The Memory Thief by Emily Colin

freak show. Go ahead and get lucky.”
    â€œIt’s not that simple,” I say, staring down into the remains of my pale ale. It’s not that I’m not attracted to Grace. I am. When she kisses me, my body responds like it should, all systems go. But when I think about kissing her back, about taking it further, the laughing woman’s face fills my field of vision, like she’s standing in front of me. I end up backing away from Grace, telling her that I don’t think being with her is a good idea, like a freaking virgin on prom night. Needless to say, this doesn’t go over well. She’s running out of patience with me, and I don’t blame her. We’ve gone from seeing each other every day to going out a couple of nights a week, and I’ve managed to make at least one of those a group affair, like tonight.
    While I tell myself that I’m taking the moral high ground by opting out of having sex with a woman I don’t love—and who claims to be in love with me—I still feel like a complete ass. She looks so disappointed every time I turn her down, so sad. I have succeeded in hurting her feelings, as well as in making her cry, and, most recently, telling me that if I’m going to be so mean to her, she’s not going to speak to me anymore. This may be for the best.
    Problem is, not only am I supremely horny, but I’m also lonely. I spend a lot of time walking my dog—Nevada, a beautiful golden retriever who has been staying with Taylor and is thrilled beyond belief to see me. I think Taylor has been spoiling him, because every time I eat anything, Nevada sits down next to me, his heavy head in my lap, and stares up at me with these big, expectant eyes. Then again, maybe I’ve always fed him table scraps. Who knows? Not me, of course. I suppose I could ask Grace, but that just seems pathetic.
    â€œI’ll be right back,” I say to Taylor now, pushing my chair back from the table. “Smoke break.”
    â€œI can’t get over that.” He shakes his head. “You were always so anti. Used to show your students those damn PSAs where everyone was lying on the ground in body bags. Now it’s like Philip Morris has you by the balls.”
    Since I don’t have a good response to this, I ignore him and make my way to the parking lot, where I dig my pack of death sticks out of my pocket and light one. Fucking filthy habit. Couldn’t I have woken up with a more useful add-on, like a superpower or even an affinity for tofu? Instead I crave charred meat and am hell-bent on polluting my lungs. Fantastic.
    I stand in the parking lot, blowing smoke rings so perfect you could shoot an arrow through them and trying to think about something normal, like the spackle and sandpaper I bought today to fix the holes in my living room wall. I live in a neighborhood called Carolina Place, not too far from downtown Wilmington. It’s got sidewalks and a park and narrow streets lined with turn-of-the-century bungalows, one of which is mine—a yellow one-story with green trim. There’s a porch, complete with the obligatory swing, and a deck out back. Grace tells me that I renovated my house from the bottom up, that I did most of the work myself. “So I’m handy,” I say, adding that to the growing arsenal of information I have about my life. Fake it till I make it, that’s my motto.
    Faking it is something I do a lot, especially when it comes to pretending that my life is all business as usual. School isn’t back in session until August, which doesn’t help. The days stretch out, long and empty, and I try to fill them with productive distractions. I go to the grocery store, take walks with Nevada, surf with Taylor and Jack, spend time with Grace. I helped Taylor build a fence for a Work on Wilmington volunteer project, stained Jack’s new deck, took my mangled Harley into the shop to have it fixed. Right now I’m