by Elizabeth Cockle
“Be nice or leave,” Lynne yells at me. “I didn’t invite you here so you could attack me for crap we did to each other in junior high.”
“Billy wasn’t crap,” I say. “He was the love of my life.”
“Junior high,” Lynne repeats. “We were twelve.”
Lynne doesn’t know about my condition. I don’t know how to tell her. The accident erased all my memories. To me, seventh grade was yesterday.
“You bitch, you stole Billy from me.” The stupid words come out, because they’re so much easier to articulate than the medical jargon I can hardly remember.
Lynne stares at me. “Josie, are you OK?”
No, I’m not. Again, the moment is slipping from me. Lynne stole the centre of my heart and she doesn’t deserve to know the truth.
