“I get it,” I say. Because I do. Now it makes sense that if he gets me back, maybe that hurt won’t ever happen. We can create a different ending for ourselves. If I jumped time, as I suspect I did, I can go back and make different choices. But… “What if, like you said the other day, I get back and I don’t remember any of this?”
While I was spiraling, Drew circled around a display, getting lost behind hanging ornaments that appear to be melted down into wavy, pink swaying pieces affixed to the ceiling. When I join him, I notice he’s holding a black crystal skull as if at any moment, he’s going to give a Shakespearean soliloquy about time and fate and wanton bastards. Instead, all he says is, “I have to believe you will remember, because I won’t be able to forget.”
I let out the deepest exhale, allowing Drew’s reassuring words to sink in. He’s right. Whatever this is, it’s monumental. Maybe unprecedented. We may be the only two to ever navigate this, and that impression, regardless of timeline, won’t be easily erased. Drew’s spirit, both then and now, will stick with me. Somehow, I’m sure of that, and my heart pitches toward him.
He sets the skull back down with a thud that hurts my ears and draws my eyes. There, next to the skull, are a few smaller black beauties that jog my memory. The small card in front of them reads:Hematite stone and black obsidian.
“Those!” I shout without regard for the other customers across the store. The names are familiar.
I take one stone from Drew’s hand and cross to the wall by one of the display cases, which has a poster with descriptions on it. I read: “‘Obsidian is good for the Law of Attraction.’ Unhelpful, butokay. Not sure what that means. The other, hematite stone…clears your mind.”
Drew steps in beside me, and my mind really does clear for a second. If I tipped slightly to my left as my finger scanned over the lines of text, our shoulders would brush, our shirts would bunch. “‘Helps provide clarity in the face of confusion,’” we end up reciting in near-perfect unison.
“I’m pretty sure these are two of them,” I heave out. “I’m less confident about their shapes, but they’re small enough to fit under my pillow, which seems like a good sign.” My heart ticks into hyper, cheerful motion.
Then my phone cuts our outing short. Jerome, my night assistant, must’ve ratted me out, and now Jessalynn is in my ear demanding to know where I am, who I’m with, and when I’ll be back. I lie about two of the three.
When I slip my phone back into my pocket, I look at Drew, disappointed we won’t be able to collect the rest of the crystals today. “I wish I didn’t, but I have to go.”
“I understand,” he says. “We’ve got time.”
“Maybe. But I’m not exactly sure time is on my side.” I let out a rueful laugh that he matches. Then, his blue eyes land on mine, and he’s no longerlookingat me but ratherconsideringme. It’s in the soft set of his brow, and it sends a thrill through me.
Regardless of Drew’s forgiveness, I want so badly to turn back the clock, and these black stones might help me do that, so I hold tight to Drew’s firm belief. That at the end of this, I’ll return, I’ll remember, and I’ll do everything I can to ensure he and I don’t end up here like this: stilted semi-strangers clinging to hope while scouring a crystal shop for a lifeline.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Have you heard from CeeCee?I text Drew during a break at rehearsal for my special.
My email inbox floods daily, but all I do is scour it for CeeCee’s response, and I always come up empty. In my real timeline, hearing from CeeCee was a rarity until I became her mister of honor (out of sheer nepotism), and when I did hear from her, just seeing her contact pop up on my lock screen sucked all the energy out of me.
Now each notification ping is a tiny burst of hope that it’s her.
I’m let down every time.
When I don’t hear from Drew right away either, I decide to start drafting a second email to CeeCee on my walk to the refillable water station in the hallway outside the Forty-Second Street rehearsal studio we’re renting (and practically living in) until we move out to Brooklyn for tech:
CeeCee,
I know I was vague in my last message. Purposefully so. But I’m realizing now that maybe you thought that was someone trying to impersonate me. I swear, I’m not a rando fishing for your social security number or to harvestyour organs. Though, I suppose a rando fishing for your social security number and your organs might say that to throw you off their scent…
I guess you’ll have to trust me. Impossible, I’m sure, given I’ve sullied your name with my assholery.
Sorry about that.
Is this a terrible way to apologize for what I’ve put you through? Definitely. But I have no other way to contact you, and Iamsorry.
God, this is getting long, but what I need to say is: those crystals in the goody bag made me time travel.
That also sounds like something a scammer/organ harvester might say but—
“You’re phoning it in,” Harry says, stomping up to me in the hallway wearing an irremovable scowl.
His abrupt arrival causes my thumb to slip. I meant to save that message to drafts, but instead, I sent it out into the universe, unfinished, unedited.
Oh well. CeeCee’s probably not getting these anyway.
“Sorry, what?” When I look up, I notice Jessalynn is standing behind him, appearing both austere and apologetic. They unbutton their crimson, studded blazer and fold their arms across their chest. Feeling like Mom and Dad are about to ground me after finding gay porn on the family computer’s browser history, I slip my phone in my pocket and give them my attention even though I’m parched.
