Ilena groaned. “Could you have a more cliché pickup line?”
“Probably? If you give me the chance.”
Jonah was all about mindset and finding pleasure in everything. Alone, Ilena would breeze past the buskers in Harvard Square, but when Jonah was with her, he would stop and listen,really listen, not a polite pause and nod but staying through to the end of the song, two, three, tossing in tips or buying their homemade CD. He was the optimist to her realist, the rule bender to her follower, and he didn’t mind that Ilena was outspoken or dogged when she knew she was right, which she nearly always was. He was okay with that too. But he was also ambitious, loading down his schedule at MIT with extra classes and internships just like Ilena did at Harvard. He wanted a future. One that didn’t include a baby before they were even old enough to legally buy alcohol.
“I think that’s enough,” Mallory said as the timer went off and she picked up the pregnancy stick. “Twelve negative tests in a row. You’re just late.”
Ilena couldn’t let the relief take over yet. “But I’m never late.”
“There are some things even you can’t control, and that includes the expulsion of your uterine lining. Now, come on, let’s celebrate.”
“Thanks, Mal.” Ilena wanted to wrap her arms around her best friend and squeeze her tight. But she was still her mother’s daughter and had to wash her hands first.
“You’d do it for me.” Mallory scooped up the dozen pregnancy sticks and dropped them in the trash, not bothering to try to hide them with tissues like Ilena would have. “Of course, you’d have only had to sit through one test, not the entire inventory from CVS.” She winked, then said, “This calls for champagne!”
Ilena’s hand shot out and rested on Mallory’s forearm. “Wait.”
“No, for this, for our future staying intact, real champagne. None of that headache-inducing imitation crap that Jonah loves.”
“It’s not that.” Ilena looked at the trash, all those single lines on the plastic tests adding up to nothing. “It’s just, a part of me, a tiny part, but a part, is disappointed.”
Mallory stilled, then gently placed her hand on top of Ilena’s. “I know.”
They stayed that way, listening to the voices in the hallway making plans to study or get pizza or down Jell-O shots, having no idea that inside this bathroom, Ilena’s life had taken one path instead of another.
11
Mallory
Friday Afternoon
One DayAfterthe Outing
Mallory’s phone buzzes. Mid-stride, she swipes to switch from her search engine to her messages.
Ilena:You’re not in your office.
A question in statement form that makes the inherent judgment more pronounced.
Ilena:We need to talk.
Mallory’s grip on the soft-sided carrier tightens. She actually should be at the office by now. But her decidedly Barney-colored jumpsuit garners attention. In terms of evidence, the Koozie may be circumstantial, but if there was an outing here last night, she couldn’t very well show up in the same outfit. Especially the outfit that leaves the fading, though still visible, handprint on her arm for all to see.
After the car service had dropped Ilena and Aubrey off atAIM, Mallory continued on to “her” condo on the far side of Harvard Square. She entered with a level of trepidation, but the changes were more subtle than the ones at Grayson’s, less evocative of a personality adjustment and more in line with what she assumes are current trends. Capiz honeycomb chandelier instead of a linen drum pendant, absurdly bright colored tanks and blouses instead of sleek grays, whitewashed farmhouse floors instead of wide pine planks. Thankfully no evidence of another living being—not a partner, not a furry pet, not even a goldfish.
She hurriedly changed, leaving Harley in his carrier, unwilling to turn her well-manicured condo over to a dog. And yet as she began her walk to AIM, she realized that having him in the office wouldn’t be much better, especially since she’s the one who nixed the pets-in-the-office proposal a couple of years ago.
She texts Ilena anOnmy way. Traffictraversesuniverses!and slides her ringer off.
She increases her pace, resisting the aroma of coffee from two of her favorite shops and one she hasn’t seen before that’s trying a bit too hard with its 1980s decor. She longs to stop for a takeaway cup, rich and strong enough to make her dizzy, but between her phone and the furball, she doesn’t have enough hands.
She closes the tab onThe New York Times, which exists here too. But it matters less if this place has the same president and climate change and reality star scandals and more what this placeis.
She needs that coffee. She backtracks, crosses the street, and slips into the ’80s café, cringing at the “take one, leave one” neon plastic bracelets at the register.
When her order is ready, she clutches the cutesy Garfield mug and sits on a stool by the window, Harley at her feet. She starts by typing in “A place that is the same but different,” which leads her to “the weirdness of Austin” and “islands thatare really peninsulas” and “how to make your au pair feel at home,” but also to what had been rattling around in her brain since the three of them sat on Grayson’s couch, ten feet from his corpse, with memories of the lives they led that were slightly off from the ones they appeared to be in. She couldn’t remember the term, but now, here it is: parallel universes.
One of the top hits is a link to the movieSliding Doors, and it gives her an odd sort of comfort to know that not just the movie but Gwyneth exists here. (Sans Goop, which makes her an ideal asset to entice to AIM.)
