‘That’s Nessie,’ he says when he catches me staring at his phone screen, mouth a little slack in the jaw like I’m a dribbling imbecile.
‘Your …’ I falter. Nessie? As in— but he interrupts my thought.
‘Sister. I have three.’
‘Helen. Penelope. Clytemnestra.’
‘Yes.’ He looks puzzled and sits back in his seat to appraise me more fully.
‘I’ve met Helen.’
‘You have?’
‘Not your Helen. A different one.’
‘Ooh,’ he says and rubs his hands together, ready for some gossip on another version of his sister. ‘Spill!’
‘She was dating my sister, Cesca.’ I tell him, omitting the part about how the relationship was far from perfect and Helen was the perpetrator in the scenario.
‘Oh,’ he says and asks for no further information. But I ignore his reticence. Because if Nessie is his sister, then perhaps he doesn’t have a girlfriend. Perhaps.
No, no, no, no, I admonish myself. That is absolutely not the play here. I need his help, to continue to build on the theory the other Tylers and I have been working on. Chipping away at the problem bit by bit in the hopes we can figure out the answer and find a way to get me home.
I push down my feelings for him, the thoughts about how nice his arms look in that shirt, how his hair suits him in that style. ‘Shall we have some lunch?’ I ask, my stomach growling. Why am I always hungry here? Here? Anywhere. It’s like slipping through space and time is eating calories like they’re going out of fashion. Or perhaps other Bethanys don’t eat as much as me, don’t make sure they eat right before bed like I do to make sure I’m not hungry when I wake up. Apparently that’s not normal behaviour – or at least according to the awful ex-boyfriend Nick who used to get so weird about it. I guess every Bethany has her quirks.
My burger comes in a purple bun and I stare at it as if it’s going to bite me.
‘Something wrong?’ Tyler asks as he smears some green sauce onto his plate.
‘My bun is purple.’
He frowns. ‘Yes.’
‘Why is it purple?’
His frown deepens. ‘What other colour did you expect it to be?’
‘Are you telling me that in this universe burger buns are purple?’ I’m shocked and horrified and for a brief moment I can feel the world shifting. Is it going to be a fucking burger bun that finally breaks my mental hold on my situation? A fucking burger bun that finally makes me say nope, this has gone too far now, the world is mad and I want to get off, please.
‘Hey.’ He places his hand gently on my arm. ‘You didn’t read the menu, did you?’
I shake my head, willing the tears not to come. I do not want to bawl my eyes out in front of him. And especially not over a fucking burger bun.
‘It’s a beetroot bun. This place is famous for them,’ he says eventually.
‘But elsewhere—’
‘Normal buns, I promise. Everywhere else just has normal green buns.’
‘Green!’ I shriek and a dude at the bar turns to look at me, I flush and duck down in my seat.
‘Hey. I’m kidding, I’m kidding.’ He looks mortified. ‘Burger buns here are just bog standard, like the colour of sand.’
‘Promise.’
‘I promise,’ he says.
I pick up the beetroot burger – which, spoiler alert, is delicious and I would highly recommend if you find yourself in a universe where they’ve discovered them – and we eat in silence. Although I do ask him what the sauce he is dipping his chips into is.
