“It’s an old Foo Fighters song,” I reply. “Everlong.”
His smile grows slightly wistful. He rubs a hand along the back of his neck. “Mine too.”
The waitress refills our coffee, and he stirs cream in his until it’s the lightest beige. Almost the color of his skin right now, with that tan of his. Before I can stop myself I think about that skin, which I saw a great deal of this morning. His smooth back, his broad shoulders. Stop, Quinn. Those thoughts can only cause trouble. I focus on my own coffee instead. “Do you think Rose could help with Darcy if she really can do what she says she can? Like go back in time and change something?”
He sets his spoon on the saucer and looks at me, thinking. “Darcy had headaches for months last summer, and her pediatrician blew it off. I suppose she could warn Christy about the tumor somehow, but what would compel her to believe a teenage girl’s advice instead of a pediatrician’s?”
I laugh. “Rose is a lot more duplicitous than either of us. She can probably figure something out.”
“That kid,” groans Nick. “The only thing worse than having an out-of-control delinquent teenage daughter would be having one who is capable of time travel.”
“And lands everywhere naked.”
“And aspires to party with an army of rock stars,” he adds, shaking his head. “Anyway, speaking of our troubled new friend, I was trying to come up with questions for her since we might not have much time.”
I nod. “We should ask if there’s someone else we can talk to,” I tell him. “Maybe her grandmother or someone who’s been at it longer would have ideas for us.”
He leans back in the booth. “I think we should also ask if there’s a way she can go back and reset things somehow. If she could keep you away from the lake, maybe you’d never have had these flashbacks at all.”
I feel a sudden urge to smile and cry at the same time. “If I didn’t have these flashbacks, I wouldn’t have met you.”
He glances away. “I thought that’s what you wanted.”
“No, I…” Heat creeps into my face. It would be better if we hadn’t met. I just can’t bring myself to wish for it. “It’s almost seven. I’d better get in there with the clothes.”
I slide from the booth, before he can see my face, and head to the bathroom, my mind a whirlwind of things that aren’t related in any way to my brain tumor, or the fact that time traveling exists, much less that I might be capable of it. With everything that has happened in the last twelve hours, the most terrifying revelation of all is this: I wouldn’t want to change anything that’s happened if it meant never meeting Nick.
In the bathroom, I lean against the sink and wait for a pair of bare feet to materialize at the bottom of the bathroom stall. How does she do this? How does she land in a bathroom stall without discovering it’s occupied? What does she do when there’s not someone waiting outside with clothes in her size? If I was capable of time travel, I think I’d avoid it just because it seems so fraught with difficulty.
At 7:00, I watch expectantly. At 7:01, I shrug—just because she can time travel doesn’t mean she’s punctual. At 7:05, I start to worry. That’s when I finally open the bathroom door and find her note.
I’m so sorry. I really can’t help you anymore. Good luck—Rose
25
NICK
Quinn and I are both quiet on the way home. She gazes out the window with unseeing eyes. Her hopelessness destroys me.
“Hey,” I say, reaching out to grab her hand, “don’t give up, okay?”
She forces a smile. “It seems unlikely to me that we will meet a second time traveler to answer all our questions.”
“There are lots of other possibilities. You’re seeing Dr. Patel on Friday. Don’t give up on regular medicine just yet.”
She sighs. “This is obviously not a standard tumor. Can an oncologist even help?”
I’ve tried to avoid thinking about it, because I can’t stand where my head goes. Right now, I just need to believe in something, and so does she. “We have no idea until we try.”
She’s quiet for a moment, staring out the window. “Why did you decide to do your residency in London?” she asks suddenly.
The question surprises me, mostly because I really have no answer to it. “I have no idea, to be honest. It just hit me when I was in high school, and I never seriously considered anything else. Why?”
She runs her thumb over her lower lip. “I had a dream about it last night. We were teenagers, and in my dream, I was the one who wanted London, not you. It’s just strange you wound up there anyway.”
She points to a street and I turn, pulling up in front of a small house that’s seen better days. In a neighborhood that’s seen better days as well. I hate the idea of leaving her here alone.
“How much longer is Jeff out of town?” I ask.
Her lips press together. “Just until Thursday night.”
I shouldn’t have asked and I also shouldn’t ask the question I’m about to, but it seems like a very lonely life out here by herself, in this depressing box of a house. “What do you do at night, when he’s gone?”
She shrugs. “Usually, I just go home. Sometimes I go out with my friends or walk down to the harbor for a while. People swing dance there when the weather’s good.”
My spine tingles. It’s one of my two recurring dreams—me with a girl I assume is her, dancing in the grass. I never gave it too much thought until now, but I’m pretty sure we were swing dancing, that I was teaching her how. Did it happen before? Is it supposed to happen now? “And you just watch?”
She smiles sheepishly. “I’m too uncoordinated to dance, and I’d look pretty damn silly out there alone, even if I did know how.”
“Anyone can swing dance.”
Her mouth opens to speak, and then closes again. Whatever she was going to say, she’s decided against it. “Not me.”
“Maybe I’ll come down there sometime and prove you wrong,” I say softly.
A hundred emotions flicker over her face. Love and hunger and desire and, finally, grief. I’d give anything to heal that grief, except I think I’m the source of it.
I go to work, but the thought of Quinn and everything we’ve just learned is never far from my mind. I stare at the images from a recent scan of one my Alzheimer’s patients, studying the tangle of amyloid plaques that indicate its progression. There will be nothing happy about the conversation I’m about to have with his children. I don’t regret my decision to enter neurology, as depressing as it often is, but for the first time, I truly consider what led to it.
If Quinn’s life changed, mine must have too. Was there a part of me that somehow knew she’d have problems this time around? Knew my best shot at finding her again was by entering a specialty she’d be likely to seek out? Or did some piece of me just long for her and attach to the discipline that led me to her in the first place?
There’s a tap on the door and Meg walks in. She’s been at a conference for the last week and I didn’t expect her back until later today, but based on her presence here now and how deeply unhappy she appears, I assume she came home last night instead…and wants to know why I wasn’t there.
Guilt kicks sharply in my stomach. Even if I can cut myself some slack for what I did with Quinn, unknowingly, the bigger issue is this: discovering just how much I feel for her has proven I don’t feel enough for anyone else. What Quinn said last night was correct—I let things get this far with Meg because it didn’t seem fair to ask for more when Ryan wound up with nothing. But Meg deserves to be more than the penance I pay for what I did to my brother.
“I thought you weren’t coming back until tonight,” I say, at a momentary loss for words.
She sinks into the seat across from mine, her arms folded over her chest. “Yes, that became pretty obvious to me when you didn’t come home last night.”
I rock back in my chair. “I went to a show in Baltimore, and it was late so I just crashed there.”
Her eyes
narrow while she looks for the cracks in my response. Thank God it’s actually true. “Alone?” she asks. “You went to Baltimore alone?”
“Yeah,” I say. A small lie, more for her protection than my own. “But I think we need to talk.”
She freezes. I suppose the phrase we need to talk never leads anywhere good. “Talk about what?”
I place my hands flat to the desk and force myself to say words I know will hurt her, no matter how gently I deliver them. “Meg…you’re amazing, but I don’t think this is what I want.”
Nothing in her face changes. She was unhappy before and she’s still unhappy. “I knew you’d do this,” she finally says, eyes narrowed. “I’ve never seen a man more scared of commitment in my entire life.”
I rub the bridge of my nose. I should have anticipated an argument. She’s not the type to just let things go. “I don’t think that’s what this is.”
“Of course it is!” she cries, throwing her hands in the air. “And why? I’m the one who’s a child of divorce while your parents are still happily married! If either of us should be freaked out, it’s me. You don’t have a single reason to be scared. But you are. And that’s all this is…you’re scared.”
If she knew how I felt about Quinn she’d realize how off-base she is, but God knows that wouldn’t improve this situation. “I’m so sorry. There’s just a certain way I want to feel before I get serious with someone, and it’s not there with us. We have a nice time together, but you deserve more than I can give you.”
Her eyes bulge. “Are you fucking serious right now?” she demands. “We have a nice time? We’ve been together for a year! We’ve practically lived together for three quarters of that, and all you can say is that it was nice?”
I close my eyes. I’ve never dated anyone as long as Meg, but I’ve been through some version of this situation a thousand times. “I wanted this to work, but it isn’t fair to keep going down this path, when it isn’t right.”
“Nick,” she pleads, her voice catching, “if no one is ever right, it means you want something that doesn’t exist. We’ve had this conversation before, remember? This is just how you are.”
I thought she was right at the time. I’d dated more beautiful, intelligent women than I could count, and it never worked—because I was waiting for one specific person without ever realizing it. “I think it exists, Meg.”
It’s the wrong thing to say. Her eyes dart to mine, reminding me of a lioness zeroing in on her prey. “There’s someone else.”
“No, not really.”
“Not really isn’t no,” she hisses.
I lean forward, clasping my hands on top of my desk. “I’m not seeing anyone, if that’s what you’re asking.”
She brushes the tears from her face. “My landlord already rented my apartment. I have to be out in a week.”
Guilt hits hard. I can’t break up with her and force her to crash with friends for weeks while trying to find a new place. “You can take mine. I’ll find something else.”
She buries her face in her hands. “So this is just it? Just like this?”
I clear my throat. “Yes. I’m sorry.”
She jumps to her feet and marches out. I watch her go, knowing I’ve made the right decision and wondering, at the same time, if I’ll come to regret it. What we had was nice, and it was easy, and I’m not sure what I’ve opened myself up to, aside from a lifetime of wanting a woman who is about to marry someone else—a woman I couldn’t be with even if she were free.
It’s never going to be fair to anyone I date, to any woman I end up with. Because I will always be wishing I was with Quinn instead.
26
QUINN
Dee spent most of Tuesday pissed off that I came in late. Since I took sick leave, she couldn’t really reprimand me, but she spent the day punishing me for it, and Wednesday appears to be no better. “I need a mock-up of the D.C. housing supplement on my desk by four,” she barks.
I blow out a weary breath. I expected her reaction, but it exhausts me nonetheless. Maybe it’s just that losing my last shot at talking to Rose has left me depleted. “That isn’t due for two weeks.”
“And now it’s due today,” she replies with a brittle smile. “If you’d been around more this week, it wouldn’t be an issue.”
She walks away, and I think of my conversation with Nick on the trip to New Jersey. About architecture, about why I’m shuffling along in this job I hate. I guess it’s selfish to consider blowing that money on a degree I may never use when Jeff could start a new life with it after I’m gone. But there’s a tiny seed of resistance inside me that says No, it’s not selfish. You’ve given up enough for him, gone along with what he wants, what’s best for him, long enough. No.
I go online and look up the information for Georgetown’s admissions department. And then, with shaking hands, I send them an email asking if I might be able to come back.
Jeff calls that night, miserable. He hates traveling, which makes each of these trips, for him, an endless series of small irritations—the long rental car line in Albany, the hotel room that reeks of smoke, fast food for days on end, running out of toothpaste in a town that closed an hour ago. We both knew at the outset this job would be a bad fit in many ways. But he was desperate to find work after his last layoff, and I was desperate too. I probably should have encouraged him to hold out for something better.
“I’m sorry,” I sigh. “Maybe you should look for something else when you get back.”
“The hell with D.C.,” he says. “We should just move home.” It’s not the first time I’ve heard it. In his bones, Jeff will always be a country boy. He wants quiet and wide-open spaces, but I don’t. I never have. “Coach has suggested a thousand times he wants me back as an assistant, and he’s got to retire soon. Up there we could live decently on a teacher’s salary.”
A warning note chimes in my head, a chill between my shoulder blades. I’ve held all the cards during our relationship. I’m the one who left for D.C., ready to end it. He’s the one who followed, who gave things up to be with me. But once we’re married, will I still hold the cards? He knows I don’t want to live up there, but he also knows I’m not much of one for fighting about anything. If he insists, I’ll end up agreeing to go. And my inheritance will no longer be my money, it will be ours, and he’ll have just as many rights to it as I do, most likely.
“I emailed Georgetown today,” I blurt out. I meant to introduce the topic slowly. Alas. “Admissions. To see about coming back.”
He’s silent for so long I begin to wonder if he even heard me. “Honey,” he finally says weakly, “you’re not really considering this?”
He makes getting a degree in architecture sound like some outlandish pipe dream. As if I just told him I want to be an Olympic gymnast or star in Hamilton. It’s one of many ways he and my mother are similar—the things they want in life have never required a degree, so to them it’s mostly a useless accessory. A second degree, therefore, is completely frivolous. “Obviously I am, or I wouldn’t have emailed them.”
“Jesus, Quinn,” he groans. “I tell you I might lose my job and you think it’s a good time to quit?”
Will there ever be a good time to quit, Jeff? Will there ever be a time when you aren’t about to lose a job? Irritation blossoms into anger as I hold in all the things I want to say. “Why was it okay for me to blow my inheritance on that house I didn’t even want in Manassas, but it’s not okay for me to use it on a degree I’ve wanted my entire life?”
He sighs. “Because a house moves our lives forward. Our neighborhood isn’t a good place for kids. You know that. But think about how long your degree will take. Four years? Five years? And all that time you’re accruing debt and not working. Which means we’re not having a kid until well after you’re done. I’m 32. I don’t want to wait until I’m in my 40s to start a family, and that’s basically what you’re asking of me.”
“I may only have a few years to live,” I reply. “I don
’t think kids are even in the picture for me anymore.”
“Stop saying things like that!” he demands. “You have no idea how long you’re going to live! We haven’t even met with the oncologist yet.”
“Whether I have a year or a century, I’m going to want the degree more than a house.”
He’s quiet again, recalibrating. “Look, hon,” he finally says. “I know I’m not reacting the way you want me to, but you’re kind of springing this on me. If the degree is that important to you, we can discuss it, okay? Just wait until I’m home.”
I agree, but as I hang up there’s only one thought in my head: that money is mine. And it suddenly feels very important that I spend it the way I want before it becomes ours.
27
NICK
It’s been forty-eight hours since I’ve spoken to Quinn.
Too long.
I need to hear her raspy laugh and see that surprised smile of hers, the pleasure in her face over the smallest things.
God knows I shouldn’t, but I find myself dialing her number on Thursday morning. I could pretend this is a professional call, but I’m not fooling anyone at this point.
“I was just checking to see how many vanishing teenagers you’ve run into since I saw you last,” I say.
She laughs. “My yogurt appears to have vanished from our break room, if that counts. Hey, guess what I did?”
I settle into my chair, leaning my head against the wall behind me. “Learned how to time travel?”
“Think slightly smaller. I talked to Georgetown about coming back.”
There’s something new in her voice. A certain charge, an excitement, that I’ve never heard before. “What did they say?”
She sighs. “I, of course, had some ridiculous hope that they might fit me in for the coming school year. I’m too late for that, but they said next fall for certain, and possibly January.”
Parallel (The Parallel Duet Book 1) Page 17