Page 18 of It's a Date (Again)

To the side of the sink is a clear acrylic container full of makeup and skin-care products. I slather a moisturizer on my face, followed by some flawless filter product, hoping it’ll erase the dullness in my skin. But I think that’s coming from within. I brush mascara over my lashes, blot a bright pink blush on the apples of my cheeks, and apply a warm berry balm to my lips.

I don’t feel any different, but at least I have some color now and I don’t look like I just rose from the dead. I turn my face side to side, taking in every inch, trying to familiarize myself with it. I caught a few brief reflections of myself in the side mirror on the ride over. It was jarring seeing a face I wasn’t familiar with. It felt like I was wearing a mask. But no, it’s me, whoever that is. I smile so wide it crinkles the corners of my eyes, revealing two rows of straight white teeth. My tongue swipes over the front of the top row. I wonder if I had braces. I frown, make an angry face, and then I return it to a neutral expression. Lips parted slightly, muscles relaxed. I’m Peyton, but without knowing who that is, it has no meaning. They’re just words without context.

I consider walking into the closet, looking over each article of clothing to get a sense of my style. But what I wore won’t tell me who I am.

In the kitchen, I find Robbie, pulling food from the fridge and cabinets. This place seems more like it’s his than mine.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“Was I okay before the accident?”

I know it’s a weird question, and I hope he understands why I’m asking it.

“Yeah, you were.”

He does.I nod and deliver a tight smile. “Then I think I’m okay now.”

I take a seat at one of the barstools lined up against the island counter and watch Robbie make his way around the kitchen. I can tellit’s not his first time cooking in it because he knows where everything is. He tosses a hunk of butter and a couple of pieces of bread into a frying pan. They sizzle in the burning butter. Robbie slices half an avocado and several pieces of cheese off a block of cheddar.

“What are you making?”

He pauses and looks to me. “Sandwiches.”

“Sandwiches?”

“Not just any sandwich. These are gourmet. Toasted sourdough slathered with sofrito aioli and layered with roasted turkey, two-year aged cheddar, pickled onions and Fresno chilies, avocado, and pea sprouts.” He tosses a dish towel over his shoulder and plops a handful of the sprouts into a strainer. I’m not sure where he got the ingredients from. He must have had them in his bag, ready and prepared to make me something comforting to eat.

My mouth is already watering, and I don’t even know why. Well, actually, I do. I’ve been tube-fed for the last four days, so anything solid that I can munch on sounds amazing to me. I prop my elbows on the counter and my hands under my chin. “Have I had thisgourmetsandwich before?”

“Many times. You say it’s your favorite.” Robbie rinses the sprouts under the faucet and quickly flips the pieces of bread in the pan.

“I guess I’ll tell you if it still is,” I tease.

He lets out a laugh. “I guess you will.”

Robbie plucks the bread from the pan, slathers aioli onto each slice, and piles up all the ingredients. He tops it with another piece of toasty bread, cuts it in half, and serves it on a plate to me. “Let’s see if I still got it.”

My stomach rumbles as I pick up half the sandwich and bite into it. A multitude of flavors pop out: spicy, sweet, sour, and herbaceous—all melding together perfectly.

“So?” he says.

I wipe the corners of my mouth with a napkin and nod. “Still a fave.”

He claps his hands together in delight.

“This was exactly what I needed. Thank you,” I say, biting into it again.

“Anytime,” he says, while assembling his own sandwich. “Want to eat out on the balcony?”

I look over at the glass door leading to the outdoor area. There’s a couch, a chair, and a small table, as well as several planters. I was right. I must spend a lot of time outside.

“Yeah, I’d like that.”

“Good. Let me clean up a bit, and I’ll meet you out there.”

I take a seat on the outdoor couch and continue eating. The pots are full of wilted plants and flowers. With the seasons changing, they’ll die and come back in the spring, vibrant once again. I wonder, do they remember their past lives, the seasons they spent in bloom before withering away and going dormant? Or are they like me, waking up without a past, only a future?

Overlooking the balcony, I spot several people out walking their dogs or pushing strollers. Some text on their phones, others take in the neighborhood, appreciating the changing fall colors.

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