At the same two-seater table where I’d fallen in love with him three years ago, Brad pleaded with me over his turkey-tomato wrap. “Julia, I know you broke up with me because I never put your feelings first. That was wrong, and I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”
Though relishing his burst of humility, I hesitated.
The seconds ticked by on my cellphone while I waited outside Brad’s apartment. At precisely at 10:38, I rang the doorbell. This time I’d get it right.
Brad poked his head through the jamb, eyes droopy from sleep. “What do you want, Julia? I thought you broke up with me.”
“I need my photo back.”
“Good morning, Centerville! It’s Saturday, March 31st!”
I leapt from bed, staring wide-eyed at the nightstand clock radio. “Again?”
Rushing around my apartment, I confirmed the deejay was not pulling an April Fool’s prank. My journal ended March 30. I needed to dust and vacuum—again. And those soggy brown bananas
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