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My imagination pictured him—a sleepy, rumpled man sitting alone in the dark.

“So you don’t know Lucca DiRossi?” I said, just to be sure.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t.”

“And you didn’t give your number out? On a coaster? Written in eyeliner?”

He let out a low laugh. “I’m really more of a mascara kind of guy.”

“Oh…”

The emotions of the last few minutes vanished, returning me to my sad, empty state. Lucca didn’t go out and pick some woman up tonight. I could crawl back in bed beside him and things would be the same as when we went to sleep. Nothing had changed.

I shook my head suddenly, feeling stupid for calling.

“Sorry for bothering you so late.”

I could hear the creak of his mattress as if he’d shifted positions. I was waiting for the soft click of him hanging up, but instead he spoke. “Are you okay?”

There was a softness to his voice, and as strange as it sounds I could hear his concern through the phone line.

“No,” I answered, then realized he probably meant the whole Lucca number thing. “I mean, yes. It’s all fine. I’m fine.”

There was another moment of silence until he cleared his throat.

“I don’t know what happened but…I really hope it all works out.”

“Thanks,” I said, but I remember thinking that I didn’t agree. I think I called the strange number that night because part of me was hoping it was a woman. Lucca was a nice guy and I knew he wanted more than the casual relationship we had. But I also knew I didn’t. And instead of telling him that, I was letting things linger on, which wasn’t good for either of us.

“Hey,” the stranger said, “I know this is kind of out of the blue, but you said you were in Toronto, right? Do you like it? I mean, do you like living there?”

It was a question I could answer without thinking. “Best city in the world. Why?”

He let out a breath. “I’ve always wanted to live there but never quite made the move…I don’t know…maybe this phone call is my sign?”

I was suddenly so tired.

“Who knows. Sorry again for all of this. Hope you have a good night.”

My memory ends just as Other Me sets her phone back down on the kitchen counter and then returns to the bedroom and slips back into bed.

I know she won’t mention the phone number or the phone call the next morning when she finally tells Lucca it’s over. She won’t think of this night at all—I guess until now.

My head begins to swim with the complexities of the past and present colliding. I am a mess of questions and half-remembered memories.

Larry gave his jacket to Zee.

Zee saw Mackenzie at the festival.

Lucca brought Zee’s jacket home with a drummer’s number.

Which means the person I called that night was Mackenzie.

And even though I don’t need any further proof, I step toward the counter and read the number written on the coaster. It’s the same nine digits he wrote on that Post-it the very first day he moved in.

What the hell is going on?

I feel like I’m putting together two different puzzles, but I’m missing half the pieces, and the ones I do have are all jumbled together. But before I can sort any of it out—make sense of what is real and where my brain is filling in the blanks—the room around me goes black.