Page 73 of Parallel

He rolls me on my back and for a brief time, I forget my fears, but later, when he’s sound asleep, his breathing deep and even, they all reemerge. I look at his face in the moonlight—the boyishness of those long lashes and full lips offset by the sharp jaw, already in need of a shave.

Should I tell him everything? I can’t. It will sound insane, and he’ll never believe me. I figured out the truth months ago and I hardly believe it myself. But I can’t lose him again.

“I’m not going to let her separate us,” I promise him quietly. “Not this time.”

My mother knocks on the door, waking me. I’m so stunned by the dream I don’t even respond the first time she calls my name. I was pregnant.

“Quinn,” she says, more urgently. “I’m starting dinner. Are you up?”

I blink rapidly. “Yeah,” I reply. “I’ll be down in a second.”

I was pregnant. I remember the feel of a baby kicking as I watched Nick sleep. Less like a kick than a bubble popping against my side, repeatedly. I can still feel the warmth inside me as I placed my hand there. I loved that child and now I miss her—I feel certain it was a her—almost as much as I miss Nick. We were a family, and I made him promises—that I’d find him, that I wouldn’t let her separate us again. How could we have been so much in that life and so little in this one?

I go downstairs, distress weighing heavily on me. My mother seems to interpret it as repentance. “Nothing’s been done that can’t be undone, honey,” she says softly. “It’ll be fine. Everyone knows you’re going through a lot.”

I lay my arms on the table and rest my forehead against them. “I haven’t changed my mind,” I tell her. “I’m just tired.”

She sinks into the chair across from me with a glass of wine. I wonder how many she’s had. Either way, it means the tears will start shortly. “I wish you would think this through,” she says.

My jaw falls open. “What on earth would make you think I haven’t?” I demand. I’ve tried to be patient with her, but this is getting ridiculous. “Why are you in Jeff’s corner so much? I’m the one you’re related to, not him.”

Her lips go tight, a flat line that makes them nearly invisible. “It was your father’s dying wish.”

A small ping of guilt. I ignore it. I’ve had this conversation with myself enough times. “Mom, he never encouraged it until he discovered he was dying. He just wanted to know I’d be taken care of.”

She is quiet, wrestling with something she’s not sure she should say. “You know things,” she says, her voice barely audible. “You always have. You know things you shouldn’t.”

I can feel my heart tapping, far too fast, at the base of my throat. We’ve never, ever discussed this. It’s how we both wanted it and I have no idea why she’s changing the rules now. I swallow. “I was just a weird kid,” I reply. “I had an imagination. Why are you even bringing this up?”

Her eyes meet mine. Saying if it was merely your imagination, it was a shockingly accurate one. “Sometimes your father knew things too,” she says, her gaze falling to the table. “Things about you. And the way he insisted at the end…it was like when you were a kid and he was so certain about your allergy before you’d ever had shellfish. He was certain about this too, and that’s what makes me think you should listen to him. Because it’s possible he knew something you don’t.”

It’s the same theory I suggested to Caroline yesterday, but now that I’ve made my decision, I don’t want to hear it.

“Jeff can’t protect me from a brain tumor,” I say softly. “Maybe Dad did know something, but what I’m certain of is that Jeff is no longer enough for me, and he’s not how I want to spend the time I have left.”

My mother knows what I’m saying makes sense. Yet I see in the way she swallows, tips her chin in a barely visible nod, that she still thinks my father was right.

Dinner is painfully quiet. My mother drinks throughout. She looks at me each time she pours herself a new glass, daring me to say something. I won’t, of course. Her five glasses of wine will hurt no one but herself. My decision this morning hurt tons of people.

Her cell rings during dinner and she glances at it. “It’s Abby,” she says, not looking at me as she speaks. “She called earlier too. She said you were refusing to take Jeff’s calls. Please tell me that’s not true.”

I rub my forehead. I napped all afternoon, but this conversation makes me want to go straight back to bed. “Mom, I said everything there was to say this morning.” She gives me a baleful look and I sigh. “Let me listen to the 400 voicemails he’s left and maybe I’ll call after that.”

She excuses herself for the night, though it’s barely seven, taking a new bottle of wine with her, so I retire too. I know I need to listen to Jeff’s voicemails, but God I dread it. I can deal with his anger, but I cringe at the idea of his pain. Right now, I’ve got so much of my own, I’m not sure I can handle his on top of it.

I shower, dry my hair, and dawdle as much as possible before I finally turn on the phone. My heart sinks when I see there are well over a hundred texts.

And stops entirely when I see the most recent one is from Nick.

Nick: Quinn, I’m going crazy. Please just answer me. I need to know you’re okay.

He sent it 15 minutes ago. And he texted an hour before that. I scroll through all the messages from Jeff and discover Nick began texting me at ten this morning. Maybe he was just trying to warn me about his change of heart. Maybe he wanted to make sure I didn’t show up at the lake and ruin his reunion.

Or maybe, just maybe, he’s the guy I thought he was all along.

35

NICK