“What am I supposed to do now?” she asks. “Wait until 1932 to continue this? Or shall I just forget it, just be happy to see you again in fifteen years?”
“I don’t care,” he says, defeated. Miserable. “It’s your life. You’re going to do whatever you want with it.”
She springs from the bed. It is her life. So why does it feel like it’s in his hands? “I won’t even bring it up,” she says. “Would you like that? You can skip all the hard bits. I’ll just smile and stay quiet so you can keep pretending it’s only been three days. Keep writing in that bloody notebook of yours, like any of it matters!”
She claps her hands over her mouth, but it’s too late. Her words have already struck home. She can see it in Oliver’s eyes, a moment before he disappears.
There, then not.
Beatrix sinks down onto the bed. Silence settles over the room. Her anger and adrenaline slip away, leave her hollowed out. She stares at the door, as if Oliver has slammed it behind him instead of vanishing into nothing. As if she can will him to knock, to come through it, to come back to her.
The silence remains unbroken. Even the alarm clock on the bedside table has stopped ticking, its hands frozen, time stopped.
Waiting.
July 2, 2202Boston, Massachusetts
If there is such a thing as perfect timing, then does imperfect timing exist, too? It must, because that is what Oliver has—flawed, inexact timing. How else do you vanish during the most important argument of your life?
Oliver lies on his back, stretched the length of his faded couch. He thought cleaning his apartment would take his mind off it—off her—but he’d managed less than an hour before a dizzy spell hit. He flips through the pages of his journal until he reaches the ones that are empty except for an inked heading. Maybe he should tear them out, plan something else. Something new.
Like any of it matters.
Maybe she was right. Maybe it is the splinter of truth in her words that has gotten under his skin. Is he wasting his time?
Oliver sits up and tosses his journal onto his coffee table, already littered with books and papers. He scrubs his hands over his face.I don’t care. The words ring through his pounding head, over and over. Of all the stupid things to say, why had he said that? He regretted it as soon as the words were past his lips, as soon as Beatrix flinched. But he couldn’t take them back, even if he hadn’t meant them.
The truth is he does care. He cares too much.
Like any of it matters.
Oliver jumps at the sound of a sharp knock on his door. He puts his glasses on and crosses his living room, dodging vague piles and half-packed boxes. He pulls open the door.
“Surprise!” Zoë exclaims from the hall.
Behind her, Luke shrugs, as if he’s not sure how he got dragged along. Which might be believable if he hadn’t moved to Brooklyn last month.
“What are you guys doing here?” Oliver asks.
Zoë gives him a one-armed hug and pushes past him into the apartment, clutching a bag of groceries to her chest. Her bubblegum-pink hair is piled on top of her head in a messy bun, and a two-sizes-too-big alumni T-shirt hangs off one shoulder, almost covering her cutoff denim shorts.
Luke pulls him into a hug. “Do we need a reason?”
Oliver waves him inside. “No, I just—I thought you’d be busy with moving and new jobs and stuff.” New lives.
“Hewas busy,” Zoë says pointedly. She nudges a pile of clutter out of the way and drops her grocery bag onto the counter.
Luke blushes a shade of pink Oliver wouldn’t have believed if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes. “Doing what?”
“Max and I eloped.” He pulls his left hand from the pocket of his jeans. A plain gold band shines on his ring finger. “We thought, what the hell, you know? No time like the present. We went to city hall last week.”
“Congratulations, man. I’m happy for you,” Oliver says. And he is. So why does he feel so… sad?
Zoë surveys the apartment, her hands on her hips. “Should we order takeout? I don’t think I can find your kitchen to cook.”
“Sorry, I was… cleaning?” Oliver says it like a question, the gap between what he was trying to accomplish and what he has managed to achieve too wide for logic to leap.
His apartment has never been pristine, not like Theo’s house. It has always been lived in. Now, it looks like a tornado has torn through his living room and kitchen. His bedroom is no better, but at least that door is closed.
