On impulse, I flip the brochure over. There it is. Phelps Gate, according to the caption beneath the photo. In the photo, there is a student passing through the oversized archway—the same archway Michael walked through in my dream. Michael, a guy I’d never met before today. Michael, my boyfriend’s brother, a guy who just happens to go Yale, a place I’ve never visited and, before this moment, couldn’t have connected to a single piece of architecture. Yet somehow, I dreamed about him, standing behind this iconic gate.
My instinct is to doubt myself. Maybe the gate wasn’t this gate. Maybe the guy I saw wasn’t Michael. Because, really, how could it have been?
But it was.
I stare at the image, imagining myself walking through that gate and stepping into the campus beyond it. A thought pops into my head, strange and powerful: This is your destiny.
“I don’t believe in destiny,” I murmur, but this is a lie. I just never considered that mine could be anything other than what I planned.
I riffle through the college brochures until I find the most worn of the bunch, its purple corners bent and soft from use. “This is my destiny,” I repeat to its immutable cover, tracing the capital N with my finger. But my voice sounds flat and unconvincing.
I look back at the Yale brochure and make a decision. If they send a scout to the Head of the Hooch, I’ll talk to him. And if he tells me I should apply, I will.
I drag the email to my drafts box, just in case.
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 goo
d 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.
Parallel Page 31
