The Love of Her Lives: A BRAND NEW unforgettable and utterly emotional summer romance (Must-read Rom

June, this year

I’m aware of being awake even before I open my eyes, as the light beyond my pale-red eyelids is so bright. I squint, opening them slowly, not yet quite sure where I am.

Or, for that matter, which multiverse I’m in.

Industrial ductwork — complete with hard-to-reach cobwebs — high over my head. Exposed brick walls, punctuated by a row of tall arched windows with distressed, peeling paint on their frames. But in a trendy way.

Of course — Rufus’s downtown loft. Well... our loft, theoretically, given that I’m apparently his wife.

I’m lying alone in an enormous, super-king-size bed with soft brown linen sheets. This place is a super-hip bachelor pad that bears very little trace of my — or Bonnie’s — decorative influence. It’s as if the me who married Rufus just moved in and got absorbed into his life.

I had found my way to my new home late last night, after recovering from my “sunstroke” at finding Bonnie and her previously dead parents at the Lake Bluff house. After my failed confession to Bonnie, I’d had to get out of there.

Finding the apartment had initially been a challenge, given that I couldn’t figure out the Android phone or whether I had “home” set in the Maps app, but I’d remembered Rufus’s downtown building from years ago, and found through an email search that my “home address” was the same converted warehouse unit.

Letting myself in at nearly midnight, I’d expected to find Rufus here and wondering why I was late home, just like Chris had done in New Buffalo. But the loft had been empty, with no sign of Rufus.

Just a hand-scrawled note on the concrete kitchen island, saying “Back in the morning — R.”

I’d taken the opportunity to poke around, examining the stylish furnishings, the vast black-and-white photographic prints of theatrical productions, and several expensive-looking tabletop sculptures. Nothing that reflects my own tastes, which lean more cute-rustic. It doesn’t even look like I live here, aside from my clothes in the closet, some of which I recognize, and my name on some of the mail near the door.

But at least Rufus is someone I already know, so I can anticipate what to expect when — if — he comes home.

And, let’s face it, he was always insanely hot.

I have to admit, there’s a part of me that’s feeling some anticipation at seeing him again. Sure, he was a deeply flawed man back at Northwestern, given he was sleeping with his much-younger student while living with someone else. But in this version of reality, he and I are married. The rules are very different now.

If I’m honest with myself, that’s why I decided to go “home” to Rufus, instead of taking the Masons up on their offer of their guest room for the night. I just had to see what this version of life is like.

And although it’s insane to be in this alternate life, it’s not as weird as I initially thought. I mean, I know Rufus. I’ve adored him before. I’ve wanted this life with him.

This version of reality at least feels reasonably safe — not entirely alien.

But what would it be like if I had found myself in a world where I live with someone I don’t recognize? Would I still have to go home with them, in the absence of any reasonable option? Would some kind of intrinsic muscle memory kick in, and make it easier to be with them, like it did with Chris?

I sit up in bed and swing my legs off the side. The concrete floors are cool beneath my bare feet. I pull on a floral silk robe that isn’t my usual style, and pad into the open-concept kitchen-living room, searching for coffee.

As I’m examining the contents of the built-in fridge, a key turns in the front door and it creaks open. I quickly shut the fridge door and pull my robe closed.

Rufus, his hair now considerably more salt than pepper, and sporting an overnight stubble that’s also partially gray, is riffling through the mail on the hallway console. I haven’t seen him since I graduated eight years ago, and he’s now in his mid-forties. He’s older, looking tired, but pretty much as handsome as ever. My stomach performs the same flutter it always did when I was twenty.

“Hi,” he says, not looking up.

“Uh, hi,” I reply. “I’m just making a coffee.”

“Mm-hmm. I ground some of the new beans before I went out yesterday — in the jar.” He finally looks up at me, but doesn’t smile.

I turn away, not wanting my face to betray me as an imposter, as if it might. Hopefully my instinct will take me to the right cabinets to find a mug, and it won’t look like I’ve never been in this kitchen before. Although, what I’m trying to achieve by pretending to be Rufus’s real wife, I’m not entirely sure.

A glimpse into the would-have-been, I guess.

I open the cabinet above the coffee machine. Right first time. “Where’d you get to last night?” I ask him, more out of a need to fill the silence than genuine curiosity. I pull out a mug and try to look natural making my coffee.

His voice is low. “Really, Mill? You’re asking me that now?” A pause. “I thought we had an understanding.”

Shit. I’ve messed up already.

I turn to face him, eyebrows raised. His brow is furrowed, dark. I hold up a hand. “Just making conversation. Sorry if I overstepped.”

His expression softens. “That’s okay. I accept the apology. You know how I appreciate it when you apologize.” He puts his mail and black cellphone on the island countertop, and holds out a hand. “Come here.”

I hesitate. What does he want? I’m right in front of him, talking to him.

“Come here,” he repeats, quieter, still holding out his hand. His slate-gray eyes tunnel into mine, and a flood of memories wash over me. The greatest sex of my life. My tiny single dorm-room bed, wrapped in white sheets and each other. Rufus screwing me, that very first time, on the fiberglass set on stage at Northwestern’s theater, late at night. Him going down on me — the first time anyone had done that — in a downtown hotel room, that one time we spent the whole night together. How I had screamed out with an orgasm like nothing I’d ever experienced before.

With a pull between my legs, I move around the kitchen island to meet him, and he grabs me by my waist, his arm inside my silk robe. This close, his breath is slightly bitter, and he smells of sex.

He always smelled of sex.

His stormy eyes roam my face, and then he yanks me in for a rough, hard kiss. Despite myself, the tug between my legs pulls harder, and the moisture makes itself known. Dammit, I still can’t resist the dark lure of this man.

But I’m here now. We’re married. And this was what twenty-year-old me had most wanted.

I kiss him back, and a chuckle rumbles through his chest. He knows he has me exactly where he wants me. No matter where he was last night.

He slips a long finger into my sleep shorts, and it meets wetness. He moves his kisses down to my neck as his fingers explore me and I writhe against the countertop. With his other hand, he lifts up my T-shirt and puts his mouth against my small breast, circling his tongue.

Jesus.

He laughs again as I gasp aloud, and stops to suddenly pull down my shorts and panties. He kneels on the cold concrete floor, lifting one of my feet onto the bar of a stool, exposing me fully. Then he buries his face between my legs and lets his tongue do the work, one hand still reaching up to my nipple.

As I reach orgasm, crying out, he immediately rises to lift me onto the counter, unzips his fly, and pushes himself into me. He only thrusts maybe a dozen times until he, too, comes with a violence I haven’t seen before, his face strained and contorted.

Rufus collapses against me in a move that’s both familiar and foreign, shaking his head.

“See what you still do to me?” he mutters.

I know this man well enough to know he’s not really looking for an answer. He often used to say that to me, back at Northwestern. “See what you do to me?”

Like it was me being so seductive that he couldn’t possibly have resisted.

There was a time that I would have found that rhetorical question romantic — a compliment. To be that desired. Now, only now, does it occur to me that it was his way of shifting blame.

Regret for having just had sex with him washes over me, as quickly as the desire had washed over me less than ten minutes ago.

Not for the first time following sex with Rufus, I’m left wondering what the hell I was thinking.

Rufus straightens up, running a hand through wavy hair that’s looking a little greasy, his brow set hard once more. I slip off the countertop, lifting my panties and shorts back on and pulling my robe closed.

He pulls his pants up from below his butt but doesn’t zip them, and moves away. “I need a shower. Then I’m heading out again — to check on the new set build, since you’re apparently so curious about my whereabouts, all of a sudden. And I’ll be gone all night, so don’t wait up.” His tone is as icy as when he arrived.

Guess he only softens his manner when his dick hardens.

I watch him tread into the bedroom, and listen to the sound of the shower being turned on.

How in the world did I end up being married to this guy, where he chose me over Professor Amy? Maybe this is simply the version of reality where she dumped him for being a cheating asshole, like she should have in my world.

Even if Amy dumped him and he and I ended up in a legitimate relationship, how could I have ignored every red flag to get to the point of marrying him? Bonnie and Ben surely would’ve advised me against it.

But I also know the answer to that. It’s entirely possible that I would have remained blinded by my infatuation for him, and Bonnie and Ben would have known that I would only dig in if they tried to interfere. At least they didn’t fall out with me about it, and we stayed friends in this reality.

It seems like the me in this life may still be blinded by him — her judgment as poor as mine ever was.

What was that he’d said earlier — that they had some kind of agreement about her not asking where he’d been? Is she just turning a blind eye to... whatever he was doing?

Am I — is she — a downtrodden, possibly even emotionally abused wife, trapped in a don’t-ask-don’t-tell marriage with a serial womanizer? Probably a sex addict?

Something else he’d said earlier is niggling at me, too.

“You know how I appreciate it when you apologize.”

Yep, if I’m honest, I remember that about him. Nothing is ever his fault — and he genuinely believes that to be true. Zero self-awareness.

Classic traits of a narcissistic personality disorder.

Why did I never see it before? Rufus is a raging narcissist.

Jesus Christ, why did I just let him screw me?

Beside me, on the countertop, his black cellphone pings. I glance at it, then up at the bedroom door. The shower is still running.

I pick up his phone, and a text preview is clearly visible across the top, from someone called Chantel.

Thanks for last night, sexy. Miss you already. See you next weekend when you’re back in town. Xoxo

I mean. It was already obvious, but now it’s confirmed that the guy is screwing around on his wife. And I just had unprotected sex with someone who slept with someone else mere hours ago, which isn’t even safe. Married or not.

This trip down what-might-have-been lane is rapidly becoming an I’m-really-glad-it-wasn’t revelation.

I need to get out of here. Even if that means jumping into yet another universe. I can’t stay where I’m clearly being cheated on and belittled by my husband.

But what about the Millie who really is married to Rufus? I don’t know how this multiverse stuff works, but I have to presume that if I step out of this reality, she’ll resume her life. And I really don’t want any version of me to put up with this bullshit. She may still be blinded — we all know how hard it is for chronically mistreated women to leave relationships — but I’m perfectly able to see this situation for what it is.

Maybe I can try to save her before I leave.

I tap on the text, and it pops open on Rufus’s phone, without even a password to protect it. Arrogant shit.

The running water of the shower stops. I don’t have much time.

I type a reply into the text field.

Hi Chantel. I don’t know if you know that Rufus is married, but this is his wife, Millie. I found your text on his phone. I’m leaving him, so he’s all yours, but you should know he’s an asshole who WILL cheat on you. And I know he’s spending the night with someone tonight, and from your text it’s clearly not you. So he’s cheating on us both. I wish you luck.

I hit send, then immediately second-guess myself. What if Rufus is also physically abusive, and hurts me — or the other me — for sending that text?

I have to get out of here right now. And I have to find a way to get a message to the other me, in this life, after I’m out of it.

Notes — that’s the best way. I always use the Notes app on my phone to jot down ideas and thoughts — maybe she does, too. I can maybe get a message to her that way.

Rufus walks into the kitchen, now dressed in a black T-shirt and blue jeans, running a hand through his wet hair. He looks every inch the cool theater professor.

Shame the man is such a dick.

“You getting dressed today, or what?” he asks, a slight sneer curling his lip. He doesn’t wait for me to answer. “I gotta run — I’m meeting the set designer at noon, and she hates it when I’m late.”

Female set designer, huh? That tracks.

He grabs his cellphone and keys from the island, walks to the door, and slips on some sneakers. Not even the pretense of a marital kiss goodbye. “See you tomorrow.” He lets the front door slam behind him.

Okay. Now I have some space. But hold up — if “Chantel” replies to my text on his phone, he could be back here any second, in a rage. I’ve got to get out of here, and quick. And I need to make sure the other version of me doesn’t ever come back.

Despite desperately needing a shower, I hurry to throw on yesterday’s clothes and stuff a bunch of others into a weekend bag, along with a large wash bag of toiletries and cosmetics, the passport from the dresser, and the phone charger by the bed. She’ll need this stuff to be in the Honda, if she’s going to be able to run.

I’m working under the assumption that she’ll find herself outside the Masons’ basement door once I’ve slipped into the next world — if the multiverse shift works again, of course. Hopefully she’ll be able to take refuge with the Masons at the Lake Bluff house.

As long as she knows she must.

I grab my own keys and the floral cellphone, pick up a jacket from the hallway closet, despite the warmth of the day — who knows how long she’ll be without her stuff? — and slip out of the apartment. I’d parked the Honda a couple of blocks away, so if Rufus is still in the basement parking garage, having discovered my betrayal and stewing in fury, he won’t catch me leaving.

I break into a run out of the building and down the street, into the refuge of the Honda. I throw the bag into the back seat and set off, this time knowing exactly where I’m going.

Back to Lake Bluff.

Back to the basement door, and hopefully home. Or maybe, like last time, it’ll be yet another version of my life — where who-knows-what will be happening? Hopefully not worse than a sex-addicted, narcissistic husband who I’ve just spectacularly pissed off.

Driving the familiar highway north out of the city, my racing mind wanders back to that night with Stephen, on our office roof deck.

Infinite universes . . . infinite possible lives . . .

There are literally any number of universes, and versions of my own life, that I could wander into. And yes, the one I’m escaping is not great, given the toxic relationship I’m in. But in reality, it could be even worse. A lot worse. Like I said to Stephen that night, I’m not a crack addict on the streets.

There will be versions of reality where I am a crack addict on the streets. And ones where I’m suffering from a horrible disease, or a debilitating condition. One where I’m horribly beaten and abused, worse than anything Rufus would do.

An infinite number of lives so bad that I can’t even imagine them.

Every step through that basement door is a monumental risk.

But surely, for every horrible life that’s out there, there must be good lives too, right? Better than being with Rufus.

Maybe I can quickly escape the bad ones, knowing that I have an escape hatch, and find my way to a good one. And maybe, just maybe, help some of the versions of me who are in a bad spot, bringing my fresh perspective to their lives, before moving on to find a better version.

Because there’s one thing that is increasingly gnawing at me, filling my body with a chilling sense of dread.

That I might not be going home to my own world any time soon. If ever.

After all, going back through the door last time didn’t take me home, it just took me to another new life. So, given the infinite possibilities, what makes me think I’ll ever get back to my own, or even find one that’s similar enough not to know the difference? The chances are infinitesimally tiny.

Even if I did find my home reality, how would I know that it was really the one I left? There could be an infinite number of worlds almost identical to mine in every aspect other than a single grain of sand or a blade of grass being in a slightly different place. There could be literally no way to tell if a world is really the one I came from.

Unless I somehow intrinsically know when I’m home. But it could take forever for that to happen — if at all.

“Home isn’t a place, it’s a feeling.”

Isn’t that what the Masons’ poster said?

My chest heaving with a sudden sob, I turn off the highway and onto the Lake Forest road where I crashed into the hedge a few days and one universe ago.

I may never get my real life back. The one where I have a cute little rental studio downtown, and the best friendship in Bonnie, and where Ben isn’t disappointed in my choices, and where things aren’t perfect, but life is safe and easy.

I pull over onto the verge at the first opportunity, and let the tears come, resting my head on the steering wheel.

If I can’t find my home, then what? Keep going through the door until I find one that’s good enough?

And why that basement door? Why has it suddenly become my portal to alternate versions of my life? I mean, yes, it’s the door I used to enter the Lake Bluff home for the first time, that Labor Day weekend before we started Northwestern. My life definitely changed that day, when the Masons embraced me into their family. I met Ben for the first time when I went through that door. Maybe that’s significant.

But another thought is starting to tug at me — something from my conversation with Stephen the night of our office party. Something I’d considered while we were tipsily pondering alternate realities.

Somewhere, we’re together.

I lift my head off the wheel.

That’s it.

Maybe I shouldn’t even be looking to get back to my home life. Maybe this is my chance to find a better version of my life — the one I’ve wanted, the one where I met Stephen first. Where I said yes to astrophysics club, and joined a different singing group. Where Stephen fell in love with me, not Eve. And I never got to know Rufus. Where Stephen and I are together, and happy, right now.

Of course, I’ve no idea how many versions of reality I might have to go through to find such a life. It could take hundreds. Thousands. Millions. Infinite.

And each time I’ve gone through the basement door, it resets to Friday evening of the long June weekend.

I may never age.

I may be stuck in an eternal cycle of multiverses, trying to find the one where Stephen and I are happy.

I laugh aloud, despite myself, slightly manically.

I mean, Stephen is a great guy, but after trying about a hundred lives — many of which could easily be much crappier than what I’m used to, and some perhaps even scary — surely I’d give up on him and just stick with something halfway decent to live out my days? I can’t keep trying forever, right?

I pull back out onto the road and join the traffic heading towards Lake Bluff. It’s weird, but I almost feel better now that I have the beginnings of an insane, ridiculous plan.

Try to find my life with Stephen, while maybe helping out other versions of me along the way. With the caveat that I won’t do it forever, and may choose to give up when I find a livable life.

And try not to lose my mind in the process.

Within twenty minutes, I’m parked a few hundred yards down from the Masons’ house. I’ll have to sneak in without them seeing that I’m back, less than twenty-four hours after I left them. But at least I know the gate code in this world.

One more really important thing to do before I switch lives again. Get a message to the Millie who’s married to Rufus to not go back home, and to leave him forever. Who knows if she will listen to me, or believe any of this? But I can surely make her believe that Rufus is furious, as it won’t be long before he finds out about the text I sent to Chantel, and he’ll be calling and texting to find out where his wife is.

As if to help me out, the phone tinkles in its floral case. A text from Rufus, as I predicted.

Not an expression of rage. Tight, controlled. Almost scarier.

Where are you? I need to talk to you. I came back home but you weren’t there. Call me asap.

I blow out a big breath, and hit reply.

Hey, I’m out for the afternoon. Didn’t think you were coming home today. What’s up?

The reply is almost instantaneous.

Where are you? We need to talk about something urgent.

I need to send him as far away from Lake Bluff as possible. If he gets wind of me coming to the Masons’ house, he might arrive here right when a bewildered version of me is left outside the basement door, and take her home to God-knows-what punishment. I need to make up a story to throw him off my scent.

Sure! I went out today to visit a friend from work in New Buffalo. She needs me right now — boyfriend trouble. Back in time for dinner if you want to talk.

Hopefully he hasn’t put a tracker on my car and knows I’m lying — presumably not, or he’d already be following me here. He’s probably accustomed to a docile, compliant wife, not the rebellious one he got today.

Just one quick reply.

Please make sure you are home by then. I’ll be waiting.

Hopefully he’ll be waiting a long time for his wife to come home. Hopefully forever.

I open the Notes app on the phone, and find countless notes stored within. Shopping lists, to-do lists, recipes, ideas. Way more than even I use it for. She probably uses this much more than handwritten lists, as the phone can only be opened by passcode or facial recognition. It’s probably the only safe place she can record things privately.

There’s a directory titled “Mine” with a series of documents inside it.

Lists of dates, with notes next to them such as “out all night” and then sometimes a woman’s name next to that. Often with a question mark next to the name.

A list of women’s names, with Chantel as the second-last entry, and Nichole — whoever she is — after that. Maybe the set designer?

This world’s version of me has been tracking Rufus’s infidelities.

This gives me some encouragement. Maybe she was already mustering the courage to leave, and was collecting the evidence she would need for a divorce on the grounds of adultery.

I can only hope that’s true, and that what I’ll tell her today will finally sway her.

I open a new note, and title it “!! READ ME!!” so that it appears at the top of her list of documents.

Dear Millie,

This is the most impossible thing I’ve ever written, given that it’s to me from... me. I am also Millie. I am you, only another version of you, who has unwittingly traveled into your version of life, and lived it for less than twenty-four hours.

Yes, the multiverse is a real thing, and there are infinite possible versions of ourselves. But I have no time to go into that now. Just please believe me, and believe this is real. For example, only I could know about the time I was ten years old and stole the money out of the fountain in Briars Park, and then felt so terrible that I later put it all back plus my savings, then Dad was furious I’d spent all my piggy bank money. I never told anyone that. Yes, it’s really me. Really you.

I can’t possibly explain how all this works. I just need to tell you that there are better lives than the one you are living now. I know that YOU know your husband is a liar, a cheat, and a narcissistic asshole. I don’t know how badly he has treated you, but I know it’s not good. I don’t know why you’re still with him, but I do understand his allure, and how he can make you feel like the most amazing person in the world while also being totally worthless and nothing without him. I get that, truly.

But you are strong, and you can leave him. And now you must — he’s really mad at me, and therefore you, as I told one of his mistresses that he was married. He’s furiously waiting for me — you — to go home, and I don’t know what he’ll do. You can NEVER GO BACK.

I’ve packed an overnight bag for you, in the back seat of the Honda, which is parked a little way down the street (in case you read this before you find the car).

Knock on the Masons’ front door — Bonnie should be there, too, she’s staying there this weekend — and tell them you’ve left Rufus. They will give you safe harbor. Then, for God’s sake, divorce that asshole. You’ve got a great cache of dates of his infidelities, so I have to believe you were already planning to leave.

I won’t be back. Go live your life, and make it a better one. I wish you all the joy in the universe.

Millie

I close the phone and stuff it in my pocket. In case she finds the car before she goes to her notes, which is more than likely, I grab an opened envelope and pen from my purse, and scrawl a handwritten note “CHECK YOUR PHONE NOTES ASAP — URGENT!!” and leave it on the dash where she can’t avoid seeing it. That way she won’t miss my letter and drive home to an ambush.

Now I’ve done all I can for her, and it’s time to fix me. Or, at least, go onto the next version of me — whatever that is.

I lock up the Honda, put the keys in my other pocket, and walk up to the Masons’ gate. I step up onto the flat rock by the pillar to see if I can gauge who’s home. Bonnie’s car is there, as it was when I left last night, along with the Masons’ cars and another gray one I don’t recognize. Probably another guest — maybe Ben. It looks like something Ben might drive.

The flutter of laughter on the breeze drifts towards me. Sounds like there’s a small party on the deck — which makes sense, given it’s such a hot day.

If I’m gonna be stuck in a three-day time loop, cycling through multiverses, thank goodness it’s nice weather. Unless there’s a universe where I’ve managed to affect the weather through some kind of butterfly effect, but I doubt it.

I’m almost chuckling to myself as I key in 0214 into the gate, and wince as it opens with a metallic clang. Hopefully nobody heard. I also need to be careful not to crunch loudly on this gravel drive.

I step across quietly and slowly, jumping the last bit onto the side lawn. As I descend the slope, the voices on the deck are much clearer. Angela and Frank, laughing. Bonnie, excitedly exclaiming about something, her voice high. A low voice, then — Ben’s.

I stop at the door, listening to him. There’s a laughter in his voice, too — I can’t quite make out what he’s saying, but I can tell it’s his storytelling voice. He’s on a roll with some kind of tale, and Bonnie is chiming in.

It takes all I have not to abandon my multiverse-seeking strategy, and simply go join them on the deck. I could stay in this world, and leave Rufus myself, divorce him myself. Live this life, where things aren’t so bad, and the Masons are alive, and Bonnie and Ben are my friends.

I let the low rumble of Ben’s voice wash over me. I always feel safe when Ben’s around.

It would be so easy, it’s so tempting, to just go up via the deck steps.

Then another voice. Female, higher-pitched, a little more nasal.

Amber.

Shit. I forgot that Ben’s married to Amber in this version of reality.

Suddenly, the prospect of joining the Masons on the deck is a lot less appealing.

Back to the plan. Anyways, I can’t lose my chance to find that perfect life I’ve been looking for, right? The one I’ve wished for, for so many years. A life with Stephen.

I tug hard on the basement door, and it comes towards me with its multiverse-portal-opening whoosh.

I step inside.