My manual Tesla—which Jared drove the five hours it took to get here from Texas—pulls up to an imposing metal-and-glass building that looks like it’s dying for the chance to play a part in some film as a supervillain’s lair. This is apparently where I live now.

And as if to provide further proof I’m in the right place, Gracie is standing outside the building’s hexagon-shaped front doors. Waiting for me. If not for her unmistakable razor-sharp features, I might not have recognized her at all. The last time I recall seeing her was three years ago at my brother Aaron’s wedding in Italy. She’d been two years into an MBA program at Northwestern, and her wardrobe of choice had been a tight bun paired with a conservative suit dress.

But now she’s a dropout who has decided to attend culinary school in Kansas. And her looks have changed dramatically. She’s wearing a tank top and baggy joggers, both of which look like they were purchased from an online retailer. Her dark hair is cut short in a severe bob that’s nearly as sharp as her cheekbones. Most surprisingly are the dark tattoos adorning both her arms. They’re almost as menacing as this apartment building.

“Shimmer, please wait here while Santiago secures the inside and perim—” Jared starts to say.

“I’m terribly sorry, Jared, but I’m going to ignore you,” I answer before he can finish his instructions.

I jump out of the car and run to my same-aged “little cousin,” scooping her into a hug.

“Hey, cuz,” she says, hugging me back just as fiercely despite her new badass look. “It’s good to finally see you again!”

“Hello, Gracie,” I answer. Sad because she obviously remembers a recent version of me, but I don’t remember this version of her at all.

“I adore your tattoos,” I say to fill in the awkward moment.

“Thanks…you okay?” she asks. Most likely because I’m clinging to her rather desperately.

“No, I’m not,” I admit.

She pulls back from the hug to smile at me. Now this smile I remember. It’s quiet and composed like her. And it’s a twin to the smile of her introverted father, Uncle Suro.

“Let’s go home,” she says, taking me by the hand to lead me into the apartment filled fortress.

The interior of the apartment building, unlike Gracie, is exactly what I expect. Shiny biometric lock on the outside door and another inside the elevator we take to get to our penthouse. Security bots are stationed like titanium tiki statues on either side of our sliding hexagon-shaped doorway. I don’t bother to check their defense settings. Knowing my dad and Uncle Suro, they’re programmed to kill.

Our apartment looks more like a hotel room than a place where a social worker and college student live. The ceiling is made mostly of tinted glass, giving us a view of the colorful orange and rose-hued sunset happening above our heads. The living room sits like an island on a raised platform covered in plush maroon carpeting and creamy white couches. Just in case that isn’t decadent enough, there’s also an indoor swimming pool next to the island living room. It’s filled with rose-colored saltwater, the temperature of which I’m sure can be adjusted to whatever we deem most comfortable at any given moment. There are also four completely real palm trees hanging out in a green patch of transplanted moss and soil on the other side of the pool.

“Wow. I see we decided to really slum it when we moved here,” I say to Gracie.

She laughs and says, “Blame your dad, not mine. I think he was trying to make it up to you without actually saying ‘I’m sorry.’”

Of course, he was. And this place is a modern dream come true but…something doesn’t feel right. Or…doesn’t smell right. Just like the Texas compound didn’t feel or smell right to me.

While Jared and Santiago perform the usual perimeter check, I stand in front of one of the apartment’s hexagon-shaped interior walls. The wall is made of the same tinted glass as the ceiling and features a group photo of both our families glowing within its interior. It was originally taken at Aaron’s wedding. My parents stand on either side of my brother; Mom hugging her only son tight. I stand next to Mom, slaying in my bridesmaid dress and smile set to full paparazzi, while my younger sister, Alma, throws the camera a stone-cold look from beneath Dad’s arm. Alma’s No Nonsense All Business brand aside…we look like a happy family. We were a happy family.

Funny how much the picture hurts to look at now.

I shift my gaze to Gracie’s family on the other side of Alma. Her tall Asian father, her plump black mother. Her autistic older stepbrother and half-sister, Kenji and Sparkle—known as the Twins even though they’re technically stepsiblings. And as if Gracie’s family isn’t complicated enough, there’s her adopted brother, Spidey. He’s a budding hickhop rapper and wears his tufted afro in a super on-trend anime style. He somehow seems to be simultaneously grinning and rolling his eyes at the camera. I remember how Gracie chastised him for being “bitchy” because he insisted on referring to their still-single opera composer siblings as “Grey Gardens” behind their backs.

The memory is crystal clear…unlike the huge blank space from before the accident.

“Spidey sends his love,” Gracie says, coming to stand beside me. “I had to talk him out of driving down from Chicago when he heard you were coming back here. He can’t believe you lost your memory. Especially because you don’t remember that time when he visited us back in February. We had so much fun that weekend!”

I shake my head unable to believe it myself. That I quit my job and moved here to work.

My reasons for interning made sense, but I still can’t understand why I accepted a full-time job with some podunk children’s service office when I could have moved anywhere after the internship was done. Our Wichita apartment is…better than nice. But that still doesn’t explain why I decided to double down here after my parents announced their divorce.

Did it have something to do with the father of this baby? I wonder, rubbing a hand over my only slightly pooched out three-months pregnant belly.

Their initial safety check completed, Gracie shows Jared and Santiago to their rooms. The apartment has four guestrooms…which sounds outrageous until you realize the place takes up an entire floor of the building.

“No wonder you missed me so much,” I say when Jared and Santiago leave the sleek glass kitchen to unpack their things. “I can’t imagine staying in a place this big on my own.”

I’m seated at the glass island counter while Gracie throws together a big pot of gluten-free pasta for dinner.

“This over-the-top apartment wasn’t anywhere near the list of reasons I missed you,” Gracie answers, her voice taking on what my High Media coaches would call an “urban pitch.”

“Gracie…” I start.

“Grace.”

I look at her in surprise.

“I go by Grace now,” she explains, her voice gentle. “I almost said something earlier but I didn’t want to upset you.”

Oh…

“Grace…” I test out the name on my tongue and to my surprise, it’s a better fit than I expected.

“I like it! Almost as much as I like your tattoos,” I tell her.

“Thanks,” she answers with a quiet lift of her lips. “My father hates the tats. I guess we Nakamuras were supposed to stop getting them after my grandfather died.”

Which makes me wonder, “Did you have a falling out with your dad, too?”

Another smile whispers across Gracie’s—Grace’s—lips. “Not all of us need a reason to rebel. I just decided to drop out and do my own thing. But back when you asked to move in with me, I was the most rebellious person you knew.”

“Is that what I said when I called to tell you Dad curated my boyfriend and I wanted to move to Kansas?” I guessed, lips twisting into the wry version of my resting smile.

“Yup. But at least you were honest about why you picked me. And I can’t say I wasn’t happy to move in with you. Kansas isn’t exactly a hotspot, and it was good to have someone I knew here…”

“I’m happy I had someone to turn to even if I don’t remember it,” I reply with a truly grateful smile.

For a few moments we stare at each other over the island counter. Remembered and non-remembered fondness intermingling.

“Do you want to open a bottle of wine for dinner?” Grace asks, turning away from the pot of boiling pasta and walking to a hexagon-shaped wine rack embedded in the wall. “I should have aerated a bottle as soon as we came in, but maybe a Chianti will—”

“Grace…” I say, cutting her off. “I’m pregnant!”

She stops and gives me a stunned look. For nearly a full minute the only sound in the room is that of the percolating pasta.

“They didn’t tell you?” I deduce.

They being our fathers who I’m fairly sure tell each other everything.

She shakes her head mutely.

“Oh…” Then even though her lack of awareness about my pregnancy makes for a rather awkward transition, I have to ask, “I don’t suppose you have any idea who the father might be?”