So that’s it: This Aubrey won’t share the same memories of the past week. She won’t have slept with Kai or learned that Ethan was an ass. She won’t understand the loss Ilena’s feeling and therelief that Mallory is. But she knows about Jonah and the apparent separation. Though she has no memory of doing it, Ilena is glad that sometime in the past week, she must have told her friends. And Aubrey remembering means she was here—somehow she was here. They all must have been. It strikes her that they could write a damn good academic paper on the many-worlds theory.
Ilena assures Aubrey that she’ll be at AIM and returns to her text chain with Mallory, filling her in on Aubrey’s memories as well as the celebration at nine thirty, when trading begins on Wall Street. When AIM goes public.
Public, AIM’s going public. Problems and all. And not insubstantial ones. But for the first time in a long time, Ilena’s excited to fix them—provided the same thing hasn’t happened here. That thing being Grayson. He may be an arrogant manipulator, but that doesn’t mean he should die by nut cracker.
Ilena:Grayson. Do you know if he’s...
Mallory:Slithering around like the snake he is? Yes, and apparently I’ve taken a passive-aggressive approach. Since the outing, it appears we’ve been communicating solely through Noreen and Patrick.
Ilena:I’ll take passive-aggressive. Better than the alternative.
Mallory gives a thumbs-up. Followed with aDo you think she’s okay?
Ilena:Aubrey?
Mallory:Our Aubrey—both of our Aubreys. And us.
Ilena:Absolutely. No doubt whatsoever.
Mallory:You’re a good liar too. See you at AIM. One tiny benefit of not being pregnant...????
Into Ilena’s head comes the mimosas they faked at Grayson’s apartment. They have ruined the drink for her for a lifetime.
Mallory:On second thought, NO.
She sends a peach and a bell, and Ilena understands. Peach Bellini. That’s what it means to know someone for twenty-one years. The same amount of time she’s known Jonah. She turns off the lamp and grabs her purse. Then she trails a finger along the Coventry Gray wall that’s as perfect as she remembered.
She picks up cupcakes on the way, from the same bakery her father would frequent, the bakery whose box she was carrying the day Jonah held the subway for her. Still in business after all these years. Proof that good things can last.
A note in her phone lets her know that Jonah had checked in to the B&B four blocks from the apartment in Cambridge where they lived for most of their married life. They had snuck in once on their way home from work, back when they used to time their schedules to come home together. Through the B&B window, they saw the flickering flames in the fireplace, the table of charcuterie, the bottles of wine, and the cans of local beer. Jonah had grabbed her arm and whisked her inside before she knew what was happening. He’d started talking loudly about being famished from following the Free Trail all day. The clerk behind the desk with long, dark hair and a streak of white like a skunk’s running down one side politely corrected him with “Freedom Trail” and suggested he relax in front of the fire and enjoy the guests-only happy hour.
That Jonah is staying here fills her with hope. He’s not herefor the B&B. Jonah is viscerally repelled by grandmotherly vibes of frill and flowers. Which means he’s here because it reminds him of that night. Of who they used to be.
“May I help you?” a voice says.
Ilena turns to see the same clerk from all those years ago, her hair no longer streaked but fully white. If Ilena believed in signs, this would be one. And why shouldn’t she believe in signs after what she’s just experienced?
Ilena greets the clerk and explains she’s looking for a guest, her husband, and the woman cocks her head.
“That’s it!” the clerk says. “That’s why he looked so familiar. He was with you, and you—I hope it’s not inappropriate to say—cannot be forgotten.”
Ilena smiles politely as the clerk points to a bulletin board behind her. Thumbtacked to it are photographs beneath a handwritten note that says, “Crashers.”
Ilena grips the cupcake box as a baby-faced version of herself and Jonah stare back at her. “That’s been hanging here all this time?”
“You two gave us the idea,” the woman says.
“I’m sorry. We were young, and, well, we did know better.” She sets the box on the counter and reaches for her purse. “Let me make it right. We had two glasses each and—”
“A loaf of bread and a pound of that cheddar.”
A voice she would recognize in any universe.
“Gouda, I think,” Ilena says over the frenetic beating of her heart.
The clerk nods. “Women always remember better. It was definitely Gouda. Back then I took home the leftovers, and I hate cheddar. No more leftovers now. Lactose intolerant.”
Ilena again forces a smile before she returns to rummaging in her purse for her wallet.
