I lie on the movie couch, snuggling up with the soft blankets, and ponder this. What day is it?

I sit upright and gasp. “It’s Thanksgiving week!”

Oh my God. How does a person not know the holidays are upon them? It feels like I was just getting off that plane from Saint Thomas over Labor Day and now it’s Thanksgiving week.

I count up the weeks in my mind and realize I’ve been in this funk for almost three months. “Grace,” I begin to chastise. “This is not good. You are not allowed to wallow.”

I crawl to the edge of the couch, drop the blanket, and make my way to the living room. In the bright California sunshine, the filth we are living in is painfully obvious. There’s dishes and trash everywhere. Clothes, shoes, mud on the tiles near the doorway. Even outside, our movie-star backyard is littered with palm fronds and leaves from a storm last week and the various flotation rafts I’ve used in the pool since moving in here with Vaughn.

And then a sour smell reaches out and taps me on the shoulder. I look over at the dishes on the island countertop and wrinkle my nose. Spoiled milk in numerous cereal bowls.

I’m a terrible wife.

How has Vaughn put up with me?

A ringing startles me out of my introspection and I look around for the source. “We have a phone?” I ask myself out loud. I had no idea we had a home phone. I thought everyone just used cells these days. I follow the source just as the message machine—who has a message machine?—clicks on.

“Vaughn, baby. It’s me. I just wanted to double-check and make sure we’re still on for this Friday for the Black Bash. Call me.”

“What the hell is a Black Bash?” I ask out loud again.

I have no idea, but I’m sure it’s some sort of Hollywood party and Vaughn just didn’t want me to worry about it, or was going to decline. So I drop it and go back out to the living room.

This will not do.

I really need to start making an effort. I open the folding wall of glass doors and let the sunshine and cool air in. It’s not cold. I mean, it’s like sixty-five. But that’s nothing like Colorado is in November. The fresh air feels good. And it will make the smell of spoiled milk disappear.

I walk around the living room picking up dishes and take them all to the sink to rinse them out before loading up the dishwasher. Then I go to work picking up trash and clothes. I start a load of laundry. There’s still a load in both the washer and the dryer and since I have not done laundry once since I’ve moved in, I can only suspect that this was Vaughn’s attempt to keep the house running while I was in my funk.

Funk, Grace?

Fine. It was a depression. But I feel like a new person today. I feel like I got it all out last night. He was so perfect. He listened to me cry and held me close. I have never felt such love and support in all my life.

But now I need to move on. I need to put all that bad stuff behind me and look to the future. And even though I’ve lived here for almost three months, I feel like this is the first day of my new life as Mrs. Asher.

Now if only I could remember my wedding.

I just don’t understand why it’s such a problem. I mean, either Vaughn is lying about how aware I was of what was going on, or I’m just… blocking it out for some reason. But why? Why would I do that?

I continue to clean as I ponder this. I make a list in my head.

I’m psycho.

The idea of being married was just too much for me after all that brainwashing

I really don’t want to be married to Vaughn Asher.

But none of those seem right. I’m not psycho. I might be damaged, but I’m not crazy. And yes, the whole kidnapper-trying-to-convince-me-I’m-his-wife thing did put a damper on all my future thoughts of getting married. But it’s fucking Vaughn Asher. And that makes number three ridiculous. I really do love him. Maybe it’s leftover infatuation kinda love from my Twitter stalking days. But it’s still authentic.

So why can’t I remember?

I almost wish I could go to Vegas and retrace my steps. But after my day jaunt to Colorado, I think it’s probably a bad idea to take off again. Besides, it’s almost Thanksgiving.

So instead of calling the flight coordinator and booking a flight to Sin City, I call my parents. My mom answers on the first ring and her unexpected happiness at my call makes me warm.

“Mom,” I say, after she’s got her hellos out of the way. “I don’t think we’re coming for Thanksgiving. Is that OK?” I’m nervous about this call. I’ve never spent a holiday away from home since they adopted me.

“Oh, Grace, of course. You have a new family now. We were just talking about this last night. Don’t worry about us. We’re going out of town this year, anyway.”

“Oh.” Well, shit. “Where’re you going?”

“San Francisco. Your father has decided to take us to San Francisco.”

“Well, that sounds fantastic.” Weird, I don’t add. “Fantastic!” We chat a little more and then say goodbye with promises to call on Thursday.

When I end the call I realize I’ve been cleaning the kitchen the entire time. I think this is the first time I’ve seen it void of dishes. Vaughn is not the best housekeeper. He and Felicity lived like bachelors.

I laugh at that and hang up the dish towel after wiping things down, and then I go get started on the laundry.

After the laundry is in progress, I find some sort of wood-floor cleaning contraption in the utility closet and get to work on those too. Layla the cat’s litter box is tidy, so obviously Vaughn has been taking care of that. But the fish tank is a mess of algae. There’s a sticker on the side of it with a number to call for cleaning. The man on the other end of the phone says he’s in the neighborhood and can stop by in a couple hours.