Something in his expression closed off, and she realized there was a story there.
“I didn’t have the money for medical school, and I wanted to work with patients as soon as possible. Being a nurse puts you in the thick of things. You learn a lot, connect with people. More than doctors do sometimes. It felt like a good fit for me.”
“You being a nurse is the reason I bought the book.”
That clearly surprised him. “Why?”
“It was new and different. So many romance novels feature these Manly Men—with capital M’s—who are best friends with their gym and only have traditional-gender-role-approved Manly Man careers like contractor or FBI agent. Nurse was new and refreshing. It felt… real.”
Will didn’t respond to that. It was ironic, he thought bitterly, since real was the one thing he didn’t feel abouthimself at the moment. But also sweet, he had to admit. He liked that she admired his work. He had never been ashamed of being a nurse; it made him proud to have a career where he could help people every day. Still, hearing the admiration in her tone was a soothing balm over his beleaguered psyche. Dinner with her was normal enough. Conversation with her was deep enough. Enough to keep the questions at bay for a few minutes.
“Thanks for dinner,” Emmy said, rising to clear her plate and his. “You’re a pretty good cook.”
“When I have the time. Usually I’m too tired to make anything. I end up eating handfuls of granola and chasing it with a protein shake.”
Emmy shuddered, amusing him. “Tell you what, for as long as I’m here with you, I’ll take cooking duty when you’re too tired for it.”
“That would be… great. Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it. Least I can do, considering.”
He helped her clean up the dishes, then they went their separate ways. The questions started to leak back into his mind as he showered, brushed his teeth, and prepared for bed. By the time he was under the covers, his brain was spiraling out of control.
How was it he could sleep and dream when he wasn’t real? Did the author write his dreams? Were his subconscious fears fueled by whatever character development had been deemed necessary to propel the story along?
Praying for peace, Will swallowed the sleeping pills he’d picked up that morning, closed his eyes, and waited for unconsciousness.
Ten
Will was gone by the time Emmy blearily blinked her eyes open in the morning. She could hear the emptiness of the house, knew she was alone even before she wandered into the kitchen to prepare breakfast. It was insane that she found herself missing Will’s company, but she accepted that this was a natural result of becoming dependent on him. Not just that, she had to admit, but comfortable with him as well. She shoveled cereal in her mouth as she thought about her next steps.
She was worried about May. What was her sister doing right now? How long had Emmy been gone in her reality? Had she already been fired for missing work? Those questions were closely followed by an endless series of what-ifs, many of them involving scenarios in which she never found her way back to the real world. Emmy gulped coffee in the hopes that caffeine would ward off the headache she felt coming on. Then she pushed back from the table and made her way to the little office at the end of the hall.
Will’s computer was black and sleek. The tower hummed when she booted it up, and the keyboard immediately lit with a full spectrum of colors. He had carefully arranged speakers, and a chair that looked like one could live in it for days. Her temporary roommate was a gamer in his off hours. That much was clear. She typed in the password Will had given her. He, understandably enough, hadn’t wanted to buy her a computer when his functioned just fine. When the desktop appeared, she raised her eyebrow at theFull Metal Alchemistdesktop background. He had interesting taste. Emmy pulled up Google and typed her name into the search bar. She found plenty of information about The Emmys, something she was used to, but her social media profiles didn’t pop up. She tried again with her full name—Emmy Haruka Miura. There were some women named Emmy, some people with her middle and/or last name, but none that lived in Minnesota. Just to be sure, she googled May Naoko Miura. Sarah Chaya Tillman.
Nothing.
The Everett Hotel existed, but that didn’t help much. She didn’t have to call the front desk to confirm she did not work there in this world. Feeling desperate, she picked up her cell and dialed May’s number. She’d had the same number all through childhood, and at some point Emmy had memorized it, more through osmosis than any conscious effort. The phone rang once. Twice. Her free hand was squeezed into a tight fist, the nails digging into her palm.
“Hello?”
It was a woman’s voice, but not her sister’s. Still, she had to try.
“Hi… is May there?”
“I’m sorry?”
“I’m looking for May Miura. My sister.”
“Oh, I think you have the wrong number.”
Actually it’s the right number, Emmy thought as she apologized and hung up.Just the wrong reality.
She knew Sarah’s number as well, but accepted the futility of dialing it. Turning back to the computer, she searched for her new best friend, Lucy, the mechanical keyboard clacking loudly in the otherwise silent room. She looked for any hint that the sex psychic operated in this version of Minneapolis. Google provided her with some very interesting results—even with Safe Search on—but none of them indicated that Lucy was in business. It didn’t help that she only had a first name to go off, maybe not even an accurate first name if Lucy was short for something.
“Damn it,” she muttered at the screen.
The headache threatened to sink its teeth into her despite the jolt of caffeine. This was fruitless. Maybe a trip to Minneapolis would help. She could look and see if the sex psychic was there. Until she saw with her own eyes that Lucy was—or wasn’t—running her business in this reality, she’d never be at ease. It was entirely possible that the way out was the same as the way in—not through a book, but through the psychic who sold it to her.
