. Me and Chris in sunny locations, and one of us in New York. And the biggest framed print of all... a wedding photo.

Me, in a white dress, elegant and strapless. Chris looking handsome in a black tux, his dark skin contrasting with my ivory paleness. We’re in a garden somewhere I don’t recognize.

We’re married?

I check my left hand for a wedding or engagement ring that I might not yet have noticed. Nothing. And I’d have seen them, anyways, while I was driving.

“Hey,” I call out to Chris, feigning nonchalance. “Do you remember where I left my rings?”

He emerges from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel. “You really have hit your head. We put them back in the box for safekeeping — you said you’d get them resized tomorrow, remember? Now you can stop pretending they aren’t too big.” He grins at me. “The box is on the dresser. But if you don’t feel like going to the jewelry store tomorrow, I can do it.”

“Oh,” I reply. “Right. Yeah, of course. Thanks. That would be great.”

He throws the towel through the kitchen pass-through, and gives me a kiss on my cheek. “I’ll run that bath. Lots of bubbles.”

“Perfect.”

As he goes upstairs, I stare back at myself, smiling uncertainly in my wedding dress, Chris beaming beside me.

How in the world did we get from my version of events, in which I was always half-in and half-out of my relationship with Chris, to a world where we are married? It seems impossible.

I examine it closer. Do my eyes look kind of dead in that photo, like I’m going through the motions, but not really there? Or am I imagining it?

I study the rest of the collection of memories. They’re all cheerful images of vacations and festive holidays, but they have this weird look of royalty-free stock photography. “Image search: happy, interracial young married couple.” Like everything is posed for effect. But maybe it just feels that way because this isn’t my life.

“Hey, honey, your bath is ready!” Chris calls from upstairs. I’m pulled out of my musings and make my way up the narrow staircase. A small landing leads to a main bedroom with a large dormer window and in-built closets, and another open door reveals a small second bedroom with a skylight and an office desk. The third door is a bathroom, also with a sloping roof, and a clawfoot tub full of aromatic bubbles.

Chris squeezes past me on the landing, planting a gentle kiss on my temple, just beside my bruise, before heading back down the stairs. I undress in the bathroom — after locking the door behind me — and slide into the steaming bath.

I’m grateful for the comfort of the warm water and lavender foam, but my mind is reeling.

What is happening to me?

Like a weird version of grief, I’m getting hit by waves of overwhelm that crash over me and then recede. In moments, everything feels surprisingly normal, given that I’ve been catapulted into the wrong version of my life. Maybe like some kind of muscle memory of existing in this world — this body is accustomed to being here, after all, even if my own mind isn’t.

But at other moments, like now, I’m suddenly nauseous with fear about being ripped from my world, my home, the people I love and who love me. And the terror that I’ll never be able to go back. That there is no going back.

I close my eyes, and sink further into the water, my nose just above the bubbles. Maybe everything will be fine. Even if I can’t figure out how to get home, maybe I’ll be okay here. After all, this seems to be a good life, right? At least it’s safe, and warm. Cute home, adoring husband. Like I told Stephen the other night, things could always be so much worse.

But this isn’t my life, so it’s impossible to imagine being fully happy here. I can’t even imagine ever truly falling in love with Chris, given my experience of our relationship.

How had our relationship changed so much that I ended up marrying him? He’d mentioned earlier we’d been “off and on” through Northwestern, and that I’d gone traveling for a long time. And that I didn’t really have anybody but him.

That I needed him.

Is that why I married him? For some reason, I’m not close to Bonnie or Ben in this weird timeline, so maybe he really was all I had. Maybe I was just forced to settle because I had nobody else in my life. Then again, it’s possible that those circumstances changed everything for me, and I grew to really love him, and we’re happy together. Or, at least, the Millie who married him is happy.

But I’m not her. And I’m not sure I could ever be happy, living out my days with Chris — no matter how great he is.

The question is, am I stuck here forever, or is there a way home?