Chapter One

The Art of Almost Having It Together

There are three things I know about myself with absolute certainty.

I make excellent coffee.

I am spectacularly bad at pretending I don't care about something.

And whenever I announce that my life is finally settling into a comfortable, predictable routine, the universe takes it as a personal challenge.

Friday morning was no exception.

At 6:17 a.m., my alarm went off. At 6:18, I decided the world could survive without me for another nine minutes. At 6:19, Ollie disagreed.

A cold nose pressed against the back of my neck, followed by the unmistakable sound of a small dog who had apparently been starving for several consecutive years.

"Ollie, sweetheart, we've discussed boundaries."

He sneezed.

"That's not a compelling argument."

Another sneeze. Then one small paw on my forehead.

"Fine. You win."

Again.

I sat upright, but before my feet touched the floor, something made me hesitate.

A dream.

Not the usual nonsense my subconscious assembled from television, forgotten conversations, and whatever I'd eaten before bed. This had felt like remembering.

I closed my eyes. A sunlit room. Curtains moving in a warm breeze. Music somewhere beyond an open door. I was barefoot on a polished wooden floor, and someone stood behind me.

A woman.

I couldn't see her face, but I remembered her voice: low, warm, faintly amused. She slipped her hand into mine with the ease of a gesture repeated a thousand times. "Do you remember?" she asked.

I tried to turn toward her. Sunlight flared against the window, and the whole room disappeared.

"Well, that was interesting," I told Ollie.

He offered no opinion. I remembered only the words "Do you remember?"—and the voice, the touch of her hand, and an impossible sense of recognition.

"Apparently my subconscious has developed a social life."

Ollie sneezed again.

"Yes, well. At least one of us is getting out."

• • •

My apartment was quiet in that particular way homes become quiet when they belong to one person. Not lonely, exactly. Just unmistakably mine.

The books stacked beside the sofa were mine. The oversized cream sweater hanging over the dining chair was mine. The ridiculous number of candles scattered throughout the living room were definitely mine.

I'd spent years convincing myself I wanted everything controlled and beautifully arranged. What I actually wanted, it turned out, was somewhere I could leave a …