Back in the kitchen I opened my laptop and switched on the kettle, planning on making an industrial-size vat of coffee to fuel a research-filled night. I’d investigate all causes for memory loss, hopefully finding enough to convince Ash to see a doctor in the morning. As I waited for the water to boil, my mind wandered, thoughts traveling back to when Ash and I had first met.

I’d been twelve going on trouble, a sulky, sullen tween my mother couldn’t work out what to do with. “We were such good friends, little Bee,” she said, using the nickname she’d given me because she’d watched a cartoon called Maya the Bee with her German mother when she was a kid. “Don’t you want us to still be friends?”

I hadn’t bothered answering. On this particular day, the argument had been about my meeting her boyfriend, a word that made me shudder. Mom was supposed to be exactly that, my mom. She shouldn’t be dating, it was gross, but she’d met an English guy named Brad at the eye specialist’s office where she worked as an assistant. For weeks she’d gushed whenever she mentioned him, her face lighting up so bright, we could’ve used it to power the entire state. I’d said I didn’t want to meet him, too stubborn to admit I was afraid of losing her, instead insisting it was because I didn’t care. For once, she’d put her foot down.

“He’s important to me,” she said, hands on hips, her long brown hair flowing over her narrow shoulders as we stared each other down at the kitchen table, and from her tone I knew she’d already won, but I wasn’t yet ready to concede. She’d never talked that way about a man before. As far as I was aware, she hadn’t had any kind of relationship with a guy since my father walked out seven years prior, after unceremoniously announcing he didn’t want the responsibility of the family he’d helped create. “I want you to meet Brad,” Mom continued, her tone gentle again. “I really, really like him, and I know you will, too.”

“I don’t need a dad,” I’d said as I scowled at Mom, crossing my arms over my chest in an attempt to amplify the stubbornness effect, except the only thing it did was remind me I still hadn’t developed breasts as the other girls in my class had. “We’re fine on our own.”

Mom sighed, pulled out a chair and sat down. “Brad won’t try to be your dad, Maya.”

“He will. It always happens in books and movies, and—”

“This isn’t one of your fairy tales.”

“I don’t read those anymore, they’re stupid.”

“But you used to love—”