“It is. Because—hypothetically—you’re offered a second chance. You get to live life all over again.”
“Like reincarnation,” he says.
“I thought that—but not quite. It’s a do-over. You get to live life a second time, retaining the memories of your first life. You remember all your mistakes, your regrets. Everything. It’s more akin to time travel—”
“You really felt the need to clarify that this scenario isn’t real?” he cuts in.
“As I wassaying, you get a second chance to get it right. What do you do differently?”
For instance, do you go out with the man who completely shattered your perception of yourself just to avoid thinking about another guy?
“You’re assuming I’d take the offer.”
“Wouldn’t you?”
“No. No, I don’t think I would.”
“Why the hell not?”
“I guess I’m more interested in what comes next. If I was miserable the first time, how can I guarantee I won’t be miserable the second? There’s no way to know. I’m still me—with the same faults and blind spots. Still prone to the same mistakes. Even if I try to live completely differently, I might still fall into the same traps but with different names.
“Butwhat I now have is concrete, incontrovertible proof that there issomethingafter death. And that’s fascinating. That’s a game-changer. It would be all I’d be able to think about.”
Well.
Okay.
I should have known that Alex would take my hypothetical and turn it on its head.
“Okay, but what if youdidaccept the offer?”
“I just said I wouldn’t.”
“You’re not given a choice. You’re just thrust back—back to right now.”
“Right now, right here? In this restaurant?”
I nod, my expression serious. “Right here. Right now.”
He stares at me for a long moment. Really seems to think about it. I swear I see a shift in his eyes as he considers his answer. His pupils grow larger, irises darker. A small smile slowly forms. And he just stares. Stares and stares, and then—
He stands, pushes his chair in, and pulls out the one right next to me. He slides it closer than is strictly appropriate for two people eating at arestaurant and takes my hand in his. I gasp, unable to focus on anything but that single point of contact. I resist the urge to pull my hand away out of fear he’ll notice my scabbed cuticles.
He stares into my eyes, wholly sincere, and murmurs, “If I had a chance to do things over, I would want to be as close to you as possible.”
Oh.
And then he leans back casually, shrugs like he didn’t just completely shift the tone of the night, and says, “Beyond that, I’d probably try to remember which stocks were hot and get in on the ground floor.”
He’s still holding my hand.
“Youwouldthink of money,” I mutter, low enough that I don’t think he’ll hear. I pull my hand away, annoyed by the reminder of who he really is. Annoyed that I keep letting myself forget.
He does hear.
“Oh? You’ve known me for, what, three hours, and you already have me pegged?”
In his eyes, a challenge. I rise to meet it.
