Page 51 of Parallel
I laugh. “Yeah.”
I rinse off and emerge a few minutes later in a hotel robe. His eyes drift over me before he looks away. I guess what I’ll be sleeping in here once I remove the robe isn’t exactly lost on him, but it’s not like I can sleep in the dress I wore towork.
“You’re all done in there?” heasks.
I nod, hiding a yawn behind the back of my hand. “I’m so tired, I may be sound asleep by the time you’reout.”
His grin lifts high on one side. “Maybeyou’reat fault for our unmemorablehoneymoon.”
The truth is that I have no specific memory of sleeping with him. Just the build up to it, the heaviness of anticipation in the base of my stomach, a small beating heart between my legs. And it’s probably for the best that I can’t remember more than that—the last thing I need is one more way in which real life is unsatisfactory. “No, I feel certain it was you,” I reply, perching on the edge of the bed. “Maybe you wereimpotent.”
“If you rememberthat,” he says, with a look that makes my whole core clench tight, “you are definitely not rememberingme.”
* * *
By the timehe gets done in the bathroom, I’m in bed with the lights off. There’s just enough moonlight in the room to reveal that he is all muscle, and he’s filling out those boxer briefs in a way that would make Trevorsalivate.
“I just saw yourunderwear.”
I see a flash of teeth. “They’re boxers. It’s like seeing me inshorts.”
“Hmmm. Interesting you think so. Expect my friend Trevor to be stopping by the hospital on casual Fridays from nowon.”
He climbs into bed, the sheets pulled haphazardly to the bottom of his rib cage. I can make out the definition of his arms, even in the dim light. I’m torn equally between guilt and a desire to look somemore.
He rolls toward me. “We have somehow avoided talking about the most glaringly obvious subject,” hesays.
“The fact that we are currently sharing a hotel room?” I ask. “I thought we’d be better off pretending that wasn’t thecase.”
“Since it could get me fired, you’re probably right. But I was referring to the fact that two different, unrelated people have told us over the past few days that you can timetravel.”
It hasn’t been far from my head either. “I’m finding it all a little hard to believe,” I reply. “I’m 28. It seems like any magical powers I have should’ve kicked in bynow.”
“Rose said you might not even realize you’re doing it, though,” hecounters.
I wave my hand at his words, shooing them away. “How could anyonenot realizethey were timetraveling?”
He pushes up a bit, his elbow bent, his head supported by his forearm. I wonder if he has any idea just how good he looks like that. “You’ve been thinking you were dreaming all these times when you go back to see me, right?” he asks. “Have you ever dreamed something else and had it wind up comingtrue?”
I hesitate. Swallow down the crazy impulse to tell him things I swore as a child I’d keep to myself. “Yes, but everyone does. That’s justcoincidence.”
“Okay, what about this Rule of Threes thing? There must be somethingthere.”
“How could there be?” I ask. “I mean, I have an aunt I’ve never met on my dad’s side, but as far as I know, she never had kids, and I have an uncle on my mom’s side, but he’s gay. And even if my aunt did have kids, and it kicked this whole thing into play, why would she mess with my timeline? Why not just killme?”
He laughs. “Good to know howyou’dhandle thesituation.”
I smile at him in the darkness. “I’m not saying I would. But you know I’m right. If she needs me out of the picture and wants to take my spark or whatever, she could do so pretty damn easily. What good would changing my timeline doanyway?”
His voice is soft when he finally replies. “It might keep you from meetingme.”
We both fall silent, and the sudden absence of sound underscores something I’m increasingly certain is true—I was meant to meet him. To remain with him. It’s happened before, it may be happening now…and someone is going out of her way to preventit.
“I wish Rose had been able to change things,” he saysquietly.
I wish she was too. When it all comes down to it, time traveling seems to have way more negatives than positives. You can’t keep anyone from dying, but you’re way more likely to wind up dead yourself. “I’m sorry she couldn’t help you…with yourbrother.”
“That isn’t why I was asking her about going back to save someone,” he says. Our gaze holds, locks, for half a second, my pulse racing. I wish for so many things right now. I want to live, I want to solve this. But mostly I want to cross over and slide into bed beside him, if only to press my head against his bare chest, feel his legs tangle withmine.