52
I’m lying on the floor, writing in the Alice Carter notebook, when the door swings open and Nick strides in, carrying brown bags that waft delicious smells into the flat: chicken and mashed potatoes.
How does he do that? Always get past the front door?
He smiles. “That’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”
I look back and watch him pass the fire and the large windows that look out on the street, where the last rays of sunset paint the shops and bustling pedestrians in an orange glow. He sets the bags on the shabby table in the kitchen, and my nerves rise as one last mental rehearsal of my speech plays in my mind.
“Got dinner,” he calls.
“Great, I’m famished.”
I push up and join him in the small kitchen.
He reaches into his pocket, and my heart stops.
His fingers fumble for something. He looks up, grinning. His hand comes out . . . with his cell phone.
“Listen to this.” He places the phone on the table and clicks play on a voice mail.
“Nick, it’s Oliver. I just got through with Grayson. It was incredible. He’s excited, Nick. It was the best two hours we’ve ever spent together. We talked about the foundation some—he’s got so many ideas, so much energy for it. And we talked about everything else, his mother, things we should have talked about a long, long time ago. I can’t tell you how glad I am that you called me this morning. I’m not a religious person. Never have been. But I believe things happen for a reason, and I think people come into our lives at the right time for the right reasons. I think that’s why we met, Nick. Anyway, I’m feeling sentimental, and I’ve been drinking.” Shaw laughs quietly. “So you might want to delete this. Give me a call right after you do.”
Nick glances up, his eyebrows raised.
“Amazing,” I say. This is the perfect segue. “It’s great news. And hopefully it’ll soften the blow when he hears I’ve said no to the biography.”
Nick begins unpacking the takeout. “So you’ve decided.”
“I have. Alice Carter. I’m going to pursue her. My dream.”
I pace behind the table, my hands shaking. I stuff them into my pajama pant pockets to hide them—or am I subliminally trying to remove any targets for expensive metallic devices that hold precious gemstones? I imagine I look like a mental patient with my arms strapped to my waist. Despite that, I try to make my voice normal. “I’ve been doing some figuring all day. Meetings and such. Trying to get my affairs in order.”
He looks up from the bags. “Really? Me too.”
Oh no.
“Also,” he says, unwrapping a side of mashed potatoes that I can’t smell, I’m so nervous. “I talked to Yul. He’s remembered a little more. I told him I wanted to get the four of us together. I’ll see him when I go back to San Francisco to pack my things for the movers.”
Pack my things for the movers.
“I’m moving too,” I blurt out, an act of desperation. I nod. “My mum owns the flat. She’ll have to let it to someone else—someone who can actually pay the rent.” I manage a weak smile. “I’ll be pretty strapped while I finish the first Alice novel. Will take some time. I’m in such a transition period. Lot of moving pieces. Will be hectic for a bit. So many decisions. Can’t imagine making one more, not a single one. My mind’s about to explode as it is.”
I wait.
Seconds tick by. All the food’s out now. Mashed potatoes, carrots, and chicken.
“Do you want to wait?”
“Waiting is good, I think.” The words come out harsh, defensive. I try to soften my tone, appear casual. “For some things. Gotta wait until the time is right. Doesn’t mean you’re saying no.”
“I hope not.”
“I’m not.”
“Right.” He glances around. “Well, I could put it in the oven.”
Is he crazy? “Why would you do that?”
“To keep it warm.”
I stare at him.
He shrugs. “I can’t eat cold chicken.”
“Oh.” Dinner. He’s talking about waiting on dinner. I take my hands out of my pants, freeing myself, trying to look less like the mental patient I seem to be at the moment. “Well . . . we can eat now. Certainly no problem with that.”
We sit, and he digs in. He must not have eaten all day. I pick at the chicken and roll a few carrots around my plate, unable to eat.
He motions to the living room. “Seems like you’ve got a good start on Alice. How long do you think for the first novel?”
“Hard to say. Inspiration keeps its own schedule. Maybe a year. Maybe more.”
“Your mom owns the flat?”
“Yep. I saw an estate agent today, wanted to get her some options. He says the flat will fetch a good sum. That will last her a while, maybe to her retirement. Letting it is also a good option, but she’ll have to pay a management fee, and there’s a bit of uncertainty there. The London market’s a madhouse. Flat next door just sold—unsolicited, in fact. Bloody foreigners. They’re buying up every square inch of London. Heard Norway bought a big chunk of Mayfair the other day, Savile Row included. Pretty soon there won’t be any Londoners left in London.”
“Everybody’s looking for alternative investments. That’s been the topic of my day, in fact. I’ve been thinking about what to do. About the Titan Foundation. In particular, I’ve asked myself what I can learn from what I saw in 2147.”
That sounds like it could be working up to—
“Human nature.”
I put my fork down. “Human nature?”
“That’s what they missed, the Titans. Nicholas said it to me a few times. It might have been the most honest thing he said to me. All the Titan Marvels, all their technology, they just sped up the world. But they didn’t solve our real problem: human nature. They didn’t make humanity kinder or more understanding. They didn’t make us more accepting. Didn’t inherently change what’s inside us. That’s the great challenge. That’s what they should have been working on. Not technology, or innovation, or construction projects. I think the great work left to do is about changing how we treat each other. That’s what’s been missing in my life, that kind of challenge. That’s why I was so unhappy.” He looks right in my eyes. “Well, half of it. That’s what I realized in 2147. Anyway, changing human nature. That’s what I want to work on.”
“How?”
“I haven’t quite figured that out yet. Been thinking about it all day.”
My nerves have settled a bit, and I can’t resist having a bit of fun with him.
“I actually know of a technology that addresses human nature, nurtures understanding, enhances compassion—some of those very issues you cited, Mr. Stone.”
“Yeah?”
“It’s an ancient technology.”
“Ancient?”
“And incredibly powerful. It has the ability to instantly transport people—en masse, by the millions and billions at a time—to other worlds, where they learn from people strangely like them. They make revelations they carry back to their own lives. Learn skills. Gain inspiration to make change on a global scale.”
“Cost?” he asks, the start of a smile forming on his lips.
“Minimal. No infrastructure needed.”
“Sounds too good to be true.”
“Wrong. It’s already here.” I walk to my bookshelf, pull a paperback off. “Books.”
“Books?”
“That’s right.”
“I could get behind that,” he says, leaning back in the chair. “It’s actually an interesting idea: writing a book about what happened to us in 2147 and releasing it to give people something to think about. That’s a venture I wouldn’t mind investing in.”
“That . . . would be interesting.”
“And,” he says, “it could give you working capital—without selling or letting this cozy little flat.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Are you negotiating with me?”
He laughs out loud. “I am. This could be the best investment I’ve made in some time. But you know, we’d have to work closely on this. It would be half my story, half yours. You’d have to help me with my part.”
“I might be willing to do that.”
“Since we’d be working together so much, I would need to be close by. Say, next door.”
My jaw drops. “You didn’t.”
“ ‘Bloody foreign investors,’ ” he says, mimicking me.
I shake my head, embarrassed.
“I meant what I said this morning, Harper. I’m serious about seeing where things go with us. If you’re not ready, I’ll stay in San Francisco. But if you are, I’ll be next door. That wall doesn’t have to come down any time soon. Or ever, if you don’t want it to.”
I nod. I do want that wall to come down. At some point. I know it came down in the other world, so it’s possible here.
We talk about that, the book we’ll write together, and the future for a few hours, the fire crackling in the living room that’s littered with construction paper, drawings, and worn notebooks.
Through the tall windows, the first snow of winter is beginning to fall, and bundled-up people are hurrying home under the yellow glow of streetlamps.
When the dinner is half gone, we wrap up the leftovers, place them in the fridge for tomorrow, stoke the fire for the night, and head to the bedroom.
For the first time since I can remember, I’m not the least bit worried about the future.