Don't You Wish

by Roxanne St Claire

  He nuzzles into my ear. “One-four-three, Annie.”

  “One-four-three,” I repeat in a whisper.

  “And four isn’t ‘like.’ ”

  Oh. I close my eyes as he puts a gentle kiss on my lips, so softly, I barely feel more than a breath.

  And then he’s stepping away, his face blurry through my tears. I stand there for a minute, watching the red Jeep Wrangler drive off before I jog toward the plane and up the stairs to board.

  Then I turn to take one more look at Charlie Zelinsky, the boy with the heart of gold. He sticks his hand out the window of the Jeep, and even from fifty yards away, I can see him hold up one finger, then four, then three.

  And four isn’t “like.”

  I love you, too, Charlie.

  “You’ve never seen anything like this, Frank. It’s a freaking gold mine.”

  At the words uttered by my father, I turn to see him in the pilot’s seat, a cell phone in one hand and the mirror in the other.

  “We could put this in every clinic in the country and make a fortune. It’s like magic. You just look better, damn near perfect.”

  I feel the hair on the back of my neck rise, hating him for seeing Charlie’s effort as something commercial. It’s my passport back to my real life.

  “I’ll take that,” I say to him.

  He shoots me a look. “Sit down and buckle up, Ayla. This thing is mine.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  One thing I learn about Jim Monroe on the flight to Pittsburgh: He gets what he wants. Oh, and he’s a really good pilot, but the flight is bumpy, so we don’t talk much. When we land, he refuses to give up the mirror, and I give up the fight, planning to get it back from him later. At least he’s letting me use the limo while he’s in his meetings, so I know exactly where I’m going to start.

  Rolling Rock Road.

  Everything looks pretty much the same in this universe. Dreary and gray, as the ’burgh often is, weathered and blue-collar in parts, a chill in the air, some potholes in the roads. The 1950s houses and nearly bare oak trees all seem so lackluster after Miami. There’s no vibrancy in this town, no sizzling culture, no over-the-top cruise ships, no stately palms, and no heartbreakingly blue skies.

  And there’s no Charlie.

  I’m clutching the buttery leather seat as the limo turns the corner to Rolling Rock Road, and I peer down the hill, a wave of familiar longing washing over me as the memories do.

  I’ve given the driver my old address, but as he pulls up to 4628 Rolling Rock, I have to look hard to be sure it’s my house. It’s painted a soft yellow, and the windows are different. There are flowers everywhere, and two giant oak trees that were never there in my universe.

  But the general size and shape is the same, including a little dormer upstairs that I know makes a really awesome fort, and the window on the first floor looking out to the side is in a pretty snazzy girl’s bedroom. Not turquoise, lime green, and chocolate, but mine.

  As we slow to a stop, I notice that the garage door is open and a woman in a pink suit is walking out to the driveway. She’s looking up the street when her attention lands on the limo.

  She looks so familiar, but I can’t quite place her. Then another person runs into the driveway, and I almost scream.

  Lizzie! So that’s her mom, who looks totally different—brunette, slender, and fit. Lizzie and her mom live in my old house!

  I tap on the privacy screen, not giving myself a moment to think this through. “Stop now,” I tell the driver. “I’m getting out.”

  He brings the limo to a halt, and I can see the disbelief on Lizzie’s face. Limos don’t cruise Rolling Rock Road in any universe.

  I grab the door before the driver can even get around to help me.

  “Do you think the girls sent a surprise limo for the shower?” I hear Lizzie ask her mom.

  “Or we just won Publishers Clearing House.”

  “Neither,” I say as I climb out. “I came to find Lizzie.”

  Lizzie takes a step forward, her mouth in a little O shape, her forehead all squished up like she gets when she totally doesn’t understand something.

  “Do I know … Holy guacamole! You’re the girl from Florida on Facebook. Ayla?”

  I beam at her, ridiculously happy she recognizes me. “My dad had to come to Pittsburgh on business, so I decided to join him and, you know, check it out.” I’m walking toward her, my arms aching to hug her and do our little dance of joy after we’ve been apart for a while.

  But she doesn’t exactly look joyous. “How’d you find me?”

  “Lizzie, you didn’t put your address on Facebook, did you?” her mother asks, equally skeptical about my arrival.

  “No, no,” I assure them both. “I just … have this really amazing software”—called my life in another universe—“and, like I told you, I might be moving here. But I’m not a stalker or anything. I thought it would be fun to meet.”

  Lizzie gives me a shaky smile. “Yeah, it is. Um, Mom, this is Ayla.… ”

  “Monroe,” I supply, the name feeling so false on my lips. I reach my hand out to Lizzie’s mom. “It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Kauffman.”

  “About to be Mrs. Nutter,” Lizzie says brightly.

  I feign happy surprise. “Really? You’re getting married?”

  “Tomorrow,” she replies with a smile. “In fact, we’re on our way to a little wedding shower luncheon some friends are having for me. And we’re late.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “Too bad we can’t take that,” Lizzie says, pointing to the limo.

  “You can!” I almost grab her arm to pull her closer to the limo. “It’s mine for the day, and you are more than welcome to use it.”

  “That’s not necessary,” Ms. Kauffman says quickly. “My fiancé is on his way here to take us there.”

  Her fiancé. Mel Nutter. I have to see him. I have to. “Are you sure?” I ask them. “He can come, too.”

  “Mom!” Lizzie says. “We could arrive in style!”

  But Ms. K. just shakes her head, then points over my shoulder. “Here he is now.”

  The limo pulls up to give some room to the approaching car, and I realize my whole body is shaking a little as I turn to see the man climbing out of the driver’s seat. Please don’t be different, Dad. Please don’t be changed. Please be …

  Dad.

  Oh, he is! He really is. Okay, this universe has been a little kinder to his hair—or maybe Ms. Kauffman is a better haircutter than Mom—and he’s wearing contacts or had that eye surgery, because Mel Nutter is bat blind. And he definitely has more money and better taste in clothes—or he’s totally overdressing these days for RadioShack. Oh, that’s right. He’s an engineer in this universe.

  “I know I’m late, Barbara,” he says as he closes the door. “But you didn’t have to call a limo.”

  “That’s mine,” I say.

  Lizzie jumps in and makes the introductions, telling him I might be moving here, giving me a chance to shake his hand, too. He’s stronger, this new dad, maybe hitting the gym more or saying no to those Polish sausages he loves so much.

  Then he heads right to Barbara Kauffman and lays one right on her lips. “Hello, gorgeous.”

  Gorgeous? She isn’t … Well, she is also a vastly improved model. Lizzie, I’m happy to say, looks exactly the same. Freckled, pretty, grinning at her new dad.

  Dad.

  Jealously pinches, and I work it away. “I’m offering my limo, Mr. Nutter,” I say. “My father let me have it for the afternoon, and you are more than welcome to take it to the luncheon.”

  He shakes his hand and gives Lizzie a wink. “Well, la dee and la dah, the girls can go in a limousine. That’s very nice of you, young lady. What bank did your dad rob?”

  I laugh. “He owns Forever Flawless, the chain of walk-in cosmetic surgery clinics.”

  His whole face changes, and his mouth drops wide open. Oh, no! I instantly realize my mistake. He’s been in touch with
Mom. What if she told him what Jim Monroe does? He’s going to think that’s why I’m there. He’s going to know who I am.

  Slowly his gaze moves to Ms. Kauffman, and they share a look that includes matching shock and awe. She knows about my mom, too?

  I brace myself for the what-the-hell-are-you-doing-here attack, but both of them speak at the same time.

  “Forever Flawless?” their voices rise in unison.

  “Oh, my God, Mel. It’s like a sign from above,” Ms. Kauffman whispers from behind the hand that’s covering her mouth.

  “This can’t be happening,” he adds.

  When they both look at me, only one thought registers: They look too happy to be mad.

  “Are you serious?” Mel asks. “He owns Forever Flawless?”

  “He does.” My heart is almost back to normal. “Is that … a problem for you?”

  “A problem?” Ms. Kauffman is kind of hopping up and down in her pink high heels. “No, it’s an—”

  “An opportunity!” Mel says, that wild look in his eyes that I remember so well. “A golden, amazing, wonderful opportunity.”

  “Now, Mel,” Ms. Kauffman says, putting a hand on his arm. “This poor girl is going to think we’re crazy.”

  “We are,” Lizzie says, stepping into the fray. “Welcome to the Nutter-house, as we like to call it.”

  That’s what we called our family, I think with another twinge of envy. Okay, more than a twinge. I’m pretty twisted up with jealousy, even if that nickname came from another universe, but I manage a smile.

  “What’s the opportunity?” I ask.

  “Let’s take the limo,” Ms. Kauffman says. “And stop by Mel’s house on the way. Ayla can come with us.”

  Mel brightens, then shakes his head. “You can’t be late for your own wedding shower,” he says.

  “Seriously, Mom. Do we really want to drag Ayla to Dad’s house?” Lizzie argues.

  She calls him Dad? Already? “I’m game for anything,” I assure them. “What’s the big deal?”

  “I don’t care about being late,” Ms. K. insists. “They can’t have a wedding shower without me! I’m the bride. And this … this …” She gestures toward me. “Is too good to be true.”

  I’m totally confused and must look it, because Mel gives me a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “You thought you were taking a little tour of your new town,” he says. “And here we are dragging you into our adventure.”

  “What adventure?” If someone doesn’t clue me in, I’ll go crazy.

  “Ayla,” Lizzie says. “We’ve been trying to get to the top management of Forever Flawless for ages with an idea my about-to-be dad has to sell to their clinics.”

  An idea? I can’t help smiling at him. Some things never change, even across time and space. “What is it?”

  “It’s a—”

  “No.” Ms. K. cuts him off. “Let’s show it to her. Let her see for herself.”

  “Come on, Ayla,” he says, putting a friendly hand on my back. “Let’s go take a look.”

  “Thank you, Mr.—”

  “You can call me Mel. Heck, you can call me anything you want.”

  I know what I want to call him.

  Dad.

  I have a sneaking suspicion what this invention might be, but manage to tamp it down and talk to Lizzie in the limo.

  Mel lives a few miles away, and we pass South Hills High on the way there. It looks pretty much the same, white brick and jail-like, but Lizzie shows it off as though it’s the best high school in the world. Did I love it that much when I was here?

  “My mom let me cut today,” she tells me with her brown Lizzie eyes dancing as they always do. “Because of the wedding.” She makes a little “eek” sound and glances at Mel and her mom, who are cuddled in the corner of the back bench, whispering to each other in between asking me questions about my possible move to Pittsburgh.

  I’m just making stuff up when I answer, trying to act really happy, even though my dad is marrying my best friend’s mom. Because, inside, I’m not happy. I’m crazy with jealousy, my mind spinning with plans to get Mel to meet my mom in Miami and steal him away from Ms. Kauffman.

  But that’s wrong.

  So, I go along for the ride, resisting the urge to ask Mel a million questions like: Why did you let my mother get away?

  In a matter of minutes, we’re pulling up to a pretty nice two-story house in the next borough, set on a hill and surrounded by trees. Looks like Mel has more cash in this universe, just like his ex/other/former/better wife.

  “We’ll go through the garage,” he tells me, that bounce of excitement in his step that I remember so well.

  “Isn’t he great?” Lizzie whispers to me as we follow him.

  I give her a shaky smile. Yeah, he’s great. He’s my dad!

  But, then, I didn’t think he was so great all the time when I lived with him, did I? So maybe she deserves him. And I mean that in the nicest possible way. Maybe I just didn’t appreciate the old goof when I had him, and this is the universes’ (both or all of them) joke on me.

  “He seems really nice,” I say casually. “I guess you’re happy to have a dad.”

  “Oh, you have no idea.” She loops her hand through my arm, a move so natural it kind of takes my breath away. She’s affectionate like that, and I welcome the connection. “My mom has been single since I was two. I don’t even remember my real father. But this guy …” She nods toward Mel as he unlocks the side door into the garage. “He’s everything I ever wanted in a dad.”

  “Everything …,” I begin, but then I kind of freeze, staring at the garage.

  It’s spotless. I mean, it looks like the Clean House crew left about five minutes ago. Containers are stacked and labeled, tools are hung on a Peg-Board, the floor is so clean you could lick it.

  “It’s so neat.” I can’t keep the dismay and shock out of my voice.

  And disappointment. Why couldn’t he have been like that with us?

  “Mel’s a neat freak,” Ms. K. says, giving him an affectionate hug. “It’s going to be a challenge for us, but I’m changing my sloppy ways.”

  For some reason, this hurts more than anything. More than the wedding, more than Lizzie being my dad’s daughter. What did we do to Mel Nutter to turn him into a hoarder?

  I swallow that guilty thought and ask, “So, what did you want to show me?”

  “It’s in the basement,” Mel says. “C’mon down.” He opens a door that leads to the cellar, on the same level as the garage, like it is in many houses built on the side of hills. But this is no cellar. It’s not even fair to call this a finished basement.

  This is a game room, complete with pool table, bar, leather couches, and a massive flat-screen TV.

  “I think I could have some great parties down here,” Lizzie says.

  “So, you’re moving in here?”

  “Next week, after they’re officially married and back from the honeymoon. Who would want to live on Rolling Rock Road when we can move up to this?”

  “Now, Lizzie,” Ms. Kauffman says quietly. “For one thing, I doubt any of this is very impressive to a girl who arrives in her own limo. For another, money isn’t what makes a family happy.”

  You got that right. I smile at her and follow Mel around the corner to a separate room.

  “This is my work area,” he says, almost apologetically, holding up a hand before I enter. “So it’s not as pristine as the rest of my house.”

  Thank God, a glimmer of the man he once was. Maybe I’ll find a stray screwdriver that hasn’t been filed under S. Hopeful, I follow him in, then stop again.

  I knew it. I just knew it.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  “Wow,” I manage to say, the word sticking in my throat. “That’s amazing.”

  His prototype is way more sophisticated than the first one I saw. This mirror is much better quality than the one Mel made in the other universe, with no hot-wire mess coming out from the back, no red numbers stuck o
n 143.

  “Well, you’re already at your ideal weight and completely gorgeous,” Lizzie says, stepping next to me. “Look what happens when I stand in front of it.”

  I’m a little dizzy. A little breathless and wobbly and stupefied as I stand in front of the mirror. Waves of déjà vu roll over me, making me nauseous.

  “Isn’t there a computer or iPhone to, like, run it?” I ask.

  Mel looks surprised and impressed. “Good question, young lady. I have incorporated the computer into the mirror. Think of it as a network of circuitry that’s already in place. Very delicate, of course, but when we manufacture the real thing, we’ll make it sturdier.”

  “Looks pretty sturdy to me,” I say, especially compared to the one my mother destroyed with a magazine.

  “We call it the Dream Mirror,” Mel says. “But that’s just a working name. If one of these puppies goes into every Forever Flawless, they can call it anything they want.”

  “You see why we want your father’s wonderful company to look at this,” Ms. K. says excitedly, stepping beside Lizzie to see herself in the mirror. “I mean, if you can see what the results will be before you get plastic surgery, it’ll just make you want more. I mean, if you can be picture-perfect, then—”

  “That’s what you should call it,” I say. “Picture-Perfect.”

  They all just stare at me for a minute, then break into a chorus of hoots and hollers.

  “Yes!”

  “Oh, my God. Brilliant!”

  “I love it!”

  They’re all jumping up and down and excited, especially Mel, who might be neat in this universe, but he still isn’t cool. My heart is just floating and breaking at the same time, and all I want to do is throw my arms around him and call him Daddy.

  “Do you think your dad would like to see this?”

  “I’m sure he would,” I say without thinking. He’s already stolen Charlie’s mirror for the same reason. He’d positively blow a gasket over one this sophisticated-looking.

  “Can he look at it today?” Ms. K. asks. “I mean, we’re kind of busy tomorrow.”

  “I don’t know.” I consider that as they all stare at me expectantly.