Page 16 of Parallel

For a moment, my jaw hangs open, stunned into speechlessness. The fact that the doctor is named Nick could be a coincidence. But the swimming? London? That seems like a few too many coincidences. And if it’s him, if it’s really him…is he a lot older? I was dreaming about Nick when I was toddler. Which means he’d be pushing sixty by now.

I take a deep breath. Jeff is standing there, waiting for a response from me and growing paler every second I don’t offer one. “Of course I’m not stalking him or seeing him,” I finally say. “I don’t even know who you’re talking about.”

He presses the base of his hand to his forehead. “Look. I just need the truth. Are you… Is there someone else?”

I blink once, twice, stalling for time. Looking for an answer that won’t be a lie. On one hand, I know I’ve done nothing wrong. On the other, there is definitely someone else, someone who may, possibly, exist. I’m not a dishonest person, but this isn’t a time when the whole truth will help anyone. “No. I’m not seeing anyone. Of course I’m not. And this whole thing is hard enough without you trying to make me feel bad about something crazy I said when I was sedated.”

His eyes close, and his teeth grind against each other. “It’s not just one crazy thing you said. It’s several. Plus the hickey last week.”

I bury my face in my hands. “It wasn’t a hickey! It was just a weird bruise.” I can’t believe this is still a thing, that it’s even a question. “My God, Jeff. Is our relationship really so fragile that this is the first conclusion you jump to?”

His shoulders sag. “No, it’s not. I’m sorry. Okay? I’m sorry. You just knew a lot about him, and if it was a coincidence, it was a bizarre one.”

I nod, restraining a thousand questions I would like to ask right now: what did the doctor look like? Was he our age? Our parents’ age? What was his last name? Did he know me too? I’m imprisoned by my inability to ask, by the fact that any question at all will trigger suspicion.

There’s a knock on the door and my head jerks toward it, my pulse racing. A nurse enters with dinner for me and I fall back into the pillow, struggling to hide my disappointment.

“You can have it,” I tell Jeff. “I’m not hungry.”

He shrugs and eats the bland meal without complaint, but that is just him—he takes what he’s given, he’s happy with it and he doesn’t ask for more. Nick, at least as I’ve imagined him, is not like that. He’s hungry—for knowledge and experience and competition. He’s hungry, most of all, for me. I grow wet just picturing that ferocity of his, the restrained violence in him when he flips me on my back and crawls over me.

Jeff looks up from his tray. “You okay?” he asks. “You’re all red.”

Jesus. My fiancé is sitting five feet from me in the freaking hospital and I’m fantasizing about someone else. “It’s hot in here,” I say, waving a hand in front of my face.

My God. What if it’s really Nick, my Nick, who walks in here tomorrow? What if he’s twice my age now? What if it isn’t him at all?

I find each of those possibilities equally terrifying.

Jeff has already left for work by the time I wake the next day, and that’s probably for the best, given that I’ve spent another night dreaming about Nick, and London.

Today I wake knowing it costs six pounds to take the Underground to Kensington. I know how to convert currency. I know that Covent Garden isn’t a garden at all but an outdoor mall, and that pants over there actually means underwear. And it’s different than things you’d learn from a book, or a show. I know these things, not as if I saw them, but as if I lived them.

I climb from the bed and grab the wedding binder out of my bag. I draw the shops at Covent Garden. I draw a rough map tracing the streets I would take to get to the Underground. The walk to University College. Then, grabbing my phone and ignoring the wealth of angry texts from Dee—who was expecting me back at work yesterday—I go online and type in Harley Street, Marylebone.

Before me a map appears, precisely matching my own.

I hit the button to see a photo of the street view and there, on the phone screen, is the exterior I drew a few days ago—Nick’s flat, white stucco and brown brick. An arched portico, double doors. I even got the bushes in front right.

I slam the sketchbook shut, feeling like I’m going to be sick. This isn’t possible, this isn’t possible. I’m seeing things, or this is some kind of extended dream. I open my eyes and the photo is still there on my phone, assuring me it happened.

There’s a light tap on the door, and Caroline walks in carrying a big bag in her left hand. “Hey, sicko,” she says, oblivious to my freak-out. “You scared the piss out of everyone yesterday.”

I force a smile. “Sorry. I hear I wasn’t such a fun travel companion on the way home.”

“No worries. The stories I’ll have after your bachelorette will make up for everything, especially since I told Trevor to move ahead with hiring the prostitutes.”

I laugh weakly and she swings the bag she’s carrying onto the bed. “I knew you’d be too freaked out about Dee’s wrath to go home to change, so I brought you toiletries and clothes.” She reaches inside it and hands me a smaller bag from Blue Mercury. “Plus a few other necessities.”

I peek inside: Bobbi Brown eyeliner, mascara, and gloss. “I love you so much.”

“More than Jeff?”

“Obviously. All he’s ever given me was this dumb ring.” I smile as I say it, but Caroline’s known me way too long not to pick up when something’s amiss.

“What’s up?” she asks. “I mean, aside from the fact that there’s obviously something wrong with your brain, that is.”

I bite my lip. I’ve had a long history of hiding my strangeness from people, even her. I know all too well it’s something even those who love me most are unable to accept. But I can’t keep dealing with this on my own. Sighing, I hand her the sketchpad.