“You were. You had girls coming at you and you didn’t want any of them. And then you lost your shoes.” Broodje looks at the gathering. “There were these giant piles of shoes.” The hair on the back of Allyson’s neck goes up. “Wait, what?” “We went to this party on the beach, in Mexico. New Year’s Eve.” “With the piles of shoes?” “Yeah,” Broodje says. “And the Spanish reggae band. Tabula rasa?” Allyson asks. It’s noisy in the bar but it goes quiet for a second as Allyson and Willem look at each other and once again understand something that they somehow, somewhere already knew. “You were there,”
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