Pieces of Me

by Kate McLaughlin

Genres: Young Adult; YA Literary Fiction; YA Mysteries & Thrillers

Synopsis

The next gut-punching, compulsively readable Kate McLaughlin novel, about a girl finding strength in not being alone.

When eighteen-year-old Dylan wakes up, she’s in an apartment she doesn’t recognize. The other people there seem to know her, but she doesn't know them – not even the pretty, chiseled boy who tells her his name is Connor. A voice inside her head keeps saying that everything is okay, but Dylan can’t help but freak out. Especially when she borrows Connor’s phone to call home and realizes she’s been missing for three days.

Dylan has lost time before, but never like this.

Soon after, Dylan is diagnosed with Dissociative Identity Disorder, and must grapple not only with the many people currently crammed inside her head, but that a secret from her past so terrible she’s blocked it out has put them there. Her only distraction is a budding new relationship with Connor. But as she gets closer to finding out the truth, Dylan wonders: will it heal her or fracture her further?

Kate McLaughlin’s Pieces of Me is raw, intimate, and surprisingly hopeful.

“Pieces of Me is a chilling, yet empathetic, look into Dissociative Identity Disorder. With her calm, pure, voice, Kate McLaughlin delves deep into the crevices of this misunderstood disorder and a young woman's mind. I had to keep reading not only to understand Dylan, the main character—but to understand all of the people inside Dylan’s head." - Hayley Krischer, author of Something Happened to Ali Greenleaf and The Falling Girls

 

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Release date: April 18, 2023

Publisher: Wednesday Books

Print pages: 363

Content advisory: Some of the thematic material within contains discussions of suicide, child abuse/sexual assault, and alcohol abuse, as well as mentions of vaping, smoking, and sex.

Sample

ONE

Wake up.

I snuggle deeper into the blankets, trying to push away the voice in my head. Everything feels light and muffled, the edges of my brain lined with cotton balls. I cling to the last vestiges of a dream, holding on even though I can’t quite remember what it was or why it was so good.

You need to wake up.

With a sigh, I open my eyes.

The world takes its time coming into focus. First, I hear the traffic outside, slightly muted. Daylight flickers through the fluttering of my eyelashes. Too bright. A slight ache presses against the inside of my brain. I snuggle deeper into the pillow to ease it, squishing my eyes shut, but it doesn’t matter. I’m awake.

My mouth tastes like old sour wine and my throat is scratchy in a familiar way. I don’t remember drinking or vaping last night, but I must have been. The two usually go together for me. Normally I stay away from vaping or smoking, but there’s something about when I’m feeling loose and free that makes me want them. Did I go out last night? The last thing I remember is going to class yesterday. It must have been one hell of a party.

I thought I’d conquered drinking. I’ve avoided situations with alcohol for this very reason—blackouts aren’t a good sign, and I’ve had them, like, a lot.

The pillow beneath my head is soft and smells slightly spicy—like gingerbread. There’s a sweetness to it, vanilla and sunshine on clean skin. I could smell it all day. Taking a deep breath, I bury my face deeper in the soft flannel.

Wait. I don’t have flannel sheets on my bed.

Where am I?

I open my eyes wide. I’m at the edge of the bed, staring at a rug. A couple more inches and I’d be on the floor. I raise my head. The bookcase against the wall is filled with books that aren’t mine. An unfamiliar phone on the bedside table says it’s ten o’clock. As I roll onto my back, I realize I don’t recognize the room, or the boxers and T-shirt I’m wearing.

Or the guy asleep beside me.

Shit.

I sit up. He doesn’t stir. Confusion keeps me there, staring. I’m not afraid as I look at him. He’s actually kind of cute—if you like long, skinny guys with riotous curls and angular faces. I could cut myself on that jaw, or at least sharpen a pencil. He’s got an amazing profile.

I should be panicking, wondering where my clothes are. Planning my escape. Instead, I sit here, on this comfortable but messy bed, and watch a stranger sleep. I mean, I don’t know if I’m here by choice or if he brought me here while I was drunk. Did we have sex?

I’d like to believe I would remember that, but as I scour the recesses of my brain, I can’t. I have fuzzy memories of his smile, his laugh. But no bad feelings. That gingerbread smell is all him, I think. But I don’t freak out. Not again, I say in my head before giving it a rueful shake.

There’s a knock on the door. I turn my head as it opens. There’s a girl at the threshold. She’s tall and willowy—like a model—with long dark hair and wide blue eyes. She looks like she should be in a tampon commercial. Or toothpaste. Something where she has to flick her hair and smile a lot. She’s not wearing any makeup and her skin is perfect. I want to hate her, but when our gazes meet, I smile.

“Hey, girlie,” she says. “I thought you might be up.” She hands me a cup of coffee.

“Just,” I say. “Thanks.” I know her, but I don’t—like I met her in a dream or saw her on TV. I must have been way wasted last night. I take a sip. It’s good.

She smiles at the guy sprawled beside me. “Did he snore?”

Cradling the mug in my hands, I shake my head. “Nope. I think he talked, though.” Did he?

“It was nice of you to let him crash with you. He really would have slept on the floor.”

So, no sex, then. Probably? “That would have been ridiculous. This bed is huge.”

I nod. “Mm-hmm. Just a little groggy, y’know?”

“Yeah, sure.” She doesn’t look convinced. “Okay, I’ll be in the kitchen if you want to join me for a vape.”

The last thing I want is to suck on a vape pod, but I don’t tell her that. She leaves the room, closing the door behind her. The second the latch clicks I’m off the bed and at the desk, pawing through the papers and notebooks to see if there’s anything that can help me figure out where I am.

This isn’t the first time something like this has happened to me, but it’s the first time I’ve come to in a place completely unfamiliar. Usually I’m at home or with Izzy. Safe, but confused and foggy. I stopped going to parties because of stuff like this. Obviously, I forgot that last night.

There’s an envelope addressed to Connor James on the desk. I assume that’s my bedmate. If that’s true, and the rest of the information is correct, then I’m on West 152nd Street in New York. At least I’m still in the city.

The room spins a little around me. There’s a noise in my head kind of like the crackle of static—the hum of a radio station turned down so low I can’t make out the words. I still don’t know how I got here. None of this is familiar. And yet … it’s not exactly completely strange? These people seem to know me. They haven’t chopped me into pieces or used my skin to make furniture. Not yet, anyway. More importantly, I feel comfortable with them. I still haven’t jumped into full-on panic mode. I feel safe, which is saying something, because a lot of times I don’t even feel safe at home.

always try to let her know if I’m going to stay out.

I glance around and spot my backpack on the floor. I squat down and grab my phone out of the front pocket.

“Fuck.” It’s dead. How can that be? It was fully charged yesterday after class. Unless I recorded the entire weekend on video, it should still have some juice. Then again, if I did record stuff, that will help me remember.

“You okay?” asks a gravelly voice.

I look up. He’s awake, sitting in the middle of the bed with his arms slung around his knees. He’s got a wicked case of bedhead and his eyelids are heavy, dragged down by the length and thickness of his eyelashes. My fingers twitch—I want to draw him. If ever there was a face that should be put to canvas, it’s his. He’s really, really beautiful.

“My phone’s dead,” I say stupidly.

He lifts his chin in the direction of the desk. “There’s a charger in the top drawer. You can use mine if you need to make a call.”

“Thanks.” I stand as he gets off the bed. He moves like liquid—a combination of long-limbed grace and confidence. He’s lanky in his black T-shirt and sweatpants—all shoulders and legs.

An image of us dancing drifts across my mind, hazy and slightly out of focus. He made me laugh, I think. Or maybe I made him laugh. I don’t remember. I like him, though. I know that. He’s self-deprecating and sweet.

I knew you’d like him, whispers a familiar voice. I blink. My “internal voices” have always been pretty vocal, but this one is particularly clear.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks. “You seem kinda … out of it.”

“Wow,” I hedge. “That’s a great thing to say to the girl who let you share the bed instead of sleeping on the floor.”

His cheeks flush slightly as he averts his eyes. “I didn’t mean it as an insult.” His gaze meets mine once more. “You just seem … confused.”

It’s obvious he’s a really nice guy and I don’t want him to decide he made a mistake letting me into his house. “I think I had too much to drink last night.”

He’s still for a moment. “Did you.” It’s not really a question, so I don’t answer it. “Yeah, maybe you did.”

Oh, shit. But it’s kind of good as well. At least it explains things. “Yeah. I’m sorry if I did anything stupid. I didn’t, did I?”

“No,” he says softly. “Nothing at all. And you don’t need to worry—you left me with my virtue intact.”

What? Oh, he’s joking. Right. I try to hide my sigh of relief, because I don’t want him to be offended. I mean, if I slept with a guy who looks like him, I’d want to remember it. “Good,” I say. “Because I’d hate for Mr. Darcy to think you’re of loose character.”

He grins at that. “Pride and Prejudice. I like it.”

I glance at my phone. Still dead. At this rate I’ll be here making an idiot of myself all day. I’m wearing his underwear, for God’s sake. I mean, it doesn’t get much more intimate than that, does it? And I’m wearing his Cyanide & Happiness T-shirt. I mean, I assume it’s his. It’s kind of snug, so it’s not made for someone with boobs.

I’m not wearing a bra. Where the hell are my clothes?

Connor grabs a phone off the desk, unlocks it, and hands it to me. Next, he opens a drawer and pulls out a charging cord. He gives me that as well. “I’m going to get a coffee. You want anything?”

I shake my head.

“I’ll get your clothes out of the dryer, too,” he says, as if he can read my mind.

“Thanks.” I force a smile. My face feels tight, my eyes, wild.

He smiles slightly and leaves the room. Alone, I can finally breathe normally. First, I plug in the charger and my phone. That little charging symbol eases my anxiety so much it’s almost laughable. Then, using his phone, I dial my mother’s number, gnawing on my thumb as it tries to connect. It rings three times.

“Hello?”

I can’t begin to describe how it feels to hear her voice. It’s so freaking good I want to cry. “Hey, Mom.”

Silence, then a small sound, like a hiccup. “Dylan?”

“Yeah.” I run my hand through my hair—it’s sticking out around my head like tangled cotton candy. Way too much product in it. “I’m sorry I didn’t call last night.”

“Last night? Oh my God.” I can hear her breath shake as it rushes out. “Where are you?”

I frown. She sounds really freaked out. Like, really freaked. “The city. I’m sorry if you tried to call, my phone was dead.”

“Your phone…” She has that “no excuse” voice of hers on. Come on, I’m not a baby anymo

re. She doesn’t even blink if Mark stays out all night. Yeah, I still live at home to save money, but I’m almost nineteen.

“It must have died last night. Anyway, I’m with friends and I’m okay. I’m going to head home soon. I have that project due Monday that I need to work on.”

“Dylan … What day do you think it is?”

“Saturday,” I reply, resisting the urge to add a joking “duh.”

She makes that noise again. “It’s not Saturday, sweetie.”

I frown. “Yes, it is.”

“It’s Monday.”

“What?” No. “That’s impossible.” The world tilts around me, and I grab the desk chair to keep from falling.

“Honey,” she says, her voice raw with concern and irritation, “you’ve been missing for three days.”

TWO

There’s something seriously wrong with me.

I think.

Whatever it is, the doctors can’t quite figure it out. At fourteen, I was diagnosed with depression. When I was sixteen, another therapist thought I had severe anxiety disorder and probably ADHD. My brother thinks I’m a drunk, and my mother thinks I’m bipolar. My last shrink diagnosed me with borderline personality disorder shortly after my eighteenth birthday, even though I don’t really think my moods are that extreme.

What do I think? No one’s bothered to ask. Mostly I think I’m crazy. I know it’s not the politically correct thing to say, but it’s how it feels. Like there’s a connection in my brain that doesn’t work the way it’s supposed to. It just shorts out. Either that, or I’m dying.

I definitely feel crazy after I hang up with my mother. I sit on the floor of this strange but not strange room and stare at the phone in my hand. “Three days,” I whisper. How could I have blacked out for three fucking days?

I like to drink. I spent an awful lot of the last couple of years absolutely wasted, but I stopped doing that almost six months ago. I’d had too many blackouts, and I couldn’t stand it anymore. I’ve lost almost twenty pounds—weight I’d gained from drinking and prescription drugs. Physically, I feel good. Why would I go back to that?

“You okay?” Connor asks again. I look up. He stands over me with a cup of coffee in his hand and a worried expression on his face. He sets a small pile of clothes on the bed, including a bra. He washed my bra. I should be mortified, but it’s the least of my concerns.

“Have I been here three days?” I ask, not caring how it sounds.

He blinks those impossibly thick eyelashes. He probably thinks I’m out of it, not knowing the answer myself. “Yeah.”

“How?”

He sits down on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, mug in his hands. “What do you mean?”

I turn toward him and reach for my own coffee. Maybe it will sharpen my brain, get rid of these cotton balls. “How did I get here?”

“You really don’t remember?”

I shake my head even as images start to flood my brain. It’s like someone’s setting photographs on a table for me to look at, or a movie montage. “A coffee shop?”

He smiles, some of the concern fading from his gaze. “Yeah. I told you I liked your drawings, and we started talking

back saying you’d been locked out and asked if it’d be cool if you stayed a bit.”

I can see it in my head, flickering behind my eyes. “And you believed that I’d been locked out?”

He laughs. “Well, yeah. Why else would you say it?”

“If a guy did that to me, I’d assume he was looking to hook up.”

“Oh, shit, no.” The laugh turns nervous. “I didn’t think you were looking for that.”

Surprise floods me. He’s serious. “But I slept in your bed. I invited you to sleep there with me.”

Pink floods his cheeks. “A friend of Jess’s crashed here last night. I was going to sleep on the floor. You said we might as well share the bed—there was nothing … sexy about it. We talked for a bit and then fell asleep.”

That plays with what the girl—Jess—told me. “A girl invites you to sleep with her and you don’t hope you’re going to get some?”

“I’m not an asshole.” He stares at me, a little indignant, but mostly bewildered. “You really don’t remember, do you?”

I shrink in on myself, suddenly ashamed. Tears fill my eyes, hot and ugly. I blink them away. “I don’t really remember anything. It’s like a dream.” I look at him again. “How drunk was I?”

“You weren’t,” he says with a shrug. “You had a couple glasses of wine, that’s it.”

That wasn’t possible. “Was I stoned?”

His face hardens. “Did I roofie you, you mean?”

“No.” I need to explain. “I’m just trying to find a reason why the last three days are nothing but a fog in my head.”

We sit in silence for a moment, and I let out a shaky breath.

“You’re really upset,” he says.

No shit. “Wouldn’t you be?”

“Are you on meds?” he asks. Guess he figures he doesn’t need to answer my question.

I don’t want to be honest, but I can’t help it. What difference does it make at this point? If I say no, he’s probably going to tell me I should be. “Yeah.”

“Do you have them with you?”

I check my bag. I usually have a day’s dose with me in case, but the pill container is empty. “No.”

“Maybe that’s it. Going off your meds messed with your head.”

“But it’s only been a couple of days without them.” I tilt my head. “No, I’ve messed up with them before and they’ve never caused something like this.” But when these blackouts happen it’s not uncommon for me to have forgotten to take my pills.

Shit. I really thought my memory loss was because of booze. Honestly? I’d hoped it’d been because of booze.

He shrugs. “Hey, I’m only trying to help. I’m not a doctor.”

I shouldn’t believe him. He could have drugged me, but that feels wrong. Looking at him, I feel like I trust him even though I don’t know anything about him. I’m the problem here, not him.

“I need to get home,” I say. I can’t believe it’s Monday. “I was supposed to turn in a project today.” I’m going to be lucky if my instructor gives me even half credit for it. Fuck. Why is life so hard for me? Other people juggle way more than I have on my plate and pull it off. Why do I always feel like I’m being left behind, running to catch up all the time? High school was never this hard and I hated it. Art school should be easy for me. Art is the one thing I’m good at.

“Where do you live?” he asks. “I’ll drive you.”

I don’t want to tell him. That’s the unwritten rule, right? Never tell a hookup where you live. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Yeah,” he says, rolling his shoulder back. I hear a pop. “Kind of feel like I do.”

I’m too mopey to fight. Too tired and confused. And honestly, I think he just wants to get rid of me. Can’t say I blame him. I nod. “Okay. Thanks. I live in New Rochelle.”

“I’ll let you get dressed. Then we’ll go. You can charge your phone in the car.” He leaves the room and I quickly change out of his clothes into mine. They kind of smell like him now. I can’t believe he did my laundry. Are these people for real? Because it’s not lost on me how incredibly lucky I am that they seem to be nice. Good. I know how much badness there is in the world—what girl doesn’t? We’re told about it and all the things we’re supposed to do to avoid it from before puberty.

If I’d been raped while out of it, they’d say I deserved it for going off with strangers. It would be my fault for wearing black underwear, or red lipstick.

Your fault for just being a girl. I push that voice aside. I try not to wonder if he’s posted pho

tos of me online, or if I’m the star in his private porno.

Dressed, I grab a brush off the dresser and yank it through the tangles in my hair until my shoulder-length, choppy, pink-streaked hair looks close to how it usually does. I feel better in my own clothes—striped jeans and a black sweater. Part of me wants to keep freaking out, but I can’t seem to do it. Not fully. Another voice in my head is soothing me, saying it’s going to be okay. It’s only a glitch. I’m safe, I’m okay. Nothing bad has happened and nothing bad is going to happen. The rest is just icing.

I listen to that voice. It’s right, after all. Okay, so I had some weird glitch. A combination of wine and being off my meds. The memories will come back to me and I’ll laugh about this later.

I leave the bedroom, my practically dead phone in hand. Connor and Jess are in the kitchen, talking quietly at the table. They stop when I walk in, and look up in unison.

“Bet I can guess what you’re talking about,” I joke.

Jess looks away, but Connor doesn’t. He just smiles. “You ready to go?”

“You really don’t have to drive me. I have a train pass.”

“We’ve been through this already.” He stands up. He’s almost a full head taller than me. He offers me a to-go cup. “I made you a new coffee. You didn’t drink the other one.”

“Thanks.” I take a sip—it’s exactly the way I like it. I guess this isn’t the first time he’s fixed a cup for me either. “Listen, I want to thank you both for being so nice to me. I know I seem crazy right now—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Jess cuts me off, with a tight smile. “Is Lannie even your real name?”

Lannie? I haven’t heard that in a long time. “Dylan,” I reply. “Lannie is what my dad used to call me.”

Her smile relaxes a little. “Okay. Well, nice meeting you, Dylan.” She gets up and leaves the room, coffee and vape in hand.

“She’s mad,” I say, when it’s just me and Connor. One more thing for me to feel bad about.

“She’s confused, not mad,” he counters, then jangles his keys. “Let’s get you home.”

It’s a nice, but old, apartment they live in. They’ve got it decorated in a fairly boho kind of way. A lot of color and fabrics and mismatched prints. It’s the second floor of a walk-up in a fairly decent neighborhood. “Who lives on the bottom?” I ask as we descend the stairs.

“My cousin,” he replies. “My grandfather owns the building.”

My eyebrows rise. “Convenient.”

“I’m not complaining.” He presses the key fob to unlock a black Jeep Renegade. I have a flash of having been in it before, only in the back seat. Connor and Jess are up front and there’s someone else in the back with me. We’re all singing along with the song playing.

My head swims—like I’ve gotten up too fast. I give it a little shake to clear it before opening the passenger door and stepping in.

“Oh, also, no smoking in the car.”

“I don’t usually smoke,” I tell him. “Or vape, or anything else.”

“Except when you drink,” he comments.

I buckle my seat belt. “Yeah, well, I thought I’d given that up too, but I guess not.”

“I’m pretty sure you’ve been mostly sober this weekend.”

Really? “I’m not making this up.”

Our gazes lock. “I’m not saying you are,” he says, voice soft. “Look, it’s pretty obvious you didn’t do any of this on purpose. No one can fake how pale you were after you talked to your mom.”

“Wouldn’t you be freaked out if you lost three days?”

“Yeah.” He puts the Jeep in reverse, turning to look out the rear window. “Especially three days as awesome as the last three were.”

My stomach clenches at the tightness in his voice. I’m not the only one struggling to understand this. “And you swear we didn’t have sex?”

He presses the brake hard enough to give us both a little jerk. “You really find that hard to believe, don’t you? That I was able to control myself, despite your overwhelming allure?” It’s not mean, the way he asks, but there’s definite sarcasm.

Heat fills my face. “It makes me sound like a total narcissist, doesn’t it?”

“A little.” With a grin, he backs the car out onto the street.

“You really think these last three days were awesome?” I feel stupid even asking.

“Yeah, I do. I’m sorry you missed them.”

“Me too.” I am. I really am.

“Well,” he begins, his attention focused on the road. “Maybe we can try again sometime.”

I smile as I glance out the passenger window. “Maybe.”

And that voice in my head whispers, Definitely.

---

Where I live in New Rochelle is only about fifteen miles from Connor’s apartment, but it takes almost forty minutes to get there in New York traffic. That’s the price you pay for being relatively close to Manhattan, and my mother was determined to live as close as she could and still give her kids a house and a yard. Every once in a while, she’d get offered an acting job on—or off—Broadway, or a photo shoot, something to make her feel relevant just when she was beginning to think people had forgotten about her.

My parents divorced when I was eight. That’s when we moved to New Rochelle and my dad left for LA. The house my mother bought had belonged to some investment banker who skipped the country. The bank foreclosed and Mom managed to buy the house, which was on the water and even had a pool, for a relative steal. The house is huge, but there’s also the whole “keeping up appearances” thing to consider. My twin brother and I each have our own en suite bathroom, and we have two guest rooms in addition to the room Mom took as her office.

“There’s something I should tell you about my mother,” I tell Connor when we’re almost there. He’s not going to escape meeting her and I don’t want it to be any weirder than it has to.

“Is she going to have the cops waiting for me, or something?” he asks with a nervous smile.

“No. Well, probably not.” I check the charge on my phone and try to ignore how many missed

calls I have. Guilt makes me look anyway. Most of them are from Mom, the rest are Izzy and a few from Mark. “My mom is kind of famous.”

“Kind of?”

I sigh and turn the screen off. “You remember that show from the eighties, ...