Parallel

12

HERE


FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 27, 2009

(the day after Thanksgiving)


“You owe me one,” Tyler says as soon as he opens his front door.

“Here,” I reply, handing him a plastic container of yesterday’s leftovers. I look past him into the house. “Where is he?”

“Basement.” He pulls open the blue cover and peers inside, surveying the contents. “I don’t see yams.”

“They’re at the bottom. Below the parsnips. How does he seem?”

Tyler plucks a green bean out of the container and pops it into his mouth. “Pissed as hell,” he replies, chomping on the bean. “So good luck with that.”

Tyler steps back to let me inside. His mom, a concert pianist with a penchant for bright colors and expensive kitsch, has painted each wall of the foyer a different shade of magenta. Randomly placed shelves display various treasures she’s acquired over the years, only some of which are wall-appropriate. A hand-painted mask with a beaklike nose stares down at me menacingly.

“So that’s why you were freezing him out?” Tyler asks. “You were screwing his brother?”

“I’m not screwing him,” I say pointedly. “And I didn’t know they were brothers.”

“Why didn’t you just break up with him like a normal person?” Tyler asks.

“It’s complicated.”

“Whose fault is that?”

“I thought you were staying out of it?” I shrug out of my sweater and hang it on the banister. There are sweat stains on my T-shirt. Why am I so nervous? This seemed like a good idea when I orchestrated it during this morning’s six-mile sprint through my neighborhood. Having Tyler invite Josh over, pretending to just show up. It seemed like a brilliant plan. Now I’m thinking the endorphins may have led me astray, considering the guy I’m about to ambush promptly hung up on me when I called him last night.

At least things with Michael are okay, if our sunrise drive to the airport was any indication. He was supposed to be in Boston with his high school friends until late Sunday night, but he told me he’s taking an earlier train so we can go to dinner when I get back to New Haven.

“Should I stay up here?” Tyler asks, mouth full. He’s using his index finger to shovel broccoli casserole into his mouth.

“No. We want him to think I just dropped by, remember? If you stay up here, it’ll look planned.”

“Whatever. Either way, I’ve committed a major man-code violation. Luring him over here with PS3 so that his heartless ex-girlfriend can ambush him?” Tyler shakes his head. “I’m ashamed of myself.” He drags his finger back through the broccoli. “Then again, I’ll do pretty much anything for your mom’s leftovers.”

“What if he won’t talk to me?” I ask.

“I’d be more worried about what you’re gonna say if he will,” Tyler replies. “You gave the guy the deep freeze, then showed up on his front porch with his brother’s tongue down your throat.”

“It was unintentional,” I insist.

“If you say so,” he says. “How’s Caitlin?”

“She’s good,” I tell him. “You should call her.”

“Yeah, maybe,” he says. But I know he won’t. It’s hard to know how to feel about it, especially since neither of them seems unhappy about how things ended up. Tyler has a new girlfriend at Michigan that he’s crazy about, and Caitlin can’t stop talking about the guy she met last week at STARRY, Yale’s astronomy club, who’s probably just a Ben replacement but a welcome one. Who knows, maybe Caitlin’s right. Maybe it’s better this way, maybe Caitlin and Tyler weren’t meant to be after all. I’m not sure I buy it—Tyler’s girlfriend calls her girl parts “the V-train” and Caitlin’s Astronomy Boy wears multiple shirts with popped collars (all pastel and all polo and all at the same time)—but I beat myself up less if I pretend that I do.

“Ilana’s in town,” Tyler says then. “Visiting her parents for Thanksgiving. I ran into her yesterday at a gas station.”

“How’s she doing?”

“Pretty well, I think,” he replies. “Better.” My spirits lift just a little. “She told me to thank you for the journal you sent,” he says. “She said she’s been writing in it every day.”

With all the drama of Halloween and its aftermath, I’d forgotten I’d sent it. I found it at a bookstore off campus, misshelved in the religion section, wedged between Kempis and Kierkegaard. It was pink, Ilana’s favorite color, and had the word REMEMBER imprinted on the cover. I sent it with a purple pen and a note telling her that no matter what her doctors were saying, she shouldn’t be discouraged. There are always anomalies.

“Think she’d mind if I stopped by to see her while she’s here?” I ask him.

“I think she’d love it,” Tyler replies. “But seriously? You and Ilana?”

“We have more in common than you’d think,” I say, and smile.

I follow Tyler down the basement stairs. Josh is muttering angrily at the TV screen, immersed in a game of Street Fighter. He doesn’t see me at first, giving me thirty unadulterated seconds to assess. Bags under his eyes. Bedhead hair. The makings of a scruffy straw-colored beard.

He looks like hell. But even unshowered and unshaven and unrested, he’s cute. Cuter now, like this, than he ever was in my head. I feel my pulse quicken just looking at him. Get a grip, Abby.

Tyler looks at me, waiting for me to say something. “Hey, Josh,” I offer. Josh’s head jerks up at the sound.

“What are you doing here?”

“Uh, I—”

“She brought me Thanksgiving leftovers,” Tyler interjects, holding up the half-eaten container.

“I did! Leftovers.” I bob my head for emphasis.

Josh tosses the controller on the couch and stands up. “I should probably take off,” he tells us, not looking at me. “I told Martin I’d help him with something.”

This is most definitely a lie.

“Can we talk?” These words fly out, followed by a rambling flurry of unnecessary explanation. “I know you hung up on me last night, which I guess means you don’t want to talk to me, but I really want you to. You don’t have to, of course. It’s not like you owe me anything. But I hate the way we left things yesterday, and I thought that maybe if we could just talk . . .” I trail off, imploring eyes locked on his flat gaze.

“You want to talk.” He says this like it’s a joke, his words laced with irony.

“Yes. Please?”

He eyes me, unblinking. I blush under the weight of his stare. “Okay,” he says finally. His shoulders rise and fall in a dismissive shrug. “Let’s talk.”

“Should I go upstairs?” Tyler asks, a deviled egg in each cheek.

I look at Josh. “Are you up for a walk?” He doesn’t respond but reaches for the maroon fleece slung over the arm of the couch. There’s an oar and the words USC CREW stitched in golden thread on the lapel.

“You kids have fun,” Tyler says, plopping down on the couch. “I may be in a food coma when you get back. Don’t wake me.”

Josh follows me upstairs and out the front door. No particular route in mind, I just set off down the street, which is still wet from last night’s rain.

Josh falls into step beside me. When I look over at him, he’s staring straight ahead, his expression blank. Totally unreadable. Is he always like this? I wish I knew him well enough to know. All I have are a couple of months’ worth of year-old memories that aren’t even mine.

We’re halfway down the block before I realize I left my sweater inside. I wasn’t cold until I realized it, but now I’m freezing. Josh sees me shivering and unzips his fleece.

“Here,” he says, handing it to me. It’s the first word spoken since we left the basement. I shake my head in protest.

“Keep it,” I insist. “I don’t want you to be cold.” He ignores me, draping the fleece around my shoulders. “But I’m the bad guy here,” I point out. “The bad guy doesn’t deserve to be warm.”

“This is true.” There’s the slightest hint of humor in his voice. I run with it. It’s risky, but it’s all I’ve got.

“I mean, come on,” I joke, “the girl who shows up at your house on Thanksgiving to pick up your brother certainly doesn’t deserve to wear your jacket.”

His face hardens. Okay, so we’re not quite to the we-can-laugh-about-this stage yet.

“So he’s the reason you just disappeared?” he asks. “Why didn’t you just tell me the truth?”

“I’m so sorry. So, so sorry.” He doesn’t respond. “I don’t expect you to forgive me, but it’d be really great if you would.”

Josh just looks at me. “That’s it? That’s your apology?”

I nod weakly, nearly buckling under the weight of how much more he deserves. This kind, well-meaning guy has become collateral damage. His heart was broken, and he has no idea why. He’s telling himself that his ex-girlfriend simply fell for someone else, but that can’t be a satisfying explanation because that’s not the person he understood his ex-girlfriend to be. “I didn’t mean for this to happen,” I say softly. Even as I’m saying it, I know how lame it sounds.

“Which part?” he asks evenly. “The part where you acted like I didn’t exist? Or the part where I found out why?”

“I didn’t know,” I whisper, stung by his tone.

Josh stops walking. “You ‘didn’t know’ what, Abby? That Michael and I were related?” His voice is angry now. “Maybe not. But you sure as hell knew how you were treating me. Never mind that I was ready to transfer to be nearer to you. And you couldn’t even be bothered to pick up the freaking phone?”

I shake my head slowly, my eyes never leaving his. “No.” My voice is barely audible. “I didn’t know that, either.”

Confusion flashes across Josh’s face. “Okay, now I’m lost.”

I shouldn’t have said anything. I should’ve just let him hate me. Now he’s expecting an explanation, and I can’t give him one. He’ll think I’m crazy if I try.

I look away. A man in a stiff flannel shirt and work pants is listening to a football game on his front porch, smoking a cigarette. Somebody’s grandfather. I suddenly miss mine. I haven’t seen him since last Christmas, three days after I found out I’d booked the movie. He was so proud. “Gonna be a star,” he told me, not an ounce of doubt in his voice. I laughed when he said it, but he hadn’t meant it as a joke.

“Abby.” Josh’s voice cuts through the silence.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” I reply, my voice small. I watch as the old man puts out his cigarette and lights another one.

“Try me.”

Tell him.

I turn my head, meeting Josh’s gaze. Something in his eyes makes me think he might get it. But what if he doesn’t? What if he thinks I’m crazy, or worse, making it up?

“Just tell me the truth,” he says softly. “That’s all I want.”

I take a breath and exhale slowly. The truth.

“Something happened on my eighteenth birthday,” I begin, because it feels like the right place to start. “Something I still don’t completely understand. It has to do with the earthquake last year.”

“Your unfortunate twist of fate,” Josh says. His eyes dance a little, remembering the words he thinks I spoke. “The day we met.”

“Yes. Only . . .” I take another breath. “It wasn’t me you remember meeting that day.”

“It wasn’t you,” Josh repeats. He looks at me for a moment, then shakes his head, getting angry again. “What, you’re going to tell me you weren’t yourself that day? That the girl I fell in love with isn’t who you really are? That’s bullcrap, Abby.” His voices rises but stays steady. “Don’t tell me I don’t know you. I know you, and you know me.”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” I reply, feeling my own voice shake. “I’m saying that the girl you remember meeting literally wasn’t me.”

Josh stops walking. “What?”

I force myself to keep talking. “Do you remember Dr. Mann from astronomy?”

“Do I remember him? Of course I remember him, Abby.”

“Okay, well, he has this theory . . . about parallel worlds.”

“Cosmic entanglement,” Josh says. “I know.”

I stare at him. “You know about the theory.”

“Sure. The basics, anyway. I read Dr. Mann’s book when I signed up for his class. I mean, I’m not sure I believe it, but—”

“Believe it.” Without thinking, I grab his hand. “It happened. On my birthday.”

“What happened?”

“Our world collided with a parallel world. Became entangled with one. Everyone’s memories were erased, and our parallel selves started rewriting our pasts, but no one knows it. No one but me, anyway.” I hear myself, how utterly insane this all sounds, and I wonder if I’ve made a mistake. I back up a little, not wanting to leave anything out. “The parallel world is a year behind ours,” I explain. “Well, a year and a day, actually. The earthquake—well, that’s just it, it wasn’t an earthquake, it was a collision. And it didn’t happen here on September 8, 2008, it happened there. In the parallel world. We just remember it as though it happened here. It’s called—”

“Shared reality.” Josh is staring at me in wonder, but not disbelief. Hope bubbles up inside me. He doesn’t think I’m crazy.

“Right! But the thing is, it didn’t work like it was supposed to for me. I kept all my real memories, and I didn’t get a full set of new ones. My memories from the parallel world stop where my parallel’s stop, so I have a yearlong gap where everything from her version is just a blank. That’s why I didn’t know you and I were together. Why I—”

“Stop.”

I don’t hear him at first. “What?”

“I said stop.” He looks down at his hand, which I’m still holding. I start to let go, but he grabs it back. “Just so I’m clear, your explanation for your behavior for the past month is that there was a freaking cosmic collision? That altered the way we interact in time and space? And that you’re the only one who knows it happened? Abby . . .”

“I know. I know how crazy it sounds. But think about it, Josh.” I grip his hand, wanting so desperately to make him understand, to give him the peace he deserves. “Think about Abby,” I say softly. “The Abby you know. The Abby you love, and who loves you back. The Abby who stopped answering your calls out of the blue. The Abby who didn’t respond to a single email or text. Would she ever have done that to you?” My heart aches at the thought of what it must’ve been like for him, all that inexplicable silence. No explanation. No good-bye.

Subtly, almost imperceptibly, he shakes his head.

“She would never have done it, Josh. If I had known what was going on, I would never have done it. But it happened, and neither of us had any control over it, and you’re the innocent victim, and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” My voice breaks and I gasp for breath, my hand clutching his so tightly my fingers have started to cramp.

He looks down at the hand I’m holding. “You’re saying that everything I remember about our relationship is fiction?”

“Not fiction,” I reply. “Just not . . . what happened to us.” We both know there’s no distinction, not really.

He lets go of my hand. “No.” He shakes his head firmly. “No.”

The hope inside me recedes, like a wave at low tide.

“It sounds impossible,” I say. “It should be impossible. But it’s the truth, Josh. I promise you, it is.”

He’s quiet, his body angled away from me, and for a moment, I think he might walk away.

“Please,” I whisper. “Don’t go.”

“You don’t remember any of it?” he asks then, his voice incredulous and sad. “Our relationship, I mean. Nothing at all?”

“I remember some of it,” I say. “Our first date. The Georgia Fair. Everything that happened before November twenty-seventh of last year. That’s where my parallel’s memories stop.”

He’s still not looking at me, but I can see his tears spill over. He doesn’t even attempt to wipe them away. “What I feel . . . these aren’t someone else’s feelings, Abby. They can’t be. The way I love you . . .” His voice breaks. “Don’t tell me that’s not real.”

My insides squeeze and contract. “I don’t know what to say,” I say softly. “Other than I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” The tears that have clogged my throat and shaken my voice since this conversation began are flowing freely now. I choke back a sob.

“I am too,” he says sadly. He hesitates for a moment, then pulls me into a hug. “I believe you,” he whispers. I exhale and lean into him, letting the weight of my upper body fall against his chest. His neck, soapy and sweet, is warm on my forehead. The scent is both new and powerfully familiar, triggering the dozen or so memories I have of being this close to him. Sitting next to him on that swing in his neighborhood, the night before our first date. Holding hands at the planetarium two days later. His arm around me on the Ferris wheel. And my most recent one: leaning against a tree on the bank of the Chattahoochee, my head resting on his shoulder, watching the sunset after the Brookside crew picnic. I inhale deeply, allowing myself to imagine what those moments would have been like to live, since the memories of them, while specific and precise, are void of emotion and thus strikingly incomplete. My arms tighten around his neck. I don’t want to let go.

“Cosmic entanglement,” Josh says after a minute, his voice muffled against my hair. “Definitely not where I expected this conversation to go.” I smile, resting my ear against his chest. “Who else knows about it?” he asks.

“Only Caitlin,” I reply, distracted by the faint thump of his heartbeat, wondering what it would feel like beneath my palm. “Dr. Mann suspects, but we haven’t told him for sure.”

Josh pulls back and looks at me. “You haven’t told Michael?” I shake my head. “Why not?”

“I wasn’t sure he’d believe me if I did.”

“Do you . . .” His eyes drop to the pavement. “Love him?”

“I don’t know,” I admit. Josh turns and starts walking again. His brown eyes are heavy with hurt.

“It shouldn’t have happened like this,” I say lamely. “If I’d known about you . . . about us . . . if I’d had any idea that we were—” The words “in love” are stuck in my throat. We were in love. I shake my head, unable to finish. Josh takes my hand and squeezes it.

“So I should blame Thanksgiving, then,” he says.

I look at him. “What?”

“Last year,” he explains. “If you’d come over like you were supposed to, you and Michael would’ve met. Maybe things would’ve been different if you had.”

My rib cage contracts. There’s no “maybe” about it. If Michael had known who I was when we met at Yale, he would’ve expected me to remember him, and I would’ve played along, the way I did with everyone else that day. At the very least, he would’ve asked me about Josh. There’s no way we’d be dating right now if we’d met under those circumstances.

Thank God she didn’t go.

I think back, trying to remember what my parallel did instead, but can’t. My breath catches in my throat as I realize.

“Thanksgiving hasn’t happened yet,” I whisper.

It doesn’t register at first. Josh just looks at me. Then realization flashes in his eyes and he gets it. “It’s still possible,” he says. “She could still come by. For dessert, maybe.” His eyes are shining with hope and possibility. But there’s something else there, too.

Love.

Even now, after all that’s happened. It’s written so plainly on his face. It doesn’t matter to him that his memories aren’t real. His feelings haven’t changed.

He loves me.

“Fate could intervene,” he says then. His lips, chapped from the cold, curl in a tentative smile. “We could end up together after all.”

No! All the fears and anxieties I’ve been ignoring come rushing to the surface. If my parallel wants to be with Josh, she should be. If she decides to give their relationship another shot next fall when he tells her he’s willing to transfer, then great. I wish them the best. But here, in this world, I should get to decide who I end up with. And I choose Michael. He’s the one I’m supposed to be with. What I’m feeling in this moment doesn’t matter. In my head I know what’s true.

Then again, it’s not my head that’s the problem.

Unable to meet Josh’s gaze, I look past him to the wooden gazebo up ahead. My eyes wander down the hill to the swing at the lake’s edge, swaying in the afternoon breeze. Our swing. I blink, pushing the image of us on it from my mind. It’s not our swing. It’s theirs.

Memories are tricky little bastards.

“Come on,” Josh says, stepping onto the dirt.

“So how do you remember it?” I ask as we settle into the swing. “Last Thanksgiving, I mean. The last memory I have is from the night before.”

Josh’s expression darkens. “Michael acted like Michael.” He glances over at me. “However he is with you, he’s different with us. Ever since our dad died.” Josh looks out at the water. “Last Thanksgiving was a new low. He said some really awful things to Martin at the table, and my mom just let him.” What kind of things? I want to ask, but can’t. “That was it for me,” he says. “I didn’t want anything to do with him after that.” Josh looks over at me, his eyes sad. “In the driveway yesterday, with you . . . that was the first time I’d seen him in a year.”

“Some reunion,” is all I can muster.

We’re quiet for a long time, letting the wind, even colder coming off the water, rock us back and forth. I lean my head back against the cool wood, examining the muted gray of the sky. “I was in L.A. when the collision happened,” I say after a while. “Shooting a movie, actually.” I look over at Josh. “In the real version, I didn’t take that astronomy class with you. I took drama and ended up in L.A.” I look back up at the sky. “It seems so crazy to me now, my life out there. So far away.”

“I wonder if we would’ve met,” Josh says thoughtfully, pushing off the ground hard with his feet. “If you hadn’t been in my class last year. Maybe we would’ve run into each other at some coffee shop in Hollywood.”

I smile. “Maybe so.”

We’re swinging in earnest now, the old rusty chain clanking on its hook above our heads. “Aren’t you freezing?” I ask him, zipping his fleece up to my neck.

“Nope,” he says, pumping his legs to get us going higher.

“I don’t think this is the kind of swing you’re supposed to do that with,” I say, eyes on the clanging hook.

“I’m pretty sure you’re right,” he replies, pumping harder, his cheeks pink from the cold.

I giggle, pulling my knees up to my chest. A few seconds later, he does the same. We’re moving so fast that the swing jerks at each end, nearly knocking me off each time. I reach for the armrest.

“Wimp!” Josh shouts. “Where’s the Abby I know?”

We look at each other, and wonder.

Michael calls as I’m pulling into the garage.

“Hey,” I say, answering it. “How’s Boston?” From all the commotion in the background, I can tell he’s at a bar.

“Awesome!” he bellows. I wince and pull the phone away from my ear, noticing that my battery is almost dead. “We’re pre-partying at Sullivan’s Tap!”

“Tell Sullivan I said hi.”

“No, no!” he yells. “Sullivan isn’t a person. Sullivan’s Tap is the name of a bar near the Garden.”

“Yeah, I figured that. It was a joke.”

“Oh! Right.” Michael laughs. “So how are things down there?”

“Things are fine. I just miss you.” It’s only been seven hours since I dropped him off at the airport, but it feels like seven days. Hanging out with Josh was fun, but being with him has left me unsettled. All my parallel has to do is stop by his house tomorrow and my relationship with Michael will be over.

“I miss you, too.” Michael says. “I wish you were here.”

“Me, too,” I say, my throat suddenly tight.

“Carpenter!” I hear a male voice shout. “Car bombs. Pronto!”

“Call you tomorrow?” Michael asks.

“Sure,” I say, making the effort to sound upbeat. But he’s already gone.

My mom is sitting at the kitchen table, working a crossword puzzle, when I come in.

“Hi, honey,” she says. “How’d it go?”

“As well as it could have, I guess. Is there pie?”

“In the fridge,” she tells me, putting her pencil down. “So you got him to talk to you?”

“Yeah. We went for a walk.” I spot the pie behind a gallon of milk and pull both out of the refrigerator. My mom stares me down as I cut myself a slice.

“Mom. What?”

“Did you really not know that Michael was his brother?”

I contemplate continuing the truth trend, but know that will add a level of complexity to my life that I don’t need right now. “I really didn’t,” I tell her. “Since Michael never mentioned a brother, it honestly didn’t cross my mind that he might have one.”

“And you never thought to look up Josh’s brother when you got to school? Josh didn’t suggest it?”

“Josh asked me not to,” I tell her, with a hunch that this might be true.

“Not an especially good relationship, is it?” she muses, handing me a knife. I cut a hefty slice, then double it. It’s been a rough twenty-four hours. The familiar peppery pumpkin spice is instantly calming. I shove another forkful into my mouth. This is why they call them comfort foods.

“So what’d you think of Michael?” I ask with my mouth full, not sure I want to know the answer. Both of my parents were pretty quiet after he left last night.

“He seemed very confident,” she replies. “And he’s obviously very smart.” Confident? That’s like saying a girl has a good personality when asked how she looks.

“So you hated him.”

“We didn’t hate him! Don’t be silly.”

“But you like Josh better,” I say.

“We know Josh,” she replies. “We don’t really know Michael yet. But we’re looking forward to getting to know him.” She smiles.

Let’s hope you get the chance.

I’m about to bury my anxiety under another piece of pie when the doorbell rings.

“Sorry to just show up,” Josh says when I open the door. “I tried calling, but it went straight to voicemail.” He’s wearing the fleece I had on an hour ago, the collar flipped up around his neck. It smelled like him when I put it on . . . did it smell like me when I took it off? “Am I interrupting dinner?” he asks.

“Nope. I was just in the process of spoiling it.” I hold up the plate I’m still holding in my hand. “Want some?”

“Nah, I should get home. I just wanted to give you this.” He pulls his hand from his pocket, and Caitlin’s gold bracelet slips to the ground beneath his feet.

“Oh! Where’d you find it?”

“It was stuck to the sleeve of my fleece,” he tells me as he kneels to pick it up. I watch as he drapes the delicate gold chain across his left palm, then extends his hand up toward me.

Suddenly, swiftly, I am bowled over by memory. An image—this image—of Josh, kneeling in front of me, his left hand open and raised. Except, in my mind, the ground he’s kneeling on is a beach, and there isn’t a bracelet in his outstretched hand but a ring. And Josh, wearing khakis and a short-sleeved maroon polo shirt, looks different somehow, older. Why can’t I place when that was?

Because it isn’t a memory.

I grab the door frame to steady myself, my legs no longer sturdy beneath me. Why do I have a mental picture of Josh, down on one knee, holding a diamond ring? Where did that image come from? I wonder, but at the same time I know.

It came from the future. But whose?

“Abby? What’s wrong?”

Oh, nothing. I just pictured you proposing to me in elaborate detail, down to the precise shade of you shirt.

I feign calm and smile, taking the bracelet from his outstretched hand. “Josh to the rescue,” I tell him. “Caitlin would’ve killed me if I’d lost it.”

“No problem,” he says, getting to his feet. He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a folded postcard. “I also wanted to give you this.” He unfolds the postcard and hands it to me. On the front is Dali’s Persistence of Memory. The painting that brought my parents together. The only painting that survived when the surrealist wing at MoMa caught fire after the collision. A painting whose name perfectly describes what I’m living with now. I run my thumb over the slick surface of the glossy image, marveling at the coincidence and connectedness.

“Where did you get this?” I ask.

“You gave it to me,” he replies, not bothering with the us/them distinction. Something in his face tells me it’s a conscious choice. “We went to your mom’s Dali exhibit the night before you left for school,” he says. “We were on a tour, listening to the docent describe the surrealist view of the subconscious. ‘Dreams are more real than real,’ the woman said. Right after she said it, you leaned over and whispered, ‘We are more real than real.’”

“I did?” I whisper, even though it wasn’t me who said it. We both know that.

“That postcard was in my locker the next morning,” Josh says. “You must’ve gotten it in the gift store after the tour.” He reaches forward and flips it over in my hands. There, on the back, are my handwritten words. We are more real than real.

I just stare at the smudged ink, my throat too tight for an audible response. More real than real. Something inside me reaches out and grabs hold of the idea. Are there things that transcend our perception of them? Things that are true no matter what? If so, what does that mean for me and this boy I barely know but can’t stop thinking about, despite the fact that I’m supposed to be in love with his brother?

“I should probably get going,” I hear Josh say. “Early flight tomorrow.”

“You’re going back to L.A. already?”

“We play UCLA tomorrow,” he replies. “Big game.”

“Well, it was good to see you,” I say awkwardly, holding out the postcard. My hand trembles slightly. Why don’t I want him to leave?

“Keep it,” he replies. “To remember.” He smiles sadly. Without thinking, I throw my arms around his neck. At first, his body feels tense against mine, like he’s bracing against the hug. But then, the tension gives way and he hugs me back. Only for a few seconds, though. Then he pulls away. “Bye, Abby,” he says, turning to go. “Take care of yourself.”

“Do you think things happen for a reason?” I ask suddenly. Josh turns back around.

“Absolutely.”

“Do you believe in soulmates?”

“Ask me tomorrow,” he says. Then he turns and walks away.

At quarter past one, I’m still awake, waiting for the refuge of sleep. The moon is bright outside my window, casting its light inside my room.

I sigh, rolling over for what must be the ninetieth time since I got in bed, and repeat what I’ve been telling myself over and over again ever since Josh left. She’s not going to meet him. There’s nothing to worry about. She’s already told Josh she can’t make it. The day will come and go, and Michael will leave early Friday morning to fly up to Boston like he always does. Nothing will change. I tell myself these things and pretend to believe them, but I am afraid. I don’t want to lose Michael. Not now.

Lying on my side, my face inches from the Post-it note I stuck to my nightstand reminding me to “remember Thanksgiving” as soon as I wake up tomorrow, I say a silent prayer that my parallel’s holiday will happen exactly the way it’s supposed to. I imagine her at the table with my parents and grandparents, eating my grandma’s turkey. I imagine her in the kitchen with my mom, washing dishes at the sink. I imagine her on the couch with my grandfather, watching the black-and-white version of It’s a Wonderful Life, a movie I’ve seen so many times I can recite the entire thing by heart. I close my eyes, playing back my favorite scene.

George Bailey’s words echo in my mind as I finally drift off to sleep: What do you want? You want the moon? Just say the word and I’ll throw a lasso around it and pull it down. Hey. That’s a pretty good idea. I’ll give you the moon, Mary. Except it’s not Jimmy Stewart’s face I’m seeing behind my eyelids but Josh’s. And the name that echoes is my own.