I went with him outside. “Why are you doing this for me, Oswald? Did we stay friends after we broke up?”

He stopped and gazed into my eyes. “It was too hard to stay friends, but I’ve never stopped caring for you, Milagro. I’ve never stopped worrying about you.” Then he continued walking to the gate.

I couldn’t help but notice Oswald’s nice butt in his faded jeans. I’d seen that butt without jeans, and yet, alas, it was to me as a stranger’s butt. Oswald was what I’d always dreamed about in a man, wasn’t he? Someone serious and accomplished and sexy, and I wouldn’t have gotten engaged to him unless I loved him. Shouldn’t I feel something besides lust?

I walked in my stupid pointy booties to the stupid truckasaurus. Looking through the window, I saw a bulky sports bag. I opened the truck door and pulled at the strap of the large bag, lifting it effortlessly.

At the end of the lane, Oswald opened the gate and a new white Prius drove in and stopped. The driver was talking to him.

I took the sports bag inside to the maid’s room and unzipped it, curious to find clues about my life. I unpacked jeans, T-shirts, sweaters, and tennis shoes. Beneath these were lacy and silky things—sexy bras and panties more expensive than anything I’d ever owned. A black and turquoise polka-dot vinyl bag contained high-end cosmetics and toiletries. I’d awoken in a much improved economic bracket.

Several composition books were bound by a large rubber band. I opened the top one and a slip of paper fell out. The upper- and lowercase alphabet was written on it, along with basic words.

The first pages of the notebook contained an outline for a metaphysical story based upon Shakespeare’s plays, all done in the same handwriting, but with a different pen. I must have been using my talent for forgery on the ghostwriting project.

I spotted a red velvet cloth covering something. When I unwrapped it, I saw three pressboard books. The volumes were the first edition of Jane Eyre. It seemed incredible that I could have something this rare and valuable. I opened the pages and inhaled the scent of the paper.

The next finds were even more puzzling: a tangle of black velvet ropes with padded straps and an incomplete knitting project, a blue-gray scarf.

The last item was a leather case. I opened it, expecting to see my costume jewelry, and saw instead real jewelry, mostly exquisite antique gold pieces with rubies and garnets. There were also elegant enamel fountain pens, a delicate engraved gold pocketknife, pretty old postcards, tiny carved stone animals, and amusing plastic mirror ball earrings.