Joy’s is a little red coffee shop with an adorable storefront and open paned glass windows with boxes of flowers beneath them. My heart pounds as I scan the faces of the patrons, looking for hers.

She’s not here.

A few people nod or wave at me in polite neighborly recognition. I do the same, then go up to the counter.

The barista is a nice-looking guy with double ear piercings and a broad smile.

“Hey, Meg!”

“Oh.” I glance at his name tag. “Hey, Freddy.”

I’m pretty proud of myself for my visual detective work, but then he laughs and covers the name tag. “Oh, I know. I forgot mine at home again, so I had to wear Freddy’s. You want the usual?”

Damn.

I think Kiera was right to tell Cillian’s dad the truth, that I don’t know who anyone is. Partly because he’s a doctor, and partly because it’s ridiculous to walk around trying to fake it constantly. But it would also be a little absurd to lead a small interaction like this with, Hi! I will not be able to engage in this conversation and meet your expectations of familiarity. Please treat me like a stranger! K, thanks!

Honestly, I should get my own name tag that says all of that.

“Usual sounds great,” I say.

“Three quid, love,” he says. He has an English accent, not an Irish one, I realize.

“Three?” I ask. I’m suddenly afraid my usual is a glass of unfiltered tap water, which is about what that dollar equivalent would get you in LA.

“I know,” he says, “they raised the prices a little. But it’s temporary! Only ’til the cup dispute is figured out.”

In this world, apparently I’m up on whatever the cup dispute is.

“No, it’s fine,” I say. “Here, keep the change.”

I hand him a five. I found a little card wallet at the cottage, saw that it had my own identification in it, and not a lot of money, but some, tightly folded and slid in. If looking at my other me’s nudes had felt intrusive, this felt like outright stealing.

He hands me back the change. “Keep it,” I insist.

He gives me a weird look and I remember I didn’t look up the tipping culture. “Ain’t gonna argue, am I?” he says, pocketing it, then starting in on my drink.

While I wait, I turn around, checking that Aimee didn’t walk in while I was ordering, and then go out onto the little flower-filled patio to double-check. My drink is ready when I come back, so I get it and then I realize that I should go wait out front—and that’s when I run smack-dab into her, almost spilling my chai all over her white linen dress, Maureen’s leash tangling between our legs.

“Hi, Meg.”

CHAPTER TEN

“Aimee.”