I sit cross-legged on the time-worn rug in Henry’s tower bedroom, Fitzy Butterbottom the only witness to our kiss. A waltz fraying at the edges drifts muffled through the lead pane window, and the gold-tinged light of the setting sun sprays across us, dappling us with champagne-colored warmth.
Henry’s mouth is warm, apple-colored, and soft. He tastes of cake crumb and wedding toasts, and his lips are fleshy and yielding while mine are firm, slanting over his.
Henry sits on the floor across from me, cross-legged too, leaning forward, his hands in mine, his lips . . . pressed, waiting, waiting . . . waiting.
His sigh feathers across my lips and then he glances up at me, his mouth still against mine.
“It isn’t working,” he says, his words tickling my lips, vibrating over me.
He’s right. There’s no tumbling, no spinning, no falling into darkness, no switching.
However, there is that liquid warmth spilling over me and filling me with a bright, luscious tingling that makes me dizzy and breathless and so out of my mind that all I want to do is tumble back on the floor, roll into a bed of rose petals, and lay Henry on top of me.
Which is when I pull back, because clearly I’m losing myself in this kiss.
A splash of cold air rushes between us, and I drop Henry’s hands.
“Sorry,” I say at the look of disappointment on his face.
A line appears between his eyebrows. “I thought it would work.”
I nod.
“Do you remember how you always lecture anyone who will listen on the human mind being like the control panel on the Starship Enterprise?”
I scoff. “I don’t lecture.”
He lifts an eyebrow, so I shrug and let him continue. I’d rather talk about Star Trek than the memory of mine he experienced earlier.
“We humans,” he says, “can only experience reality through our control panel. We have our five senses and that’s how we interpret the world. I’d say we also have a sixth sense—our intuition. What we feel here.” He points to his heart.
“Right.”
“Our senses and our brain are the control panel of our ship. And just like a captain can navigate the ship from the control panel without ever looking through a window, so can we. But the captain would never mistake the readings on the control panel for the entirety of the universe. They wouldn’t be so foolish to think the readings on their panel are the universe.”
“Exactly. They wouldn’t think it’s the entirety of reality. And neither should we,” I say.
“Just because we can’t perceive it doesn’t mean it’s not out there. There is an infinity of things we can’t perceive, that as humans we will never perceive—”
“And if we can’t perceive them—”
“We can’t conceive them,” he says, having heard my “lecture” more than once.
I smile at him then ask, “You think what happened to us is something we can’t conceive?”
“I think there’s a good chance of it. If it was a side effect of the particle accelerator, then we wouldn’t have felt what we did when we kissed earlier. I think the atom smashing was a red herring. You said yourself that the scam-artist psychic told you she’s seen this before. I doubt they were smashing atoms when it happened.”
“The ones who died,” I say, and the golden light loses its rosy hue, turning stone-gray and evening-weak.
“We aren’t going to die,” Henry says. It’s more a command than a statement. “We’re going to figure it out.”
He stares at me for a moment, not really seeing me, lost in thought. He drums his fingers against his knee, rustling the fabric of his dress. “It’s as if we’re walking along a rope, confined to the surface, when all of sudden ants walk along from the bottom-side and we think, ‘What? There’s another side!’ But of course there’s another side, another dimension to the rope. We can’t walk on it, but ants can. I think it’s the same thing. We only need to figure out how to flip the rope.”
“But if we can’t conceive it . . .”
Henry reaches over and grips my hand. “I’ve always believed one of the best things about humans is that we always strive, always hope, even when there isn’t any reason to. Isn’t that why we built the LHC? Isn’t that why we keep searching for the answers to the universe? It’s all right, Ducky. We’ll find the answer.”
I draw in a sharp breath. He hasn’t called me Ducky since we first met. When I believed . . .
Well, when I believed things were only impossible until they weren’t.
But then I met Henry and he became my impossible.
“I didn’t think you remembered that name.”
“I liked Ducky. She was . . .” He sighs, shifts on the carpet.
Outside the accordions wheeze to a festive finale and there’s cheering and whistles. We’ve been gone ten minutes. Soon we’ll be missed and will have to head back down. Henry peers at me from under his eyelashes, and between us a stream of sunlight carries dust motes on its current.
“You liked her. But . . .” I leave the question in the air, letting it drift like the specks of dust floating between us.
Henry could easily brush it aside and ignore it. Instead he says, “You fell in love. That night. It wasn’t just me. You fell in love too.”
I hold very still, barely breathing, as the quiet of the stone-walled room sinks over us. I wait for noise from outside, laughter or another song, but I’m captured in stillness.
Henry’s hand curls in mine, his warmth whispering over me. “Serena, you felt what I felt, and then you . . . you . . .”
“Told you it was only fun.”
“When it wasn’t,” he says. “And you knew it. What I saw, your memory, it was . . .” He looks at me, his cheeks flushed, his eyes burning with a flame I recognize.
“Perhaps you misunderstood the memory.”
“No. There’s nothing to misunderstand.”
My stomach drops and I tug my hand free. I turn away and look at the comically menacing stance of Fitzy, the ancient suit of armor. Behind me the white bed sheets are still rumpled and the soft scent of mint and apples teases me.
Mint.
And apple.
My stomach rolls again and I’m short of breath, like I’m plunging down a raging waterfall in a barrel about to sink into the frothing rapids, because I’ve just realized. I’ve finally put it together.
“I was your first time!”
Henry looks as if I just surprise-kicked him in the head and he’s trying to shake out of the shock. “What?”
“You and me!” I thrust my finger between us. “That memory of boobs that makes me rock-hard like a horny fifteen-year-old every single time I get a flash of it. That was your first time. With me!”
Oh gosh.
I got aroused at a memory of my own boobies. Whhhhhhy?
Henry stands then, quick as flash, and scowls down at me defensively. “And?”
Oh no.
I’m right. That explicit, erotic, incredible memory that keeps flashing in my mind is Henry’s recollection of making love with me.
I flush hot. Flames lick over my skin. I tug at my collar. “I can’t believe this.”
“What? Why? Are women the only ones allowed to be virgins? They’re the only ones who can have a first time?” Henry glares at me, arms cross over his chest, pink dress flaring around him. The fuchsia hat tilts precariously, the feathers bobbing.
I stand too, feeling ridiculous for sitting cross-legged on the rug while he scowls down at me, a petite pink-dress-wearing woman angry at the injustice of virginity politics.
Well, I’m upset too. “You should’ve told me!”
“I did,” he says. “I said, I don’t ever do this.”
“‘I don’t ever do this’ is a million miles away from ‘I’ve never done this.’”
He lifts up his hands. “Fine. Yes. Thank you, Ducky. You took my virginity and then you broke my heart. How’s that? Now I’ve told you!”
Henry’s chest heaves, his cheeks pinken, and he looks like the epitome of a spurned innocent, deflowered and unjustly tossed aside by the philandering rake, a.k.a. tall, handsome, manly me.
For crying out loud.
And . . . oh no. Are those tears? Is he crying?
“Don’t cry,” I say, holding out my hand. “Henry, don’t cry.”
Henry sniffs. “I’m not. I never cry.”
A tear slips from the corner of his eye, falling down his cheek and leaving a trail of mascara. Another tear falls and Henry sniffs, his lips wobbling.
“I don’t ever cry,” he says, shaking his head. He wipes at his wet cheeks, smearing the mascara, and gives a little hiccup-sob. He looks at me, pure mortification in his expression. “I don’t cry.”
And that’s when I remember the date, and I know exactly why Henry is crying. “I’m really sorry, but you do now.”
Henry is about to experience all the wonderful joys of my menstrual cycle. It should hit tomorrow or the next day, right after he’s had a crying jag, a load of cramps, bloating, and extreme cravings for peanut butter and chocolate.
“Serena?”
I walk to the desk, grab a tissue, then decide on the entire box. Knowing my cycle, he’ll probably need it. I once went through two boxes of tissues the night before my period while watching The Wrath of Khan.1
I hand him the box and he mumbles a thank-you, then he noisily blows his nose. I look away, frowning at that leering suit of armor. What a Peeping Tom. He’s privy to all sorts of drama, isn’t he?
“Are you all right?” I ask after Henry’s had a moment to dab his eyes and blow his nose.
He nods. “I don’t know what happened. Sorry.”
Should I tell him?
Yes? No?
Maybe we’ll switch back by the morning.
“My period is due,” I blurt out.
Henry’s hand drops and the tissue flutters to the floor.
“That’s why you’re crying.” I shrug. “Sorry.”
His hand curls, fingers closing around the tissue box. But then his grip relaxes. He takes a deep breath and says, “You never told me why you lied about that night. I want to understand. Let me understand.”
It clicks then. Maybe if I tell him, if we understand each other, we’ll switch back and we can put all this behind us. I can go back to my life. Henry can go to Chicago. Maybe it wasn’t the kiss that made us almost switch back. Maybe it was the growing understanding between us.
I nod. “All right. I asked my friends at the pub to help . . . dissuade you, because . . .”
Henry waits, his chin tilted, cheeks covered in smeared mascara and tear stains. I don’t want to hurt him, at least not more than I already have, but if he has to understand . . .
“I don’t want love. I’ve never wanted love. Feeling anything for you was a complication I didn’t want. You saw one flash of one moment. You didn’t get the aftermath when all I wanted was to leave. I realized you were going to be working with me and I didn’t want anything to go further, so I . . . put a stop to it. I’m sorry it was so, well, badly done. I can’t go back. I would if I could. I’d tell you thank you, but no thank you. I think love ruins people, it kills them and their individuality, it takes away their dreams and robs them of their careers. I think love is a mistake. So . . . that’s about all you need to know to understand me.”
I nod, feeling sick to my stomach, as if I’ve just swallowed spoiled milk and it’s burning my throat and curdling on its way down. I want to throw up, especially with the way Henry’s looking at me.
It’s the way he looked at me that night at The Cock and Bull when I turned him away. It’s how he looked at me the first day he saw me at ATLAS. It’s not at all like the warm, laughing expression he’s had since we switched. The expression that’s been there to comfort me and reassure me and make sure I keep hope.
“I’m sorry,” I say, my voice—no, Henry’s voice—breaking. “It’s not pretty, but it’s me.”
Henry shakes his head, the fuchsia feathers drooping listlessly. “Do you know why I’m leaving ATLAS?”
I don’t. And I’m not sure I want to know either.
“It’s because I can’t keep coming to work every day seeing you. I thought I could. I thought I’d get over you. But I didn’t. Seeing you every day, watching you work in your messy, chaotic office, arguing with you over theories, listening to your convoluted stories about Star Trek, hearing your laughter in the hallways, smelling your mint-and-apple perfume in the break room and knowing you’d just been there—it didn’t make me get over you. It made me fall even more in love. Every damn day. I can’t keep on. I couldn’t keep on. That’s why I wanted to go to windy, cold, not-enough-tea-to-warm-you Chicago. Because it hurt falling in love. At first it felt like flying, then it just felt like falling and crashing over and over and over again. But now . . .” He holds out his hand. “Now I’m here. You’re here. And it’s still the same. I love you, and you . . .”
He waits for me to say something. Anything.
To say, I love you too.
I fell in love that night and I haven’t stopped.
But I can’t. It wouldn’t be true.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, my voice a desert, barren and dry.
We stand in shrouded silence, the gray light of dusk folding around us. If I could cry, I would, but like Henry says, he never cries.
Instead I reach out, take a tissue, and wipe the mascara and tear tracks from Henry’s face. “I never meant to hurt you. I like you, very much, but I can’t love you. I made a mistake, but since then I’ve only tried to do the right thing.”
Henry reaches up and closes his fingers around my wrist. My pulse throbs beneath his hand. I pause, leave the tissue pressed to his cheek.
“It’s funny,” he says. “Sometimes we can do everything right, not make a single mistake, and we still fail. We can do everything right and still lose everything.”
“Maybe. But not this time. You said we’ll figure it out, and I promised you that you wouldn’t lose your family or yourself.”
He drops my wrist then. Breaks our connection. “Right.”
I sigh, stepping back.
A ringing chime sounds from my luggage. I turn toward the noise.
It’s my phone—the ringtone for my parents.
They call twice a month: the second and fourth Sundays at 4 p.m. Geneva time. We talk for exactly thirty minutes. My parents update me on the shows they’re watching, my dad’s projects around the house, and what my mom will cook for Sunday dinner.
This isn’t the second or the fourth Sunday of the month, and it’s not 4 p.m. Geneva time.
I hand Henry the phone, a niggling fear sprouting in my chest.
“It’s my parents. Can you please answer it?”
His brow wrinkles at the tension in my voice, but then he nods. “Hello?”
His face freezes, becoming as smooth as ice, his stance like a statue. He stands still, makes a noise, then another, and then he says, “Yes. I’m coming. I’ll be there.”
When he turns to me I take a step back, frightened of what he’s about to say.
It reminds me of when I was a kid, four years old. I had a pet hamster. I named her Sally and I carried her in my coat pocket, stroking her soft fur and wrapping my hand around her warmth. I fed her pellets and sang her made-up songs and told her she was my best friend. Then one morning when I woke up she was lying in her wood shavings, and she was stiff and cold. My dad came in while I was standing there poking and prodding her, trying to get her to wake up. There was something that I knew but didn’t want to acknowledge. But when I looked up at my dad and saw the lines around his mouth and the grave expression in his eyes, I knew. I knew, but I thought if I could keep him from saying it, it wouldn’t be true. That it was the words that made it happen. It took me a long time to forgive my dad for saying, “She’s dead.”
It’s like that now. My heart pounds, my skin is clammy, and sweat beads and slides in cold fingers down my neck. Henry looks at me with knowledge in his eyes—knowledge I don’t want spoken. But I’m older now, and I know saying it out loud or not saying it out loud doesn’t change the reality.
“What?” I say, my lips numb.
“It was your dad,” he says. “Your mom had a heart attack. She’s in surgery. He asked that you come. They don’t know if she’ll make it.”