Opposite of Always

by Justin A. Reynolds

  His partner, a wiry, gray-haired man, seems less eager to engage me. He instead talks into his radio and remains on the sidelines. Maybe because at this point I have officially lost all my I’m not crazy credibility, I scream, “They’re trying to kill me!” and flail and karate chop and contort my body into pretzel-like configurations. Because I don’t care what people think of me. What happens to me. I’ll do anything to keep Kate here, to keep Kate safe.

  By the time Laird (I have an awesome up-close view of his name badge as he bear-hugs me into submission) wrestles me into the waiting room hallway, Kate starts having trouble breathing. They stick an IV in her, hook her up to fluids and oxygen, check her vitals again, get labs drawn. They march me into the waiting area. An hour later the doctor comes out, shaking his head. “I don’t know how you knew, but you might’ve saved her life.”

  I glance at the waiting area clock.

  “Not yet I haven’t,” I say. “Not yet.”

  The doctor frowns. “Well, we’ve moved her into an observation room. We want to keep her overnight. Make sure her hemoglobin remains stable. We’ll draw some more blood in the morning. You can see her now.”

  I thank the doctor, resist the urge to check out the time again, and head back to Kate’s room. She looks over at me, standing in the doorway, and grins.

  “Hey, Incredible Hulk,” she says, pushing the button on her bed to make her raise her head. “Or are you back to Bruce Banner now?”

  I laugh. “How are you?”

  “Mmm. Better now. I think. But then again, I didn’t even know I wasn’t okay before. But somehow you did.”

  “Lucky guess.”

  “It didn’t seem like a guess.”

  “You want to know the truth?”

  “That would be pretty cool.”

  “I’m from the future and I knew the exact time when you were going to get sick.”

  “Okay, this is definitely a lie.”

  “It’s not.”

  “You want to know how I know it’s a lie?”

  “Okay, but it’s not a lie.”

  “Because who would care about what happens to me enough to send you back in time? Like, what’s so special about me? Am I going to be president of the United States? Or cure cancer? Or, I don’t know . . . do anything important?”

  I shrug again. “Honestly, I never made it that far into the future. So I guess we’ll have to find out together.”

  She wiggles her fingers, holds out her arms, and I step into them.

  “Promise?” she asks.

  “Depends. What am I promising?”

  “That we’ll find out. Together.”

  “Either that, or I’ll keep coming back in time until I get it right.”

  “You’d do that for me?”

  I grin. “Maybe.”

  She sticks out her tongue at me. “Well, I’d build a time machine for you, mister. Now get in bed and cuddle me.”

  “This bed is barely big enough for one person,” I complain, but I’m already climbing in. “You know the nurse is going to curse me out as soon as she comes into the room, right? I’m pretty sure everyone that works here hates me now.”

  “Ask me if I care.”

  I smile.

  “No, really, ask me,” she insists.

  “Kate, do you care?”

  “Hell no. Now ask me if I hate you.”

  “Do you hate me, Kate?”

  “No. I’m incapable.”

  And I can’t even begin to tell you how good it feels to hear those words.

  “Kate?”

  “Yeah?”

  “If you had a choice, I mean—to live the same four months over and over again with me, or live the rest of your life without me, which would you choose?”

  “That’s a weird question. You’re really playing up this time-traveling thing, huh?”

  “C’mon, just play along.”

  “So, explain it to me. We’d just be like on this never-ending loop then?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it a good four-month loop at least?”

  “It’s pretty amazing. The best, I’d say.”

  She nods. “I like the sound of a Jack and Kate loop.”

  I kiss her cheek.

  “So, let me ask you something now.”

  “Shoot.”

  “This is going to sound strange, but I’ve always wanted to be one of those couples whose names get mushed together in a symbol of achingly beautiful love—like Bennifer or Kimye,” she says, a goofy smile on her face.

  “Wait, you’re joking, right?” I say.

  “Nope. And I’ve been giving this a lot of thought. I’ve come up with a few ideas, if you care to hear them.”

  “Bring ’em.”

  “Okay,” she says, leaning her head back against the pillow. I join her, so that our cheeks touch. “First up, Kack.”

  “Hmmmm. I don’t know.”

  “I think it’s sort of cool. Sounds like someone just got karate-chopped in the chest.”

  “Ouch, I didn’t realize you were so violent.”

  She slices through the air with the side of her hand. “You better be careful, King.”

  “I think you were supposed to tell me this before I fell for you.”

  “Yeah, well, better late than never, right? Okay, you ready for the next one?”

  “Hit me.”

  “I think you’re going to love this one . . .”

  “Look at you, selling me. Just tell me already.”

  “Okay, brace yourself . . .”

  “I’m braced.”

  “Jate.”

  “That’s what I was bracing myself for?”

  She punches me. “Our names are too short for anything cool. Let’s see you do better.”

  I think of the possibilities. “You’re right. Those two are it.”

  “I told you.”

  “You did.”

  “Next time you should just listen to your girlfriend, Jack Attack.”

  “Next time,” I repeat. “Next time.”

  The Agony, the Horror

  I wake up in terror, fumbling with the blankets, the sheets. I look over at the clock on the wall, but it’s too dim in the room, the only light coming from her IV pump, and I can’t make out the time. Kate’s beside me, her back to me. And I can’t explain it, but something feels different. Like I’m on new ground. In an unfamiliar place.

  “Kate,” I say softly.

  Nothing. Just the buzz of the IV, the chug of fluids flowing into her arm.

  “Kate,” I repeat, bringing my hand slowly to her shoulder. Her skin is cool.

  “Kate,” I whisper into her ear, shaking her gently.

  I listen for her breathing, but I can’t hear anything over my own.

  “Kate,” I say once more.

  I sit up.

  I take a breath.

  And that’s when I see it.

  A shiny box of Cap’n Crunch sitting atop the hospital tray.

  And then I’m crying.

  And then I’m laughing.

  And then it finally happens—

  I’m craughing.

  I’m craughing.

  Almost the End

  Okay.

  So now that you know Kate and Jack survive, I’ll be honest.

  These four replays weren’t the only ones.

  They’re more like a composite of a lot of other replays.

  I lost count after three dozen.

  I still can’t tell you why any of this happened. And even if I knew, it probably wouldn’t be satisfying. It’s like that Sesame Street story, The Monster at the End of This Book. When you read it for a second, third, and fourth time, when you already know it’s only Grover at the end, the journey isn’t any less real, you know?

  But what I can tell you is that I tried everything. Some things I tried thrice.

  A few times I tried nothing at all.

  Sometimes I was too tired, too late, too sad.

  It was like enduring th
e worst hangover ever. Except no matter how much you closed your eyes, or drank water, or begged God to make the world stop spinning, it was still there.

  The head-splitting doubt.

  The dread slugging me in the gut.

  Everything sloshing inside me, sick.

  I didn’t think I was going to make it.

  And I just couldn’t put you through all of that.

  Watching me fail time and time again.

  Watching her die over and over.

  No one should have to.

  But mostly I was just thankful for the time I got to be with her, wondering if and when it (whatever it was) finally stopped, if it would be the end of me, too.

  I guess the reason I’m telling you all of this is because I don’t want you to misunderstand this story. Because it’s important for you to understand that I’m no hero.

  I didn’t save Kate.

  She didn’t need saving.

  If anything, she saved me.

  She taught me that almost doesn’t have to be a bad thing.

  You can try your hardest to change something—exhaust every possibility—and sometimes it’s still not enough.

  But almost means you were there. You did all you could.

  In the end, it’s the smallest decisions that matter most.

  The seemingly insignificant choices we make every day—

  To be honest with the people we love and with ourselves—

  To let go of the things we can’t control, and appreciate the things we can.

  Sometimes it’s hard to see how much these things mean.

  But they add up.

  They mean everything.

  Take it from someone who’s seen the future.

  Fin, for Real This Time

  “You sure your parents are okay with me being here? In their house? In your bedroom?” I ask.

  “A little late for that.” Kate smiles. “But yeah. I think they’re just happy I’m happy.”

  Kate’s childhood sheets are weaved between us, covering her stomach, her legs, my feet, joining us at our hips. Her eyes not letting mine go. Her breath so close, I taste spearmint. I blink, but only for a second. I don’t want to miss anything.

  “Did you ever think we’d be here?” she asks.

  “I dreamed we would. But I’d be lying to say I thought it could ever happen,” I say.

  “I think that’s what scared me. I think I did know.”

  “I think you’re beautiful, Kate. That’s what I know.”

  “Stop. You’re making me blush.”

  I trace her shoulder blade. “Black people don’t blush.”

  And she laughs. A beautiful laugh that comes rolling up from her feet, makes the bed quiver. “Why wouldn’t we?”

  My own cheeks go warm; maybe we do blush. “I meant, like, visibly.”

  She shakes her head. Sits up on her elbows, her eyes still on mine. “I know what you meant, silly. I just like to see you sweat sometimes.”

  “Uh, mission accomplished.” I run my finger across her cheek. We lie there, quiet. I hear the clock tick a new minute on the far wall. And then another. “So? Are you going to tell me?”

  “Tell you what?”

  “Do we blush?”

  “You’re looking right at me, Jack King. You tell me. Do we?”

  I study her for another moment. And then when I can no longer wait another, I lean in, kiss the space beneath her forehead, between her eyes. Her eyelids twitch against my chin.

  She closes her eyes tight, like a fist, like she’s trying to get back a dream.

  She says, “I think blushing isn’t something you see. It’s something you feel.”

  And though she can’t see me, I nod. “I feel it, Kate. Every bit of it. I feel.”

  “Come here,” she says, eyes open now, holding her arms out wide.

  “I don’t think I can get any closer,” I say, even though I want to, even though closer is all I want.

  “You can,” she says, pulling my head into her face. “See.”

  She’s right.

  And I see.

  “You know what I love about the end of black family movies?” I ask Kate.

  “Coming from anyone else, that would be an interestingly racist way to begin a conversation, but you’ve stoked my curiosity anyway. Please proceed,” she says.

  “The dancing. There’s like almost always some large party—like a wedding reception, or family reunion, or whatever—and after everyone has finally settled whatever differences that need settling, when everyone is feeling the love, they end with some massive aerial shot of people doing the Electric Slide or a Soul Train line—like, I love the idea of everything ending that way. With people happy and smiling and dancing their asses off.”

  She shakes her head in that disapproving way you’d look at your puppy who’s done something charmingly destructive. She laughs. “Me too,” she says. “Me too.”

  She taps on her phone, fires up her Bluetooth speaker. She pulls me out of bed, and we clear off a spot in the middle of her floor, kicking away crumpled clothes and schoolbooks and whatever. We join hands and we shake our heads at each other.

  “Will you do me the honor?” I ask her.

  She bows and I curtsy and we dance.

  “Hey, just so you know, I so don’t love you. Not at all,” Kate says, rather breathily because we can’t stop dancing. Not for anything. Even weird, awkward proclamations from our hearts.

  I grin. “I don’t love you, either. Just so you know, too.”

  “Cool,” she says, doing some dance that looks as though she is fishing but has suddenly hooked a killer whale. “I was hoping you felt the same way.”

  “Cool,” I repeat, doing a dance I like to call cleaning windows on scaffolding fifty-six floors up. Okay, I just made that up. The name, not the dance. That move happens to be a staple in my repertoire.

  And we keep on dancing, Kate and I. Our bodies twisting in ways they are not meant to twist, a lot of robot dancing, some old-school Cabbage Patch with a few pathetic Running Man interpretations thrown in for good measure.

  So, no, not good dancing.

  Not even halfway decent.

  Nothing you’d be impressed by.

  We’re not turning heads at any party—not in a good way, anyway.

  But give us our freaking aerial shot, please.

  Because, fuck, we dance.

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to the two most amazing people on this planet and elsewhere, Brooklyn and Kennedy. Brooklyn—you’re so funny and artistic. But most importantly, you have the biggest heart I’ve ever known. Never stop feeling. Kennedy, you’re never gonna be taller than me, I don’t care what the doctors say. But I know you’ll definitely pass me in all the best ways. You both inspire me each and every day to be better than yesterday. Thank you for loving me, for teaching me what it means to love someone else, unconditionally, eternally.

  Thank you to Pam. Whew. So many crazy times, but still we’ve always come out the other side (It’s been colder). We’ve shared lots of laughs, tears, and memories. Thanks for holding me down and for your unwavering love. For falling asleep during every movie. For all our period-piece TV show binges and our House Hunters–Project Runway–Top Chef marathons. I wouldn’t change a thing. I hope you wouldn’t either. Always and forever, P.

  Thank you to the best sibling anyone could ever ask for, Allisyn. We’ve been through so much, but we’ve been through it all together. Thanks for telling on me when I tried to run away. Also, I’m sorry you never get to have a mini–license plate with your name on it because Mom chose to spell your name funky, but hey, silly memorabilia isn’t everything, right? Seriously though, I just want you to know, when I finally leave this place, you get: NOTHING! (Hahaha.) Until then, let’s keep plotting our global takeover.

  Greyson, you’ll get those waves eventually, keep brushing; I believe in you, haha. Thanks for being the best big cousin ever, for being patient and kind and protective. You’re
great. Keep banging those drums, man.

  To Mom and Dad, it all started with you. Mom, thank you for instilling in me a love for words, for guiding book after book into my hands, for reading to me, for reading all my stories, for talking me through life. This book doesn’t exist without you (hey, just like me!). Dad, thanks for being pragmatic and making me think about things like supporting myself, and for reminding me from an early age that kids can go bankrupt, too, without sound financial planning. Also, thanks for letting me root for Michael Jordan and the Bulls at all the Cavs games. I love you both, always.

  Beth Phelan, the best agent ever. Sometimes the stars align, but other times, entire galaxies. Thank you for believing in me from the beginning beginning. For all our talks, book-related and otherwise. For knowing when to push and pull. For your steady hand, and your wise (and funny) words. Out of all the Twitter pitches, in all the Twitterverse, I’m glad you walked into mine. Seriously, thank you for masterminding #DVPit and championing diversity. Let’s keep this thing going; we’ve got a lot more work to do. No pressure! But PRESSURE, haha! ☺

  Ben Rosenthal. What can I say? You’re a brilliant editor, but an even better person. Always positive, constantly encouraging. Thank you for believing in this book from the start. Maybe it’s because we’re two Midwest kids, or because we both have a love affair with sports franchises that perpetually let us down, but I think we get each other, on and off the page. In your excellent editorial-speak: let’s keep it authentic, haha.

  Special thank-you to Mabel Hsu, for your insight, spot-on notes, and willingness to answer ALL the questions. And for understanding that texting drama is the WORST, haha.

  Thank you so much to Katherine Tegen—I can’t imagine publishing my first book anywhere else. Shout-out to Erin Fitzsimmons for your fantastic design work; thanks for pushing and pushing! Thank you to Allison Brown, Emily Rader, Gina Rizzo, Audrey Diestelkamp, and copy editor Megan Gendell—your contributions were so crucial.

  Thank you to Rachel Petty for understanding this story and for being so awesome in general. Also, thanks for letting me think I could name your twins, haha. Thanks to the incredible UK Macmillan team; you rock!