Cedric looks like a younger Jacob Rees-Mogg. Immediate left swipe.
Paddy is cute. But his profile says he’s looking for ‘wife material’ and then goes on to list all the things he considers not to be characteristics of the future Mrs Murphy. They include things like having her own opinions, or a job, or anysense of a life outside the marriage. Hard no. I swipe left, the despondency creeping up on me. Are there no potential matches on here?
Tyler Adams.Seriously?
I mean, this cannot be happening. Because there, staring at me from the screen in a range of poses all designed to highlight those cheekbones and the tiny half dimple when he smiles, is Tyler fucking Adams. Am I destined to find him in front of me in every universe?
My finger pauses, and then as if it belongs to someone else – which it does in a way, but you know what I mean, as if it belongs to someone whose finger isn’t being controlled by me – I swipe right. On Tyler fucking Adams.
It’s a match.
Does that mean he also swiped right? I think that’s what it means. When would he have swiped right? Is there like a statute of limitations on these sites? Like what if it was years ago, before all the bad blood and rivalry between us got in the way and turned us from ‘could have been’ to ‘never in a million years’.
I guess there’s only one way to find out.
Chapter Thirty-Two
We meet in a pub just a stone’s throw from Covent Garden. I wanted to make sure it wasn’t somewhere I’ve been before; I’m already struggling to keep the different Bethanys separate in my mind, finding myself imagining bargain-shopping Bethany decanting all her purchases of herbal teas into tiny plastic tubs decorated with manga art, or forgetting which Bethany was the one who dragged Tyler to New York and which one accused his sister of being a dominating bitch to my sister with very little real evidence to make such an assertion.
Tyler goes to the bar and returns with a pint of Kronenbourg for himself and a large glass of Sauvignon Blanc for me. The glass is almost full, the wine so pale it’s almost clear, condensation beginning to drip onto the scarred table, which looks like it’s been here for a hundred years.
I wait for him to ask me his usual clever questions about my predicament but instead he asks me a series of increasingly dull questions about the weather and my trip here and some of the mutual acquaintances we have in the physics world. Of course! This Tyler doesn’t know I’m not the Bethany Raven from this world. He has no idea how many times I’ve sat like this with another version of him. This Tyler never got the email because I decided to stop sending them.
This Tyler thinks we’re just on a date.
It’s weird.
He’s weird.
This whole situation just isn’t right.
And so, instead of making small talk, I tell him everything. I don’t think this is the kind of date he was expecting. But then again, we don’t always get what we want, do we?
‘And so you’re just living the lives of the other yous; you’ve given up trying?’ The first thing he has said to me in about fifteen minutes as I rattled through my life – lives? – story.
‘Sorry? What?’ I ask, leaning in towards him.
‘You’ve given up trying to find a way to stop this, from finding a way to get home?’
I sit back in my seat, all the words lost from my mouth. ‘I—’ I start but then he stops me.
‘I’m getting us another drink. I think we’re going to need it.’ He walks away, shaking his head slightly, almost imperceptibly but just enough he knows I won’t miss it.
He’s judging me. I feel the anger flash hot and bright in my chest. How dare he judge me. He has no fucking idea what this is like. I stoke the flame until he comes back with a bottle of Sauvignon and an extra glass for himself.
‘I can’t—’ I start as he slides back onto his seat but he interrupts me. It seems to be a habit of his and I don’t appreciate it very much.
‘I know you were trying to shield me from this.’ His voice is even, level, devoid of almost all emotion. It’s a voice of authority, like a stern but somewhat fair headmaster. I hate the traitorous part of me that feels a bit turned on by this. ‘But it’s not your choice. You don’t get to decide if I want to help. And I think you’re missing something here.’ There’s that raise of the eyebrow, the one that tells me he thinks he has an answer I don’t have. I want to slap it off his stupid pretty face.
‘Oh really? And what exactly am I missing.’ I’m trying not to let him get to me, but I just can’t help it.
‘This isn’t only about you.’
‘Yes. I get that. That’s why I’m trying to stay away. Making sure I don’t mess up everyone else’s lives.’ I say the words slowly, enunciated each syllable so he really gets my point.
He tops up my wine and then pours himself a glass, before leaning back in his seat. ‘Except you’re here.’
‘Yeah, well …’ To be honest I don’t really have a comeback.
