Page 39 of Parallel

His jaw flexes. “Why the hell are you still there? How exactly is it too complicated for you to get your architecture degree? Because it seems kind of simple to me.”

I let my head fall back against the seat and close my eyes. It’s hard to argue on behalf of something I’m not certain of myself. “From a financial standpoint, it doesn’t make sense. I’d be thirty or thirty-one when I finished, and to do what I actually want to do, I’d need a master’s degree. Which means four or five years during which I’m not producing an income.”

“I get it,” he says. “It’s intimidating enough to take money out for student loans without losing your income in addition to it, but long-term you’ll earn it back.”

I suck my lip in between my teeth. “Actually, I inherited some money from my dad. Enough to cover school, at least undergrad.” I could explain why our living expenses are such a concern, but I don’t want to throw Jeff under the bus. Nick already seems to think very little of him and telling him about Jeff’s job history won’t improve that. “But we have a mortgage that requires both our incomes. And Jeff really wants to use the inheritance on a down payment for a bigger place, which is probably the smarter thing to do.”

His nostrils flare. “Do you want a bigger place? Or wait, let me rephrase that: do you want a bigger place more than you want the degree?”

No.

The answer reverberates in my chest. Would I like a bigger place, one with hardwood floors and a new kitchen and a bathroom big enough for both of us? Sure. But I don’t hunger for it the way I do that degree. It doesn’t make my heart beat hard at the thought. When I think of getting a new place, I feel more resigned than anything else. “Probably not,” I say quietly. “But if I only have a few years to live, does it really matter whether I got the degree I wanted?”

“It’s possible you’ll have more than a few years, but that’s really a question only you can answer: does it matter?”

My gaze turns toward the window, at the dense wall of trees outside, almost close enough to touch. Does it matter? The practical part of me says no. But there’s another voice inside me, something wild and hopeful. And it says fuck it. I want this. I want that life I’ve been dreaming about, even if it will amount to nothing. Even if it can’t include Nick.

“You were already at Georgetown and I assume you had good grades,” he says, as if he can hear my internal argument. “Why not check and see if they won’t let you just slide into classes this fall? And if that fails, I know a few people we could talk to.”

I’m like a shaken bottle of seltzer, bubbling up inside but not quite stable. I can’t believe we’re discussing this—not as a hypothetical, not as a someday it’s possible, but as something that really could happen. Jeff will not be pleased, but for the first time in my life, I sort of don’t care. “I’ll think about it.”

“I know it’s none of my business, but you’re my best patient. I want you to be happy.”

I laugh. “Best?”

His smile lifts high on one side. “Okay, the only patient who held my hand when we met and told me we were married.”

Argh. I’m never going to live that down. I cover my face. “You weren’t supposed to mention that! It’s so humiliating.”

His hand brushes mine, back to back, a quick but intentional sweep. “It’s not humiliating. It’s eerie, since you were so accurate. And cute. Maybe the only time eerie and cute have been combined together. But speaking of bizarre things you seem to know, did you have any more dreams last night? I’m still waiting to hear what retirement community we end up in.”

I laugh. “That might be too boring for me to remember when I wake up. No, last night, it was just us walking around some campus I’ve never been to. And the bad dream…the one in the hospital. I had it again.”

“I can’t get my head around that one,” Nick finally says. “That I’m in it. Maybe you saw something that’s going to happen in the future.”

It’s occurred to me too, but it just doesn’t add up. “You and I are together in that dream, but in real life, you’re with someone and I’m about to get married, so it can’t be the future.”

“No one’s married to anyone just yet,” he replies quietly, and my heart begins that odd, fluttering rhythm. Half terror and half excitement. I shouldn’t be in this car, I shouldn’t even be entertaining the idea of cancelling the wedding. But I also can’t deny that when Nick suggests it, I feel…set free. And I think maybe I haven’t felt that way in a very long time.

We pull into Princeton just after eleven. Dr. Grosbaum’s house, with its crooked shutters and the abundance of dying plants in the front yard, does not inspire optimism.

“You sure you want to do this?” Nick asks.

I square my shoulders. “Yeah.”

He reaches out, his hand brushing my cheekbone, resting there for a single beat. “Hey,” he says. “It’s going to be okay.”

I feel a sudden burst of love for him in this moment, warm as the sun. I love that he came here, even though he thinks this is a wild goose chase. I love that he’s willing to support me, just for me, when it will cause him nothing but trouble. “Thank you for doing this.”

His fingers trail away, a hair’s breadth from my mouth—I kind of wished they’d stayed—and he smiles. “Even if this doesn’t amount to much, I’m glad I got this time with you.”

We walk to the door together. I knock, and after a few breathless moments we hear shuffling coming from inside the house. The door opens and Dr. Grosbaum appears—looking far older than I’d have expected for a man of his age. Though he’s probably in his early sixties, he could easily pass for seventy-five. It’s less about age, I think, than that he’s so grave and unkempt. His white hair is in desperate need of a trim, and he’s wearing clothing that should have been donated long ago. This trip just became even less promising, if possible.

We introduce ourselves, but he is glancing past us and doesn’t seem to be listening. “Come in,” he says. “Come in.”

We follow him into his office, Nick placing himself between us with his shoulders wide and his body tensed, like a lineman just before the snap. We sit patiently while he flips through a file on his desk. On the table behind him there’s a wedding photo, and it takes me a moment to realize the groom is Dr. Grosbaum because he looks so young and so…normal. His bride’s face is partially obscured, but it’s obvious they’re both radiantly happy. I wonder what went wrong, because I seriously doubt she’s still living here—this place hasn’t seen a woman’s touch in a good long time. I look around and realize there are pictures of that same woman all over his office. In each, her face is slightly unclear, but I can tell she’s young, and my initial disdain for him turns to pity. I assume she died, and it appears it wasn’t far into their marriage.

“So, you’re Quinn,” he says. “And who is your friend?”