“This,” he says, whirling his laptop toward us, “allows us to engineer the experiment digitally first.”
Once it’s replicated in the program, we go through trial and error recreating the mechanics until his software tells us we have several unresolved issues. That isn’t news. There aren’t any updates to the original academic article either, so we’re going to have to find answers on our own.
William’s usual chipper demeanor becomes subdued. Lionel pulls his laptop closer.
“Okay,” he says, thinking. “It’s a long shot, but I’ll run it through a different program overnight to see if it can solve the incomplete equations.”
As it turns out, it cannot. Lionel’s laptop won’t turn on the next day, and we’re back to square one.
I really try not to stress.
It doesn’t help that Analiese pesters me with questions about William, but I can’t pretend like I’m clueless. She sees us hanging out together. So I continue to provide vague details to keep William off her radar and offer her other noteworthy reporting topics, like the gala. That’s not the angle she wants, however, so I become an expert at changing the subject whenever William does come up.
After I leave my scheduled library hour with Analiese on Saturday, I head toward my dad’s favorite hiking trail with his journal tucked in my jacket pocket. The climb is memorized in mysoul, a steady incline with healthy switchbacks and a life-altering lake view framed by the majestic Adirondacks. His place reserved for thinking. It might serve me now.
Glimpses of the changing season unfurl before me. There’s a loamy aroma of balsam hanging in the chilled air mixed with the earthy breath from the conifer trees, which transforms into the rich scent of clay and brittle leaf dust as I enter the surrounding forest. Cheerful warbling sings from the treetops and peters out when a flock of birds take flight. Leaves have deepened and darkened in their autumnal hues, shades of ripe plum and glistening ruby and golden mango.
I’m creating a mental checklist of what we’ll need to do for the gala—preparing alumni invitations and seeking community sponsorships—so it takes me a second to realize someone’s calling my name. The crunch of dry leaves brings me back to earth as I turn and find William jogging toward me.
He’s out of breath when he catches up. “Might I join you?”
My skin tingles, hyperaware of his presence. “Of course.”
He smiles in response as we begin our ascent. Neither one of us speaks for the first few minutes, but it’s not a clumsy silence. Reflective, maybe. Occasionally an Ivernia student will pass us jogging down, waving as they go. William eagerly returns the gesture. Otherwise, he clasps his hands behind his back as he walks, posture immaculately straight. He offers me his arm when there’s a mangled root in our path, and, heart clamoring, I accept his gesture.
Whenever I attempt to pick up our pace, he slows. I don’t knowif this is intentional, but it takes us forever to reach the summit. William pauses to admire a bramble or spiderweb or an impressively wide elm tree. After a while I view it through his eyes, all of this enthralling and lustrous, which is why I can’t find it in me to tell him he’s spent two minutes admiring a weed.
“This is different from London, huh?”
We’ve reached the smooth surface of the overlook. It’s a rite of passage to take a photo here to prove you’ve made it, but also because the view is unbelievable. Below us, the lake glitters as its surface shifts in the breeze. The treetops are a gradient of warm color.
His gaze tips in my direction. “It is its own wonder.”
And I melt a little. Because I feel that, too.
“I’ve found myself wanting to write to Caroline this week. About you and Lionel and even Sumner, about my studies and the world’s impressive advancements.” A veil of sadness falls over him. “And then I realized I cannot.”
I’m not sure how to fully express a similar feeling, one where I also ache to talk to someone who is no longer here.
“Do you suspect they believe I’ve disappeared?” he goes on.
A tug of empathy ushers me to provide him some comfort, even if it’s not guaranteed. “There’s the many-worlds theory of alternate universes,” I say, hearing my dad’s words come back to me now. “We could be living different lives in other realities. A copy of us in a different setting, different circumstances. Nothing’s proven, of course. But…”
William seems to understand. “Your father discussed possibilities with you?”
“Sometimes,” I admit. “I used to say,there’s another universe where you’re not sick. Let’s go to that one.And he’d gather his books, and we’d try to discover if it were possible. So I guess, in theory, we could say a trigger occurred, allowing two universes to intersect—like Lionel said. And maybe it’s what led you here. We can’t prove it right this second, other than the fact that youarehere, but we can’t prove it’s false either.”
He nods, taking this in. “You’re very intelligent.”
“You’re very complimentary,” I volley. “I’m sure you know that.”
“I speak the truth.”
“For better or worse,” I say, remembering the fat lip Montfort gave him. “Have you always been like that?”
“People should say what they mean. There’s risk in possessing a straightforward nature, but I find honesty breaks down barriers. Caroline taught me that.” His mouth splits into a grin. “For instance, you are beautiful. I enjoy spending time with you. It’s my favorite part of the day.”
My pulse skitters. “That’s just flattery.”
