Quickly, before I can change my mind, I turn around and kiss him. Hard and fast on the mouth, sucking on his bottom lip, clinging on for desperate seconds before I have to let go, before I have to—
I pull away and step backwards, away from him, and then I’m standing in my room. My lungs burst with just those few steps.
Across the doorway, the garden glimmers in the dawn.
“Goodnight,” I say, even though no one is there.
Sunday 10 August
[Minus three hundred and forty-three]
A shaft of sunshine wakes me. My clock says it’s Sunday. My head aches. I swim slowly up through sleep, staring into the window-ivy, which is laced with dark matter, thinking about that universe-changing kiss. It was on my lips a few hours ago, but to Thomas, it never happened.
The past is permanent.
I roll over, struggling with philosophy and the weighed-down duvet.
Thomas is on the bed next to me. Whoa! I go from sleepy to wide awake at warp speed.
He’s still asleep, his breathing warm and heavy and metronome-even, and I watch him, watch the mouth that I’ve kissed. Multiple times now. Thomas Althorpe. Who said he liked me. Who I changed the universe with. Who’s in bed with me. Kind of.
He may have spent the night, but he’s fully dressed on top of the duvet. Even so, I’m alarmed: I stepped through negative energy to come back here. What world have I fast-forwarded us into?
I run my tongue round my mouth and huff a little air at Umlaut to check for morning breath. The kitten is a good sign. How can a universe where he’s back be bad? Then I put my hand on Thomas’s arm and shake him.
“Thomas,” I hiss. “Thomas, wake up.”
He blinks awake, his face half-mushed into my pillow. Seeing him without his glasses it’s like sharing a secret.
“Hey.” Sleepily, he wriggles, closing his eyes again. A heavy arm is draped over me and I’m a bear tucked up for autumn.
“Hi,” I whisper, snuggling myself into his warmth. It’s fine. There’s an entire duvet between us. “Do you, um, do you remember what happened?”
“Mmm, must’ve fallen asleep,” Thomas mumbles into the pillow.
“Yes. But. When.”
“Was up early.” He yawns. “Choux pastry practice. Saw your light on and thought”—rawr, another yawn—“I’d say hello. But you were asleep and then Ned came home and passed out on the grass right outside the kitchen door. Didn’t want to risk climbing over him. Bed looked comfortable.”
“It’s okay,” I squeak, trying to talk out of the corner of my mouth so I don’t breathe on him. Jason and I never spent the night, or even fell asleep together. I’ve never woken up with anyone before, what if I’m a wildebeest? I shouldn’t speak. But I want to find out what happened between hanging out in the garden on Friday, and him falling asleep in my room just now. I’ve hopped about in spacetime, skipped an entire day.
“Did I see you at the Book Barn yesterday? My mind’s gone blank.”
“Mmmm,” Thomas says noncommittally, and shivers.
“Are you cold? Get in,” I say, without thinking.
“I smell like a monkey cage.” But he’s already rolling off the bed and clambering under the duvet with me.
Uh-oh.
Serious uh-oh, because Thomas on my bed is one thing. It’s safe. It’s friends. We’ve been here a million times before. But underneath the duvet is arms and legs, skin on skin, warm sleepiness. I’m only wearing a T-shirt and underwear.
Atomic particles, on high alert.
“Hi,” he whispers into my mouth, his lips brushing against mine with each word. “I think we’ve got about fifteen minutes before Ned goes on the rampage.”
There’s no morning breath, just warmth and cinnamon cake, his mouth against mine.
And then it’s his hands underneath my T-shirt, cold on my warm back. Then it’s my legs tangled with his. Then it’s our bodies pressed together. Our mouths, pressed together.
My heart hammers, and I break away. Back and forth, up and down, happy and sad. I can’t keep track of where we are, how far I want to go. Last night was crazy intense, and now we’re here, a week later from a kiss that doesn’t exist—kissing like we’ve done a lot more than that. I want to live my life in the right order.
“Hi,” Thomas says again, pushing towards my mouth.
“Hello,” I respond formally, tucking my chin down like Umlaut, which makes him laugh.
“Okay. Back to sleep for you,” he says, lifting his arm and letting me burrow into him. I curl up, staring at the ceiling stars. The pattern is different.
When I stepped through the doorway, I changed something.
Above me, the stars start moving, spiraling open. Television fuzz. I’m not upset right now. I’m not lost, or sad, or lying. There’s no diary nearby. A glance at Thomas tells me he’s asleep. I clamber out from underneath the duvet, and Superman my hand to the stars. It’s going to hurt. But beam me up anyway, Scotty.
*
My body bursts apart, scattering particles across the sky.
*