None of these things are one of a kind. But, at this point, I’m starting to feel like I’d have to be an idiot to not see that somehow, in some way, these are my things. I mean, they just are. There’s no chance in the world, at least not the one I know, that all of these things end up in one place that is not my own. Not even with the world’s best stalker. I’ve systematically gotten rid of most of these things or left them at my parents’ house. Lots of them should be long gone in unceremonious ways.

I finish the last of my whiskey and pull a wooden lidded box off one of the bookshelves in the living room.

Inside is a collection of things that I understand immediately.

I have always had a sentimental-things box and it looks an awful lot like this one, only the things inside are different.

There are three Polaroids right on top.

One of Cillian—he’s really so hot—behind the pub bar like he was tonight, looking annoyed but indulgent. For some reason this makes me smile.

One is of that girl Kiera flicking off the camera with an older woman laughing hard—she looks so much like her, and I think it must be her mom. Bloody Kay Donahue.

The last is one of … me. Holding a puppy. A little auburn golden retriever. I look at Maureen and show her the picture. “Is that you?”

She hops off the couch, comes over to me, then lies down and puts her chin on my knee.

I look happy in the picture, grinning cheesily for the camera with bright red lipstick, wearing a black turtleneck sweater and tiny gold hoop earrings. My hair is in a long, one-length bob. V French.

Also in the box, I find movie ticket stubs, and a place card with my name on it that, if I had to guess, I would say is from a wedding. With it, there’s a matching place card with Cillian’s name on it. Cillian Madden.

There’s an old loose fortune-telling miracle fish, one of those red pieces of cellophane shaped like a Swedish fish candy that curl up if … something.

There’s a bar napkin from a place called Èan, a coaster that says NOTE, the letters arranged to rise, crest in the middle, and fall.

There are a few bottle caps and champagne corks. There’s a tiny, tiny glass frame with a flower pressed in it. There’s a small pale blue book I recognize from my own life. The Words of John F. Kennedy. I don’t even know where it came from or how I ended up with it, but it’s one of those weird little things I’ve always had that I think came from my dad’s side of the family?