Eventually I take it away and stare at the screen. The contact photo, as I noticed briefly when I saw her calling, is an old photo of us. One I do remember. Us in my bedroom in front of my collage wall where I’d pasted magazine cutouts of all the movie stars and characters I wanted to be. We’re in our cast T-shirts from our high school’s production of Brigadoon and I remember the night well enough to recall that it was when we developed our truly revolting habit of pouring melted cheddar cheese and butter over microwaved popcorn.

“What did she say?” asks Kiera.

“We’re meeting tomorrow at Joy’s? At noon? Where is that?”

“It’s the coffee shop I mentioned. It’s just that way.” She points behind her, a left out of the shop. “You can’t miss it.”

I let out a breath I feel as though I’ve been holding since I answered the call. “I can’t believe I’m going to see Aimee. I can’t believe I have to wait to see Aimee.”

“I thought you said everything’s good with her in your other life.” She puts quotes around the last words, blue eyes narrowing at me. “Why are you so eager to see her? Crippling codependence, or are you not telling me something?”

I hesitate a second too long and then say, “The codependence one.”

“For a great actress, you’re a terrible liar.”

I roll my eyes theatrically, though flattered by the part that was a compliment. “The point is, I’m seeing her tomorrow.”

She nods. “Well, that’s good. I’m glad she was willing to see you.”

“Why is she so mad at me? Was it really that bad, whatever I did?”

“I don’t think you did anything.” She shrugs. “I think you two don’t get on anymore. I told you.”

I want to tell her this is impossible, but know that strangely I have much less information than she does.

Kiera tuts and comes over to me, seeing my anguish, and puts a hand on my shoulder.

“Why don’t you put on some music you like? That always makes you feel better, eh? Maybe have some chocolate?”

An uncharacteristic urge to cry gives way to laughter.

“What’s so funny?” she asks.

“You sound like you’re talking to your doddering old grandmother or something.”

She nods stoically. “It does feel a bit like that, doll, yes.”

I put on an old Nat King Cole album, reinforcing the role, and spend the next while wiping down every surface, cleaning all the glass, and re-smelling all the candles.

“Looking Back” starts up and I try not to listen too hard to the lyrics. If I do, I might feel like crying again.

“Do I have money?” I ask. “I seriously want to buy one of these candles.”

Buying stuff has always been a good coping mechanism for me.