14
HERE
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 28, 2009
(game time)
My eyes fly open and dart to the clock: 6:01 a.m. The yellow Post-it is right where I left it last night, stuck to the side of the nightstand, illuminated by the clock’s eerie blue glow.
REMEMBER THANKSGIVING!!!
Not that I need the reminder. It doesn’t take much effort to recall this particular memory. It stands out among the others, lodged at the forefront of my mind.
The fight with my mom. Showing up at Josh’s house unannounced. Meeting Michael for the first time, not as some unattached and available freshman girl, but as his younger brother’s girlfriend. In other words, already attached. Completely and utterly unavailable.
I fall back against my pillow, letting the new reality wash over me. I’m not with Michael anymore. As of right now, it’s as if our two-and-a-half-month relationship never happened.
I wait for that familiar knot in my gut, the sick dread. But it doesn’t come. Instead, there are gentle butterflies. The excited kind.
I rest my hand on my stomach, trying to make sense of what I’m feeling. How can I be okay with this?
Because it means you’re with Josh.
“No,” I whisper in the dark. “I am not in love with my boyfriend’s brother.” Hearing myself say it, I almost laugh out loud. Who’s the boyfriend and who’s the brother? “This whole thing is seriously effed up,” I say to my ceiling.
I close my eyes, picturing Michael’s face. He makes me laugh. He makes my palms sweat. He’s a ridiculously good kisser. All are very important qualities in a boyfriend.
And then there is Josh. A face that is hazier yet somehow more familiar. I don’t know him very well at all, and yet, there is something so indescribably right about him. About us. When I was with him yesterday, I felt strangely complete, as if I’d found something I’d been looking for. But why?
“Is he my soulmate?” I say these words out loud without meaning to. My voice sounds strange in the darkness. “Josh is my soulmate,” I add, trying it on for size. I feel a flood of happiness as I picture what could be our future together. Watching USC football when I’m with him in L.A. Eating deep-dish pepperoni at Yorkside when he’s with me in New Haven.
Yale.
My mind, which until this moment had been calmly evaluating my new set of circumstances, suddenly begins to race. I’ve been wondering how I could’ve ended up at Yale without Caitlin around to convince me to apply. Now I know: My mom sent in the application. But my parallel undid it when she found that email.
I don’t go to Yale anymore.
I leap out of bed for my phone, but the battery is dead. My laptop is plugged in next to it on my desk. I bang on my space bar to wake it up, only to discover that it’s not on standby but turned off. “Dammit!” I shout, pressing the power button repeatedly. “Turn on, you piece of shit!”
“Abby? What’s going on? Why are you up so early? And why are you cursing at your computer?”
My mom is in the doorway, squinting at me in the dark.
“Oh. I, uh . . .”
She reaches inside my room and flips on the light. We both blink from the shock to our retinas. “Is everything okay?” she asks. “I could hear you all the way downstairs.”
As my eyes adjust to the light, I see a flash of blue above her head. There, above my door, right where it should be, is my Yale pennant. Caitlin’s bracelet is on my dresser.
“Everything’s fine.” I flash an apologetic smile. “I just need the cordless phone.”
“Then come downstairs and get it,” she says. “And stop shouting. Your dad is trying to sleep.”
“I know, I’m sorry.” Tail between my legs, I follow her down to the kitchen to retrieve the phone.
“Who are you calling this early?” she asks as she pours me a cup of coffee.
“Caitlin,” I reply, already dialing her number. “Thanks for the coffee,” I call as I head back upstairs.
“Are you serious right now?” Caitlin says when she picks up the phone. “It’s six fifteen. On a Saturday.”
“I need a reality check.”
“Your name is Abby Barnes. You’re a freshman at Yale. You live with Maris—”
I cut her off. “I know all that,” I say impatiently. “Am I dating anyone?”
“Michael,” she replies sleepily.
“Michael,” I repeat. “Michael is my boyfriend.”
“You didn’t know that?” asks Caitlin, wide-awake now. “Your relationship with him is new?” For the first time ever, I feel a modicum of her excitement.
My life is a puzzle. These pieces fit together.
There’s nothing to be scared of.
“Not new,” I tell her. “I just didn’t expect it to still be true.”
“Why not?” Caitlin asks. “What happened?”
“In the real version, Michael and I met on my eighteenth birthday, the day after the collision. He was just some guy to me—Ben’s high school best friend. But he’s not ‘just some guy’ to my parallel—not anymore. She knows he’s Josh’s brother. They met yesterday, on their Thanksgiving.”
“Well, yeah,” Caitlin replies. “That’s why you’re together.”
My breath catches in my throat. “What are you talking about?”
“You said you knew from the first day you met Michael that you were supposed to be with him. It’s the reason you broke up with Josh. And why you applied to Yale.”
She chose Michael.
“When was the breakup? Right after Thanksgiving?”
“No, not till April. The day you got back from Bulldog Days.”
“Bulldog Days?” I am practically screeching at her. “What the hell is Bulldog Days?”
“Yale’s admitted students weekend. You and Michael h—”
“SHE HOOKED UP WITH HIM? While she was with Josh?”
“Hung out,” Caitlin says calmly. “As far as I know, there was no hooking up involved. Not then, anyway. You kept it platonic till September. Your idea, not his. You started dating on your birthday.”
“And Josh?”
“You told him two days ago, on Thanksgiving. From what you told me yesterday, he didn’t take it very well. I don’t think you’ve spoken to him since.”
“And Michael?”
“He left yesterday for Boston. He’s taking you to some fancy dinner in New Haven tomorrow night.”
It’s exactly what I wanted. Two days ago, it’s what I had.
A lot can change in two days. A lot can change in two minutes.
Order to chaos, then back again.
“We made up,” I say. “You and me. Last Thanksgiving.”
“Of course we did,” Caitlin replies. “What, you thought we’d stay mad at each other forever?”
I smile. That’s the funny thing about life. We’re rarely aware of the bullets we dodge. The just-misses. The almost-never-happeneds. We spend so much time worrying about how the future is going to play out, and not nearly enough time admiring the precious perfection of the present.
I close my eyes and see Josh’s face. Standing in the middle of the street yesterday, unshaven and unshowered and unwilling to doubt what he knew to be true. These aren’t someone else’s feelings, Abby. . . . The way I love you . . . don’t tell me that’s not real. It didn’t matter to him that the past wasn’t as he remembered it. All that mattered was how he felt right then, standing there with me. Here, in the present. I inhale, letting myself return to that moment. Letting myself feel what I felt then but couldn’t understand. Letting myself step into the future I glimpsed on my porch last night, a future I can’t see clearly but trust nonetheless. Right, right, right. He is right. He always was.
And Michael is right, too. Just not for me.
I had it backward. Michael is my parallel’s soulmate. And Josh is mine.
Just like that, all of Caitlin’s arguments about genetic equivalence fall away. So what if my parallel and I look the same under a microscope? The soul can’t be captured in DNA. Which is exactly what Dr. Mann meant that day in his lab. You are a uniquely created being with a transcendent soul. A soul whose yearnings can’t be predicted or effectively explained, whose composition can’t be quantified, whose true nature remains a mystery, as mysterious as it ever was. My parallel and I have different soulmates because we’re different souls.
“I have to break up with Michael,” I say then.
“What?” Caitlin sounds genuinely shocked. “Why?”
“I’m with the wrong brother,” I tell her, and promptly hang up.
Forgetting what time it is, I dial Michael’s number. He answers on the fifth ring, his voice muffled and groggy. “Abby?”
“We have to break up.” It just pops out, the moment I hear his voice. So much for doing it delicately.
Silence.
“Michael?”
“If this is a joke, it would’ve been funnier at noon.”
“It’s not a joke,” I say quietly.
I hear footsteps on his end and then the sound of a door closing.
“Can I ask why?” His voice is low and echoes slightly, like he’s in a bathroom. I picture him in a T-shirt and boxers, his hair all mussed up from sleep, sitting on the edge of someone’s bathtub. I inhale, imagining the smell of him, so different from Josh despite their shared DNA. Briefly, strangely, I wonder if a soul has a scent.
He’s waiting for an explanation. I consider giving him a nonanswer, something about valuing our friendship or needing time to myself. But he deserves more than that. He deserves the truth.
“I think I’m in love with Josh,” I say softly.
“You think you’re in love with Josh,” he repeats, his voice hollow. I nod, then realize he can’t see me nodding. “And here I thought you were in love with me.”
“It’s . . . ,” I begin, then stop. Destiny? It sounds ridiculous, even to me. “It doesn’t make sense,” I say instead. “I know that.”
“How could you do this?” His voice is angry now. And hurt.
“I didn’t mean to,” I say, my throat tight.
“But you did,” he replies. “You did mean to. It’s not like this is an accident, Abby. You’re doing this. You’re deciding. You’re the one throwing our relationship away.”
There are a few seconds of silence before the line goes dead. For exactly ten more, I panic. What if I’m picking the wrong guy? I barely know Josh. Yesterday was the first live conversation we’ve ever had. Everything else I know about him is from memory. He seemed certain, but can I really know for sure that he and I are meant to be together? The answer, of course, is no. We can never know for sure. The best we can do is take what we do know, and what we’ve learned, and what we believe to be true about ourselves, and then make a choice.
My parallel made her choice. She chose Michael.
I choose Josh.
Momentarily paralyzed, I stare at my phone. There’s no going back from this. If things don’t work out with Josh, I will have lost them both.
I’m praying as I dial Josh’s number. Please answer, please answer, please answer. After two rings, an operator’s voice kicks in. “The number you have attempted to contact is not receiving calls from your number.”
My heart sinks. He doesn’t remember our conversation yesterday. My parallel erased it.
All at once, a sense of urgency takes hold. I’ve glimpsed my destiny. Not all of it, but a crucial part. If this moment is the only moment I can be sure of, then I have to make it count.
Fingertips tingling, I type “last minute airfare” into Google and hit enter. Five minutes later I’m entering my debit card number for a flight from ATL to LAX that departs in three hours and six minutes and brings the amount in my checking account below three digits.
I throw a change of clothes and a toothbrush into my bag and take a quick shower. As I’m speed-washing my hair, I debate how to sell this impromptu trip to my parents. They like Josh, obviously. But do they like him enough to let me fly across the country on three hours’ notice to see him?
“So he doesn’t know you’re coming,” Mom says when I tell them my plan. “You’re just going to show up at his dorm room?”
“Not his dorm room,” I reply. “His seat. At the UCLA game. I know where he’s sitting.” Wanting to preserve the element of surprise, I told Tyler that I was hoping to catch a glimpse of Josh on TV and thus wanted to know where he was sitting. Tyler didn’t buy it, but he got me the seat number, anyway.
“That’s my girl,” Dad says approvingly. “Grabbing the bull by the horns.” My mom shoots him a look. “What? I think it’s romantic.”
“Our eighteen-year-old daughter wants to fly across the country to tell a boy she likes him.” Mom looks back at me. “Can’t you just call him? Or send an email?”
“I told you, he won’t take my calls. He’s upset about what happened with Michael.”
“Do you blame him?” she asks. “You broke up with him for his brother and then kept it a secret.”
“I made a mistake,” I say simply. I can’t explain or make an excuse for the choice, because it wasn’t me who made it. But I can’t resent it, either, because without it, I wouldn’t have what I have right now: clarity. If Josh is my soulmate, then I found him not in spite of Parallel Abby’s influence, but because of it. She is no longer my adversary, but part of who I am now. “Need some money?” Dad asks, scanning the kitchen for his wallet. “Let me give you some money.”
“We’re letting her go?” my mom asks him.
“I don’t think she was asking for permission, Anna.”
“I’ll be fine, Mom,” I tell her. “Really.”
“What about school? Don’t you have class on Monday?”
“I’ll be back for that. I’m coming back tomorrow morning. My flight back to New Haven isn’t until six.”
“Anna, this is Abby, remember? Our responsible, levelheaded daughter.” My dad hands me five twenties and his Amex.
“So responsible and levelheaded that she deserves a mini shopping spree while she’s out there?” I ask with a grin as I pocket the money.
“Ha. Don’t press your luck.”
“Have you told Michael?” my mom asks.
I nod. “I called him about an hour ago. He was pretty upset,” I tell her, remembering the sound of his voice. A wave of panic washes over me. Did I make a mistake?
“I never liked that guy,” Dad remarks. “He had an attitude.”
“You met him one time!”
“I have good instincts,” he replies, buttering a piece of burnt toast. For a moment, I feel sorry for the parallel me. She’s in for a challenge trying to sell Mom and Dad on Michael.
“Well, I should probably get going,” I tell them. “My flight leaves in two hours.” I pick up my duffel bag, suddenly nervous. “Wish me luck.”
“Break a leg, champ,” Dad says, and puts his hand on my shoulder. It’s exactly what he said to me the night the fall play opened last year, standing backstage before the show. Same words, same gesture, same mix of confidence and fatherly concern. I remember being so nervous in the weeks leading up to the show, convinced I would forget my lines and embarrass myself in front of an auditorium full of people. All my energy and anxiety were focused on getting through those five performances so I could get on with my life. I never saw it coming.
I wasn’t paying attention.
“Earth to Abby.” My mom waves her hand in front of my face. I blink and her face comes into focus. And somehow, so does my entire life.
“I am now,” I say simply.
She shakes her head, not comprehending. “You are now what?”
“Paying attention.”
By the time my plane touches down in L.A., I’m freaking out. Yes, this is what I want, but WHAT AM I DOING? He blocked my calls. What if he refuses to talk to me? Or worse, what if I embarrass him in front of his college friends? I debate waiting until the game is over, but decide that’s too risky: Odds are Josh will go out with people after. As long as he’s at the game, I know where to find him.
The freeways are predictably crowded, and as we approach the USC exit, traffic slows to a stop. Around us, fans display their affiliation with window decals and streamers. My driver is listening to game coverage on the radio. “Would you mind turning it up?” I ask him. He nods and cranks the volume just as UCLA kicks off to USC. Josh should be in his seat by now.
My stomach turns over. I barely know this guy, and I’m about to profess my love to him in a stadium full of people. It’s crazy, but I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.
Fifty-eight dollars later, the taxi drops me off at the coliseum. The noise from inside is deafening. As I’m approaching the entrance, I glance up at the sky, which, despite the fact that it’s the middle of the afternoon on a spectacularly clear day, is streaked with scarlet and amber. I haven’t missed the smog, but I have missed its effect on the L.A. sky. These colors are particularly arresting, which is odd, because usually when it’s smoggy, it’s also hazy. But today I can see all the way to the foothills. When was the last time the sky looked like this? My mind dances on the edge of a memory, unable to make the connection.
“Ticket?” comes a voice, snapping me back to reality. I’ve reached the turnstile, where a girl in a maroon-and-gold hoodie is collecting tickets.
I look at her blankly. Completely forgot about the ticket factor. “I, uh, don’t have one yet,” I tell her. “Where can I buy one?”
She laughs. “You’re kidding, right? The game has been sold out for months. There are scalpers around, but I doubt any of them are selling for less than two fifty.”
“Two hundred and fifty dollars? For college football?”
The girl looks past me to the bear of a man behind me, dressed from head to toe in powder blue.
“Ticket?”
The man brushes past me, nearly knocking me over.
“I can sell you a ticket.”
I turn to see a junior high kid in an oversized USC sweatshirt on a bike that looks like it belongs to a five-year-old. The kid looks around the parking lot like a cop might be waiting to bust him. I sprint to the curb.
“How much?” I ask in a low voice. “I can’t pay a lot.”
“Fifty bucks,” he replies, pulling a single ticket out of his front pocket and holding it up for me to see. “It’s real,” he adds, coming to a stop a few feet from me. “It’s a good seat, too. UCLA side.”
The other side of the stadium from where Josh is sitting, but at this point I can’t be choosy. “I’ll take it,” I tell the kid, digging through my bag for my wallet.
“You don’t look like the football type,” he tells me as he waits for his cash. “Who you cheering for?”
“I’m not. Hey, I only have twenties and two ones. Will you take forty-two?”
“Sixty.”
“But you said it was only fifty!”
“And you said you don’t got fifty. What do I look like, an ATM?” Glaring at him, I hold out my three twenties. He pockets the money, hands me the ticket, and pedals off.
Once inside, I easily find Section 11. Making my way down the cement stairs, I crane my neck for a glimpse of Josh’s dusty blond head. When I finally reach his row, my heart is pounding and the backs of my knees are clammy with sweat. Here it goes. I step down one more step so I can see the entire row and scan it, person by person, waiting for the moment that my eyes hit his familiar face.
But he’s not there. There are two empty seats in the middle of the row, but no Josh. I recheck the text from Tyler to make sure I’m in the right place. Section 11, Row 89. So where is he?
I quickly dial Tyler’s number.
“He’s not here!” I moan when Tyler picks up.
“Who’s not where?”
“Josh isn’t where you said he’d be. Section 11, Row 89.”
Just then, USC scores a touchdown, and the coliseum erupts with noise.
“You’re in L.A.?”
“I came to tell Josh how I feel about him. I wanted it to be a surprise.”
“Aren’t you dating his brother?”
“We broke up.”
Tyler says something in reply, but USC has just kicked the extra point, and I can’t hear anything over the deafening roar. It’s a good sixty seconds before he’s audible again.
“He’s there,” Tyler tells me. “He just texted me back. He’s with some girl he knows from junior high.”
“With her, like, dating her?”
“If he were dating her, I’d hope he wouldn’t refer to her as ‘this girl I know from junior high.’ No, he just ran into her on the way in. Her seats were better than his and she had a couple extra tickets. Section 6. Third row.”
“Thanks,” I say, already halfway up the stairs. “I’m on my way.”
“It’s a pretty ballsy move, Barnes, flying all the way across the country like that,” Tyler muses. “What if he tells you to go to hell?”
“Thank you, Tyler, for the vote of confidence. Good-bye.”
By the time I get to the entrance of Section 6, I’m a frazzled, windblown mess. Lovely. A quick stop in the ladies’ room helps, but also confirms that I look like a wild-eyed crazy person. Probably because I am a wild-eyed crazy person. With sweaty armpits. I stare at myself in the soap-splattered mirror, wondering what happened to the cool and confident girl who flew across the country this morning. “What’s the worst that can happen?” I ask my reflection. I don’t wait for my reply.
This time, Josh is easy to spot. He’s the only guy in red in a sea of blue and yellow. He’s sitting three seats in from the aisle, next to a girl with long brown hair and tiny shoulders. As I’m staring at the backs of their heads, trying to get up the nerve to go down there, the guy in the aisle seat leans forward to say something to Josh. At first I only see his arm, resting on the back of the girl’s seat. Unabashedly spraytanned. Gotta love L.A.
And then the girl shifts and the guy’s face comes into view.
It’s Bret Woodward. Sitting next to Kirby. Kirby from Boston. The girl Josh knows from junior high.
My eyes zip down the rest of the row. There’s Seth at the other end, and Bret’s stunt double and the makeup artist the stunt double was always flirting with, and then some college-age guy I don’t recognize, who I’m guessing from the black USC T-shirt is a friend of Josh’s. Just then, out of nowhere and for what seems like no reason at all, Josh turns his head and looks directly at me. He stands and stares at me uncomprehendingly for a split second, then shakes his head as if to clear it. “What are you doing here?” he calls, inching past the others toward the aisle.
“I wanted to talk to you,” I yell.
Josh meets me halfway down the stairs. “Calling would’ve been cheaper,” he says.
“You wouldn’t take my call,” I point out.
“Three thousand miles. You must have something pretty important to say.”
I hesitate, knowing this is my moment but scared of screwing it up. Josh just stands there, waiting, as the crowd begins to chant around us. For a second I think they’re chanting for me. But no. They just want a touchdown.
“I think we’re soulmates,” I blurt out, which isn’t at all what I was planning to say. I meant to start with an apology for what happened with Michael, gradually working up to the big, “I made a mistake, please take me back” moment. So much for easing into it.
“Since when?”
“Since the first time you took me to our swing,” I say, even though that means something different for him than it does for me. “I just forgot for a while.”
“What about Michael?”
“I told him this morning. He didn’t take it so well.” My eyes fill with tears, remembering. I didn’t mean to hurt either of them, and now I’ve hurt both of them. “Josh, I’m so sorry.”
Josh is quiet for what feels like an eternity. Then, just loud enough to make out: “I guess he probably deserves to find his own soulmate.”
My heart flutters in my chest.
“Are we . . . okay?” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer me. Instead, he sweeps me up into his arms and kisses me, and all my doubts fall away. His hands are in my hair and mine are on his face, and it fits, we fit, like we’ve been rehearsing this moment all our lives. When the marching band starts to play, I imagine the song is for us.
“Just in time to see some Trojan domination,” Josh says when I finally pull back, his voice louder and lighter now. He reaches to lift my bag off my shoulder. Bag in one hand, he takes my hand with the other, and I follow him down the steps toward the field.
“So you know Kirby from junior high?”
His eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “How do you know Kirby?”
Whoops. “I don’t,” I say quickly. “I just heard you say her name.”
“I didn’t think I’d said it.”
“So she’s from Worcester?” I ask, before he can replay our conversation and realize that he didn’t.
He nods. “Two grades below me in school. I was friends with her older brother, Keith. She and her mom moved out here when Kirb turned sixteen.”
“And now she’s hanging out with celebrities, huh? Isn’t that Bret Woodward?” There’s not an ounce of envy in my voice. I don’t feel any.
“Crazy, right? That’s her there, next to Bret, and that’s Seth, Dante, and Brianna,” Josh tells me, pointing each of them out. They all smile and wave, not an iota of recognition in their eyes. My L.A. friends. I can picture all of them at the birthday dinner Bret planned for me the night before everything changed. “The guy on the other end is my buddy, Derrick.”
“You guys should sit!” Kirby chirps. “Here, take my seat. Seth, scoot down.”
Josh lifts my backpack up and over his head. As I watch his tanned biceps contract, my stomach flutters. Suddenly, all I can think about is kissing him. Running my hands through his hair, feeling his chest against mine. As I follow him to our seats, my eyes drop to the waistband of his jeans. Boxers with little red reindeer peek out beneath his T-shirt, which is lifted slightly from his arms being raised overhead. His back is a shade lighter than his arms are, but his muscles are no less pronounced. Is his butt naturally that perfect or did he work for that? I’m so distracted by the thought that I don’t see Bret’s foot until I trip over it.
He catches me before I fall. “Careful there,” he says, steadying me.
“Hey, lemme get a picture,” Kirby says, waving her cell phone and splashing beer on Seth’s leg. “Squish together.”
“She’s a menace with that camera phone,” Bret whispers to me. As his breath hits my cheek, a lightning bolt of realization rips through me.
I would have been here.
Even if our world hadn’t collided with a parallel world, I would have been sitting right here, in this very seat, with these people. I wouldn’t have come to L.A. for Josh, of course. I would’ve already been here for the movie, and I’d probably be at this game as Bret’s date. But I’d be sitting here either way. And thanks to Kirby from Boston, so would Josh.
We would have met regardless. Even without that astronomy class. Even without my parallel’s help. She got me to him sooner, but I would’ve found him on my own.
And then, a reality so clear it illuminates everything else.
I would’ve loved him either way.
Dr. Mann’s words echo in my head: Your path will change. Your destiny doesn’t. Suddenly, it all makes sense. The path doesn’t dictate the destination. There are detours to destiny, and sometimes that detour is a shortcut. But it’s more than that. Sitting here, in this seat, Bret on one side, Josh on the other—wedged between my past and my future—is exactly where I’m supposed to be. It doesn’t matter how I got here or where I’m going when I leave. The point is that I’m here. In this place, at this moment, with these people. The dots coming together so exquisitely, crystallizing into something greater than the sum of its parts. All of the past made whole in the present. The picture of my life more beautiful than I ever could’ve imagined.
More beautiful than I ever could’ve planned.
Le mathématicien. Quelle artiste.
“Look up,” Josh says, taking my hand in his. “Puts the night sky to shame, huh?” Above us, the sky is a swirl of breathtaking reds and oranges, like the inside of a candle flame.
“Wow,” I breathe. “It’s—”
Before I can finish my sentence, the coliseum begins to shake and tremble. Around us, people scream and scurry for cover. “EARTHQUAKE!” someone shouts.
I look over at Josh, and the world goes dark, then quiet. The shaking intensifies, then stops.
Out of the silence, I hear the sounds of a crowd cheering. A whistle blowing. People talking and laughing.
“Earth to Abby.”
At the sound of Bret’s voice, my eyes fly open. He’s smiling like nothing happened. “What was that?” I ask.
“You tell me,” he replies with a laugh. “You were sitting there with your eyes closed.”
I look past him to the crowd. Everyone is smiling and happy. No signs of an earthquake.
Could I have imagined it? I reach for Josh’s hand, clutching it with both of mine. “I just had the weirdest experience,” I begin, turning in my seat to face him. He’s looking at me in surprise.
“Uh-oh,” comes Bret’s voice. “Should I be jealous of the new guy?” I look from Josh to Bret, and it is at that moment that I realize that Bret is wearing a different shirt than he was five minutes ago. And I’m . . .
Holy shit.
Here with Bret. Not Josh.
“Hey, I don’t mind,” Josh says then, giving my fingers a squeeze. “It’s not every day I get to hold hands with a movie star.” He laughs and lets go.
No. Please, no.
I don’t know how I know, and I can’t explain how it could’ve happened, I just know that it has. As quickly as I lost my real life three months ago, I’ve gotten it back. The people sitting in this row are my cast mates. I live here, in Los Angeles, where these people think I’ve been shooting a movie since May.
I don’t go to Yale.
I’ve never met Michael.
I’ve never dated Josh.
I close my eyes. This isn’t happening. Please God, don’t let this be happening. Not when I just found my soulmate. Not when I just made things right.
Bret is quick to pick up my hand, pressing it between his palms.
“You okay?” he asks. “You look kind of shaken.”
Shaken. It’s a particularly fitting word, considering.
I open my eyes and look at him, and for a moment, yes, I am shaken. Unnerved by the notion of beginning again, alone in the knowledge of the ways things were. Of the way things should be.
But then, I look at Josh. And I remember.
More real than real.
I’m not alone. Josh is right here beside me. He doesn’t know what I know, but what I know is enough.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you first and most to the creator of the universe, the author and perfecter of every great idea, and to his son, for the gift I can never repay. I am blessed beyond measure.
Thank you also:
To Kristyn Keene at ICM, for finding me and reading my story and believing in it, even when there was work to be done. Besides being one of the loveliest human beings I have ever encountered, I honestly believe that you are the best agent in this universe or any other, and I feel incredibly lucky to have you by my side.
To Sarah Landis at HarperTeen, for saying yes, and for getting it. From the beginning, you knew implicitly the kind of story I was trying to tell and where this peculiar not-quite-sci-fi book of mine fit into the crazy landscape of YA lit. And to the wonderful team at Harper, who gave me the rad cover I never get sick of looking at.
To Garry Hart and Jill Arthur, for seeing the promise in my complicated concept back when it was a TV pilot, and to the television networks that passed on making Parallel into a TV show, which is the reason it became a book.
To my L.A. family—Sarah, Ryan, Suzanne, Brian, Mia, Francois, Katherine, Jay, Cat, Alan, Kelli, and Matt—you’ve inspired me and challenged me and taught me the meaning of grace, and to my women’s discipleship group who prayed for a sense of urgency when I couldn’t get my ass in gear to write.
To Tyler, for reading every single draft of this book, even the crappy ones, and for fixing my ellipses and mocking my improper use of quotation marks and pointing out every annoying “and yet” and for always using correct syntax in our g-chats. But thank you most of all for being real and true and you. This book and my life are better because of the part you’ve played in shaping them.
To Rachel, for practically writing the query letter I never actually sent because your blog roll had already done all the work for me (and, on that note, for giving new meaning to the phrase small world). The only thing that would make me love you more is if you moved to L.A. so we could hang out all the time and do yoga and drink green smoothies and procrastinate about the books we’re supposed to be writing.
To my early readers and dear friends Bobbi Shiflett, Lindsey Mann, and Amy Carter, for your encouragement and feedback.
To SK, for being the prototype of Caitlin, which made her so easy to write.
Last, but certainly not least, to my family.
To Mom and Dad, for so many things—your love, your faith, your wisdom—but most of all, your unceasing presence in my life. You’ve always been there, not just for me, but with me, reminding me that no matter what, you’re on my team. So much of who I am is because of who you both are. Plus, I like you better than I like most other people, so there’s that. And to Stacy, my best friend and my biggest supporter, the one person who never questioned my decision to quit my job to write (not even when I asked to borrow $300 to pay my electric bill), and to Gregg, for reading my blog when no one else was, and to Hannah, for helping me come up with character names when I was stuck.
To Donny, my husband and partner in all of this, thank you for taking this leap with me and for believing that it would bear fruit. The journey we are on together is the greatest adventure of my life, and I wouldn’t change a moment of it. I love you.
And, finally, to sweet Eliot Bea, my Lil Mil. Were it not for your unexpected conception, this book would not exist. You were my writing partner from page one. Thank you for teaching me to embrace the detour and for filling my life (and our house) with laughter and infectious joy.
Thanks dpgroup forum.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
LAUREN MILLER is an entertainment lawyer and television writer. She lives in Los Angeles with her husband and daughter. Visit her online at www.laurenmillerwrites.com.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.