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

June, this year

I’m in the basement, in the dim light creeping in from the doors below the deck. But... it’s weird.

Electronic green spots flash before me, dazzling my left eye.

I turn my head away from them, but they follow me.

I shake my head, but they mimic my every move.

I blink, trying to refocus.

The lights crystallize, form into type. Words, floating in front of me, slightly to the left, but not so far that I can’t read them.

FRIDAY JUNE 16, 6:03PM

1274 CELESTINE DRIVE, LAKE BLUFF, IL 60044

[MORE INFO]

[GO TO MAPS]

[GO TO EMAIL]

[GO TO CONTEXTS]

What the fuck is that?

I blink again, several times rapidly, and the words change.

FRIDAY JUNE 16, 6:03PM

CONTEXTS — MOST RECENT:

EVAN CONTACT [TODAY 3:15PM]:

HONEY, PLEASE CONTEXT ME, WORRIED ABOUT YOU. YOU LEFT IN SUCH A WEIRD MOOD EARLIER, AND NOW YOUR CONTACT SAYS YOU FLEW TO O’HARE AND YOU’RE IN ILLINOIS??! DID YOU GO VISIT YOUR OLD FRIEND BONNIE? SHE’S THE ONLY PERSON I CAN THINK OF WHO LIVES AROUND THERE. PLS CONTXT ME AND LMK WHAT’S GOING ON. GALA IS TOMORROW NIGHT AND I NEED YOU BACK IN CALI. LOVE YOU.

What?

These words in my vision are totally disorienting, and a wave of dizziness washes over me.

I slump down onto a plastic-covered armchair, unable to stop myself blinking in rapid succession as I adjust to the type embedded in my left eye. The words change again, resuming their original text.

What the hell is in my eye that’s doing this? When I close my eye and move it around, I can ever-so-slightly feel something there — not uncomfortable, more like what I imagine a contact lens would feel like.

And what on earth does “context me” mean?

What crazy world am I in now?

This is nuts. I need to figure out where I am, whose house this is, and what’s going on.

Maybe the weird eye-words can tell me, though. Maybe they’ll be useful for something.

I blink twice, hard, and the [MORE INFO] text below the house’s address obligingly expands.

1274 CELESTINE DRIVE, LAKE BLUFF, IL 60044

PROPERTY OWNERSHIP: NUMBERED COMPANY 394756, SHANGHAI, CHINA

RESIDENCY STATUS: UNOCCUPIED

MOST RECENT PROPERTY TRANSFER: NOVEMBER 2016

FORMER OWNERS: BEN MASON, BONNIE MASON [ESTATE TRANSFER]

PREVIOUS OWNERS: FRANK MASON, ANGELA MASON [DECEASED]

The information rolls backwards through time, showing the full history of the house, the further I read downward.

I blink twice again, and the text goes back to what seems to be the main menu, which is much less obtrusive.

Okay.

Super freaky, but it is useful.

Now I know that Frank and Angela are dead again — still — in this reality. Just like in mine, the house was transferred to Bonnie and Ben in the will after the accident. But instead of Bonnie buying out Ben with her half of their inheritance cash, they apparently sold it to some overseas buyer, and it’s now unoccupied.

At least I won’t stumble across some poor family having dinner this time.

And that gives me some time to regroup and figure out this eye-text thing before I go out into this brave new world.

I tread upstairs, where no lights are on but the sun is streaming into the kitchen. It’s in the same decorative condition as the Masons had it years ago, pre-renovation by Bonnie. Clearly the new owners haven’t lived here much, although there are signs of occasional use. A toaster on the counter still has a few crumbs on the top; an electric kettle is a quarter full of water.

But the house is uncharacteristically chilly, despite the warmth of the day, as if it hasn’t been heated or seen human activity in a long time. I check the fridge, and it’s empty aside from a single can of diet soda, which I grab gratefully.

I mean, it’s only a very small theft.

In the large living room, a red tufted formal couch has a plastic sheet over it, and there’s a small side table, plus a media cabinet with a TV screen on the far wall. Other than that, the room is empty. I check through the windows at the deck, where there is no patio furniture at all, just bare decking.

I open the soda, take a swig before placing it on the side table, and move the plastic to sit on the hard couch. This place may be a good respite for now, but I won’t be comfortable here for long. I need to figure out who I am in this world and what the hell is going on.

One thing is for sure — I’m not in a world that’s anything like my home, given the text in my eye like I’m some kind of Robocop. If only I could figure out how to work it, besides rapid blinking, which only seems to be getting me to property information, emails, and something called Contexts, which seem to be this world’s version of regular texts.

I need to ask more questions. But how?

I pat down my pockets to see if there’s also a phone I can use. I’m in a pair of fashionably wide jeans, a black tank top, and some expensive-looking sneakers. There’s also a pair of sunglasses perched on my head.

The jeans yield no phone, but there’s two sets of keys, one with a car key bearing a Tesla logo and a car rental-branded keychain, and a set of house keys with a fob of some kind. There’s also a lump in the small inner pocket of my jeans. I dig into it with what I note are acrylic-nailed hands, way more manicured than usual, and find a case bearing a flat C-shaped logo, and inside, a pair of sleek earbuds, with an empty circular chamber above them.

Maybe the earbuds, which must have a built-in mic, will help me communicate with this eye-information portal.

I put them in, and they beep.

What to ask?

“Where’s home?”

Nothing.

Crap, it’s probably like Siri, where you have to say “Siri” first before it’s activated, otherwise it would be answering all the time. But what’s the trigger word for this tech?

Hmm. The earlier text message from some guy I had read said “PLS CONTEXT ME” and the texts seem to be called “Contexts” — so maybe “Context” will work? That would be the most intuitive, anyways.

I try again, speaking slowly and clearly.

“Context, where’s home?”

Still nothing. Damn. What now?

Something else from the text from that guy that struck me as weird... “YOUR CONTACT SAYS YOU’RE IN ILLINOIS.” Maybe “contact” is the right word — after all, this thing is definitely something in my eye.

“Contact, where’s home?”

A beep. Okay, great, that worked.

An electronic voice, male-ish.

“Your home location is set to 637 Fletcher Drive, Atherton, California 94027.”

California?

Oh, right, that’s what that text had said. “I NEED YOU BACK IN CALI.”

And I’ve heard of Atherton — it’s a famously expensive suburb of San Francisco where a lot of the tech billionaires live, according to my favorite real-estate reality TV show.

Something else the message had said... “LOVE YOU.”

From somebody called... what was it? I blink my way back to the text.

Someone called Evan. Whoever that is.

I’m now in a world, as I had feared, where I’m with somebody I don’t know in my real life.

Who is this guy? What’s our history?

“Contact, who is Evan?”

It’s a long shot, given there are a gazillion Evans, but maybe my eye-tech will know who I mean.

A beep, and the voice again.

“I’m sorry. Could you please be more specific?”

Shit. I wish I could.

Oh... hold on. He’s in a relationship with me. So if I add my own name...

“Contact, who is the Evan who is in a relationship with Millie MacKenzie?”

Beep.

“Your identity is set to Millie MacKenzie. You are in a monogamous romantic partnership with Evan Chen, founder and CEO of Contact Technologies PLC, a Fortune 500 company. You and Mr. Chen have co-habited in Atherton, California, since 2016.”

Contact is a company?

But hold up, that company name is familiar. Yeah, that’s right — I remember it as some promising tech company that failed spectacularly, maybe a year or two after I graduated. I even met someone high up at Contact at a fundraiser that the Notables sang at, at the end of my senior year.

And his name had been Evan.

Oh my God, it’s that guy. The cute Asian-American guy I spoke with for all of thirty seconds before he left to take a call, or something. I’d laughed about it with Bonnie at the bar later. And I’d even thought about Evan once more, a year or so after meeting him, when I read that his company had collapsed.

But, in this world, Contact is a highly successful Fortune 500 company. It didn’t fail. And I must’ve gotten another chance to see Evan that night of the fundraiser, or later, because now we’re evidently together.

“Contact, what does the company Contact Technologies do?”

“Contact Technologies, founded by inventor and CEO Evan Chen, is a publicly traded company under Nasdaq:CNTC that develops, manufactures, and sells augmented reality and telecommunication technology that operates through anartificial-intelligence-powered contact lens worn by the user, along with compatible earbuds. Contact is the fastest-growing company in the US by revenue for the past six successive years, and is currently ranked eighth on the Fortune 500 list of the US’s biggest companies, reporting $221BN revenue in the last fiscal year. Contact’s core products have been rapidly and widely adopted among consumers in North America and Europe, and in 2022 outsold smartphones in those markets for the first time. In 2021 and 2023, Contact won Tech For Global Good awards for its work on digital vision augmentation for blind and partially sighted users.”

Holy fuck.

That tech is what I’m wearing in my eye, right now, and what’s telling me all this information. It’s telling me about itself.

Talk about meta.

Okay, so I’m wearing the AI-powered contact lens-slash-comms device that never took off in my world, but somehow did in this one. And I’m living with the guy who invented it. Presumably someone who is now a majorly famous tech billionaire, in a home in San Francisco’s mecca for tech billionaires.

This is wild.

My pulse is racing. The caffeine in my diet soda is probably not helping, but I gulp it down anyways.

What about Bonnie, and Ben? This house doesn’t belong to them, but are we still friends? The text from Evan had mentioned Bonnie being “an old friend.” So I guess we’re still in touch, but now that I’m living with a tech billionaire in California, our friendship is probably not what it was.

“Contact, please look up Bonnie Mason social media profiles in Illinois.”

A beep, and a list of “Bonnie Mason” profiles — LinkedIn, TikTok, a few Facebook and Instagram, and lots on something called Connect, presumably related to Contact — appear before me. Some are other Bonnie Masons in the state of Illinois, but all have thumbnail headshots, so I can quickly find my Bonnie with her blonde curls. Her LinkedIn profile is like the one where I’m married to Chris — working at Chicago City Hall, not at her store. Her profile on Connect, which seems to be a combination of LinkedIn and Facebook and has a very smooth interface in my eye, shows her career profile as well as some personal entries — vacation photos, and some of the interior of a house I don’t recognize.

Her with Ben, him looking tanned, his arm slung round his sister’s shoulder. They’re both beaming, on a beach somewhere.

And one of the two of them with two other people I don’t recognize — a Hispanic-looking guy next to Bonnie, his hand in hers, and a beautiful, tall woman with brown hair, who is clinging to Ben’s arm.

They look so happy. Both in loving relationships, without me.

I nod, slowly.

Okay. Bonnie and Ben seem to be doing fine, and they don’t need me. And, honestly, I’m wildly jealous of these new people and I don’t feel any desire to meet them.

Stephen, then?

“Contact, give me Stephen Powell social media profiles in Illinois.”

A list of profiles pops up again, and I pull up Stephen’s Facebook page, since there’s no Connect profile. He was always a big Facebook user, and this world is clearly no different. Maybe he hasn’t moved over to the Contact ecosystem yet.

Tons of photos of him with his wife Eve and his kids — even some from today, on their camping trip. Exactly like in my world.

That’s no good to me.

I throw my head back against the tufted couch. What to do?

It doesn’t seem like this version of me is in any kind of trouble for me to help with. This is clearly not my original world, nor a world where I’m with Stephen. Plus it’s a weird, futuristic, sci-fi alt-reality with insane technology that will take a lot of getting used to. And I don’t even have a home in Chicago, but instead one all the way in California, with a guy I barely remember.

Maybe I should just head out of the front door, come back in through the basement, and reset. Throw this life out entirely, and try again.

But something is giving me pause. I mean... this is a life where I live in presumed fabulous luxury with a tech billionaire. Who, as far as I remember, was a total hottie.

And the technology is incredible — I’m dying to find out what else it can do, now that I’m starting to get used to it.

So, my only alternative to resetting is... to go to California, and check out my new life? Even if only for a little while. Just for the weekend, maybe. It’s still only Friday evening.

I’ve got some time.

And presumably, a shitload of money to spend.

My guts churning with excitement and fear, I ask aloud, “Contact, when is the next flight from Chicago to San Francisco?”

“The next flight from Chicago O’Hare International Airport to San Francisco International Airport is at 23:15, arriving in San Francisco at 01:50 local time on Saturday, June 17. There are three business-class seats available. Would you like me to book a ticket with your Executive Traveler loyalty points?”

Oh, crap. I guess I’m deciding right now.

“Erm, yes, please book one window seat in business class.”

“Booking flight. One moment.”

A beep. The occasional intermittent beep, for maybe a minute.

“Your business-class seat on American Airlines flight 634 from Chicago to San Francisco, departing 23:15 today, has been confirmed. Your assigned seat is 3A. Check-in begins at 21:15. Your boarding pass has been downloaded to your Contact documents. Please scan your Contact at the departure gate B16.”

Sure enough, on the main menu text in my left eye, a new line has popped up, bearing the number and time of my flight. I blink twice, and it zooms open, showing me a boarding pass with a QR code, just like on a cellphone in my reality.

I’ve got nearly three hours before check-in, which is plenty of time to get to the airport and drop off the rental car, which I presumably got from O’Hare anyways.

Okay, then. Let’s do this. I’m clearly wealthy enough to just get another plane ticket back to Chicago as soon as I’m ready to leave San Francisco. If I want to leave.

I go to the bathroom off the foyer before my journey, checking myself in the mirror. Aside from being too skinny in Rufus’s world, this is the most different I’ve looked. I’m wearing a lot more make-up than usual, I have long eyelashes, and my usually straight, plain bob is now a dramatic bob that’s much higher at the back, with a graded cut into the nape, and a longer angular line down to my jaw at the front. Very chic.

Some Gucci sunglasses are on top of my head, tucked behind my ears, and I’m wearing what appear to be diamond stud earrings.

Fancy.

I also have a small tattoo on the inside of my wrist, of a slim crescent moon and two stars. I’ve never been a tattoo person, but it’s pretty. What could it symbolize? Then it strikes me — the skinny crescent moon looks a lot like the flat C-shaped logo for Contact, which was on the earbud case. Maybe it’s related to the company.

It also confirms something I’ve been gradually becoming conscious of. That each time I step through that basement door, I’m quantum-leaping into the body of the Millie in the new life, rather than bringing my own body with me.

This theory started to coalesce when I saw how thin my wrists were in the world where I was married to Rufus — clearly not my own body — and it seems consistent with the discovery of this new tattoo. I carry my own memories and thoughts, but I have each new world’s physical form. And everything else that comes with it.

Leaning in closer to the mirror, I can just make out a gray-bluish circle around my left iris — the Contact — and minuscule bright green dots on the side.

With a nervous laugh about this futuristic, glamorous version of myself, I let myself out of the front door and release the driveway gate. The Tesla rental car is right out front, and there’s a small Coach overnight bag in the passenger seat, which holds some clothes, toiletries in a wash bag, a water bottle, and some tampons. No sign of a wallet or credit cards anywhere, but if my Contact can be scanned for a boarding pass, I can probably pay for goods by looking into a scanner, too.

Kinda scary, as well as deeply convenient.

A great way for a government to keep tabs on people, that’s for sure.

I pull off and, despite the slightly distracting text in my left eye — which I could turn into a GPS to give me directions, if I didn’t know where I was going — I can’t help but enjoy the quiet, smooth, drive to the airport. It’s only a half-hour drive, being conveniently located between Lake Bluff and the city. It gives me tons of time to drop off the car, take the monorail transit to the terminal, and get a leisurely grain-bowl dinner at Terminal 3.

As I come to pay the check, the server asks me, “Cash, credit, or C-debit?”

Time to test my theory.

“C-debit, please.”

She holds a scanner up to my left eyeball. Immediately, the check details pop up, including an option for a tip. I blink twice, selecting 20%, and then twice again to confirm.

The server checks her scanner. “Thanks, you’re all set. Have a safe flight, Ms. MacKenzie.”

“Thanks,” I reply, my pulse racing a little from the interchange, and at her reading my name off the scanner.

This tech is unbelievable. And more than a little bit Big Brother-ish. It’s kind of incredible so many people across the Western world have adopted it so easily, given how intrusive it is to their privacy.

What’s that quote? “Give me convenience or give me death,” is that it?

I can’t remember where I heard it, maybe an old song, but it’s hitting home for me right now. Everyone has given up their personal privacy for the convenience of this new technology. Including me, evidently. Still, I’m in a relationship with its inventor, so I probably don’t have much of a choice.

He had sent me another Context while I was eating, asking where I was and if I was coming home. I reply to it as I sit at the departure gate, after having had my eye scanned once more at the gate desk for identification and to check my boarding pass.

I’M FINE. SORRY TO WORRY YOU. I WENT TO VISIT BONNIE, YES — IT WAS URGENT AND SHE NEEDED ME. SHE’S OKAY NOW, AND I’M ALREADY AT O’HARE WAITING FOR A FLIGHT BACK TO SF. IT LANDS JUST BEFORE 2AM, SO I’LL BE HOME BY 3AM. I’LL TRY NOT TO WAKE YOU WHEN I GET IN. SEE YOU IN THE MORNING.

He replies immediately.

THANK GOD! I WAS SO SCARED, MILLIE, YOU WERE ACTING SO WEIRD THIS MORNING, LIKE A ZOMBIE. I HAVE NO CLUE WHAT HAPPENED BUT YOU CAN FILL ME IN. HOPE YOU HAVE A GOOD FLIGHT HOME. MISS YOU.

Like a zombie, huh? That’s bizarre.

I’ve been wondering how the versions of me in each of these lives found themselves at Lake Bluff. After all, each time I’ve emerged from the house into a new reality, there’s been a car parked outside, and I’ve had its keys in my pocket. The car didn’t drive itself to the Masons’ house — some cross-universal instinct must have compelled that life’s version of me, each time, to get themselves to Lake Bluff on that Friday evening. Then I slipped through the door and into their lives, and bodies — if only for a little while.

We’ll see how long I last in this one.

I board my flight, settle into the luxury of my business-class seat, and get Contact to download a fun, beach-read audiobook to play in my earbuds while it’s in airplane mode.

I gotta admit, this Contact stuff is really, really fun to play with. Even if I never get any privacy again. Maybe I can take the lens out? Surely I don’t sleep with it in at night — that can’t be healthy for the eye.

After landing in the small hours in San Francisco — nearly two a.m. local time, and four a.m. for my body clock — I get Contact to book me an Uber to the house in Atherton. I’m increasingly nervous as it pulls through the quiet, wide streets of this chichi suburb and onto Fletcher Drive. What am I going to find there?

The Uber stops outside a closed, modern, rusted-metal solid gate set between two high, pale-stone walls. The number 637 is cut out of the metal. This is the place.

“C-debit?” asks the driver, who has barely said a word to me. He doesn’t even offer me the option of a credit card. Maybe he knows who I am, or who I live here with, so it’s pretty obvious how I’ll pay.

He turns in his seat and zaps my eye with his scanner, making me start a little. I give him a tip that’s more generous than he deserves, and he nods at his scanner approvingly.

“Have a good night, Ms. MacKenzie.”

“Thanks.”

I drag myself and my overnight bag out of the car, and it pulls away, leaving me in the dark street in a strange city I’ve never been to before.

Thousands of miles and many universes from home.

I dig in my pocket for the set of keys and fob I found earlier. Now that I know what Contact is capable of, I’m a little surprised that I even have these keys — surely a scan would let me in through the gate and into the house? But maybe the tech is not so ubiquitous that it’s fully replaced regular house keys.

I scan the fob on a black panel at the side of the gate, and it beeps, but the gate doesn’t open. Instead, part of the matt black panel becomes shiny, and semi-transparent. I peer to look closer in the dark, and it emits a red flash into my left eye.

The gate starts to slide open.

Ah, I get it. A two-step security process, with the eye scan as the second stage. What my Irish father would call a “belt-and-braces” approach.

Instead of a driveway, the gate reveals a wide, shallow set of smooth stone steps leading to a large, ultra-modern, elongated, two-story house at the top of a terraced rise. Subtle lights in the paving guide me up to a huge front door, which has a long handle and a keyhole plate, and another black panel on the wall next to it. I’m holding what looks very much like a house key for this door, so I give it a try in the lock, but I can’t fit it in. I give the black panel a pointed stare, it gives me another red flash, and there’s a clunk from the door. I tug the handle, but it’s still locked. Maybe the scan released the keyhole? I try the key again, and this time, it fits and turns effortlessly.

I guess Evan Chen, being who he is, has to be careful about security. He just didn’t bargain on an imposter version of his girlfriend, inhabiting her body and holding her house keys.

I’m almost chuckling at the ridiculousness of it all as I enter a double-height foyer, lit low by a small table lamp on a console. Next to me, through an open door, is a walk-in closet full of jackets and shoes, with an inner door that leads to a powder room. Handy.

I go to the restroom and wash my hands with its fancy soap. Now would be a good time to figure out if I can take this lens out — I don’t want to be fumbling about with it upstairs, if Evan is asleep. I really don’t want to wake him and face his questions yet, if I can avoid it.

Staring in the mirror, I pull my left eyelid wide open. The outer ring of the lens is clearly visible, slightly past the edge of my gray-blue iris.

I’ve never worn contacts, so I’m not used to this, but I’ve seen Bonnie take hers out a million times. I mimic what I’ve seen her doing — look all the way to the left, then brace myself as I put my finger on the lens and pull it to the right. Instantly, the text that’s been at the side of my vision disappears. I pinch my finger and thumb over the curve of the lens, squeezing slightly, and it lifts away with ease.

Close up, it looks like a clear contact lens, but with almost microscopic metal lines joined by tiny dots in a curve around one side. Amazing.

But what to do with it? I can’t just leave it on the washstand. Oh, hold up — the earbud case in my pocket. Within it, a central, circular cavity has a clear liquid beyond a membrane at its base, while a dry section below offers two slots for the earbuds. My lens and both the earbuds fit perfectly.

I tuck the capsule back into my jeans pocket and step out into the mudroom. Leaving my sneakers under a bench, I walk silently out through the foyer, getting a glimpse of a huge, modern living area that’s in near-darkness, with a glass wall revealing a low-lit terrace and turquoise pool beyond.

This place is pretty amazing. I turn and tread quietly up the floating staircase to my left. On the generous upper landing, there is a series of possible doors to choose from. Which is the right bedroom? Given Evan’s loving texts, it seems very likely that we have a healthy relationship and share a room. It would be really weird to wake him by banging my way through the wrong bedroom doors.

I turn to the far left, and there’s a set of double doors, grander than the rest. Chances are that’s the primary bedroom.

I open one of the doors as slowly and silently as possible. Moonlight is streaming through a huge window that must overlook the pool terrace. It illuminates a massive bed with a plush headboard that reaches the tall ceiling, and a sleeping form under the sheet on one side.

Guess this is my bedroom, and under the covers is tech billionaire Evan Chen. My boyfriend.

I undress quickly, pulling a silky pajama set out of my overnight bag, and climb into bed without even taking off my make-up or brushing my teeth. I don’t want to wake him.

Plus, for me it’s five in the morning, and I’m dog-tired from all this universe-hopping.

I can make out a crop of black hair on the white pillow as I pull the sheets over me, but that’s all.

He stirs, and rolls over.

“Honey. You’re back.” It’s barely more than a mumble.

“Yes. Shhh. Go back to sleep.”

“Mm-hmm.” That’s it. He’s silent again.

I lie down, facing away from him. Despite the unbelievable bizarreness of the situation I find myself in, I don’t feel unsafe with this man next to me.

On the flight here, I was recalling my brief encounter with him at a charity fundraiser. How in those few moments we’d had an intense connection. How warm and friendly he had been, and how I’d had to hide my disappointment at his departure, over cocktails and laughter with Bonnie.

No, I feel pretty safe in this bed, especially given how concerned he had seemed about my wellbeing in his texts. In fact, right now, despite everything, I have a sense of calm. And deep exhaustion.

I slip quickly into a dream-filled sleep, in which I’m walking into that basement again and again. Ben is always there, as he was that first time, strumming his guitar. But every time I try to get his attention, get him to look up at me by stepping toward him, he disappears and I have to run upstairs, through the front door, back down the side of the house, and into the basement again. I can never get Ben to acknowledge me. It’s a never-ending cycle.

* * *

I wake much later, sun pouring through the big window, the blinds fully open. The bed next to me is empty, but there’s the sound of running water coming from behind a single door, which I guess is the bathroom.

The door opens, and Evan Chen steps through. Shirtless, in just a pair of Calvin Klein boxer briefs, his relatively slight frame enhanced by an undeniably ripped six-pack of abs. He’s even more handsome than when I met him years ago.

He ruffles his mussed-up black hair and smiles at me, although there’s a frown line between his brows.

“Hey, beautiful. You slept like the dead. It’s nearly noon.” He raises his eyebrows. “Good thing it’s Saturday. All we have is the gala tonight.”

I sit upright, pushing a pillow behind my head. My heart is racing a little, and my stomach performing somersaults, but hopefully my nervousness doesn’t show.

“Wow. I guess I was pretty late getting in. I’m sorry about going AWOL yesterday.”

Evan climbs back into bed beside me, the ecru skin on his chest gleaming in a sunbeam. He smells amazing. Like spearmint and eucalyptus.

“That’s okay, honey. I just wish you would have communicated with me more.” He runs a fingertip down my bare arm. “I get that Bonnie needed you urgently, but what was with you yesterday morning? You left, like, in a weird trance, just ordered your Uber to the airport, grabbed some clothes, and walked out. Why wouldn’t you answer me when I asked where you were going?”

I shake my head. “I’m sorry,” I repeat. “I was just super preoccupied with getting to Bonnie, I guess. I probably didn’t even hear you. I was worried about her.”

I hate lying to this kind man, but what else can I say? I can hardly tell him the truth. I barely understand what the truth is, especially in terms of what specifically compelled San Francisco Millie to suddenly fly to Chicago.

He nods slowly. “Okay. You said Bonnie is fine now? Were you able to help with her... issue?”

“Uh, yeah. I was. She was having a relationship crisis, but I talked her off the ledge. They’ll be okay, I think.”

“Good,” Evan replies. “I like Gus, he seems like a good dude. Seems to make her happy, most of the time, right?”

Gus? I guess that’s the guy with Bonnie in the photo. I’m happy to hear Evan has met them — that must mean we’re still good friends in this life, even if we don’t see each other much.

“Yeah.” I smile back at him. “I won’t worry you again, promise.”

I’m making a promise his real girlfriend will have to keep after I leave, but I figure that’s her problem. Assuming her mind, her consciousness, her essence will return to this body once I’m gone.

After all, as much as my curiosity got the best of me about this life, I won’t stay here. I just want a weekend glimpse into what it’s like to be a tech billionaire’s girlfriend. I’m only trying on this life before I move on. And, lying in this soft bed with this beautiful man, it doesn’t suck so far.

“I hope not,” he replies. “Come here.”

Come here. That’s what Rufus said to me, twenty-four hours and one universe ago. But this time it’s said with warmth and affection. Desire too, yes, but a desire born of love, rather than control.

Still, even though he’s super cute, I barely know this guy. And this body might be in a monogamous sexual relationship with Evan, but I had sex with someone else yesterday. It just doesn’t feel right.

Evan smiles gently at me, reading my hesitant body language. “Still too sleepy, huh? Okay, how about you nap here a while longer, while I hop in the shower and then fix us brunch? I’ll give you a ping when it’s ready.”

Ping. He probably means a text through my Contact lens.

I take him at his word, drifting in and out of a light doze for another half-hour, before reaching down to yesterday’s jeans for the capsule in my pocket. I take it into the bathroom and spend nearly five minutes struggling to put the lens back in my eye. Eventually, after much blinking and redness, I get it into place, and then jump in the shower. As I’m drying off, after I’ve readjusted to the green type in my vision, a new Context from Evan appears.

YOUR brUNCH AWAITS YOU, MADAME. XX

He seems very thoughtful and indulgent. I can definitely see why I fell for this guy.

I pull on a fresh set of clothes from a huge walk-in closet full of designer gear that I’ll totally have to examine more thoroughly later. Downstairs, Evan has whipped up mushroom and cheese omelets, a side of brioche toast, and fresh orange juice and coffee.

Once again, I’m impressed.

We spend the entire afternoon chatting easily, Evan not seeming to notice as I carefully get him to reveal things about our life together.

“Remember the night we met?” I ask him, over a glass of ice tea around four p.m., my feet on his lap as we lounge on the patio couch by the pool. He nods, rubbing my soles with his thumbs.

“I’ll never be more glad to have been covered in a tray full of champagne.” He laughs. “If it hadn’t been for that clumsy server...”

A clumsy server? Oh yeah, I vaguely remember that. But in my world, Evan managed to dodge him, and kept going.

Maybe that was the difference.

“What do you suppose would’ve happened instead?” I ask, one eyebrow raised. “If, as you say, it hadn’t been for that clumsy server.”

He grins, looking out over the shimmering flat surface of the infinity-edge pool. “Well, I wouldn’t have had all that champagne tipped over me, right? My phone call with Sanjeet wouldn’t have been interrupted, so I guess I would have continued out to the lobby to take it, and you and I might never have spoken again. You wouldn’t have seen the whole thing and come to my rescue, even though all you could do was dab at my suit with a napkin. My custom Tom Ford, ruined.” He shakes his head. “But it was totally worth it to keep talking to you.” He pats my legs, and pushes them off his lap. “Speaking of fancy galas, we need to get ready. We have to leave at ten after five if we’re going to make it there for six. Cynthia hung your dress in its bag on the closet door.”

I can’t ask who Cynthia is, since I’m evidently supposed to know, but I assume she’s some kind of housekeeper or assistant who deals with our dry cleaning and probably a bunch of other stuff. I mean, Evan doesn’t strike me as a guy who needs to do his own chores.

“Okay, I’ll be up in a few,” I tell his back as he disappears through the sliding-glass wall into the living room.

Well, this is not a bad life at all. Super weird, given the sci-fi technology, and also just foreign to me, being in California. But undeniably fabulous and luxurious.

Upstairs, I dress in an angular, one-shouldered, violet-colored midi dress and black Jimmy Choos. With this haircut, I barely need to do anything but brush my bob into place and give it a light spray. I add a black choker, and put my lipstick and pale-powder compact into a Dior clutch, along with my house keys and lens case.

Evan drives us in his red Tesla to the Ritz-Carlton in downtown San Fran, tossing the keys to the valet waiting ahead of the grand, pillared entrance. We are swept along a red carpet under the porte cochere, where several photographers are waiting. They shout out when they see Evan.

“Evan! Millie! Over here!”

We pause a moment, smiling, Evan’s arm around my waist. He’s careful to look at each photographer in turn, giving them their shot, while I mostly smile at him.

He murmurs in my ear. “That should be enough.” We turn and join the sweep of other guests entering the opulent lobby, and are guided to the elaborate ballroom with its many chandeliers. The event is some kind of technology industry foundation launch, looking for donors, and Evan — as a previous Tech For Global Good award winner — is evidently the guest of honor. We’re seated at the top table for a dinner of sea scallops and halibut, and Evan is called on to stand up for a round of applause during the after-dinner speeches.

As Evan schmoozes with tech types, I’m temporarily standing alone by our table, sipping on pink champagne. A tall man approaches me — middle-aged, with black hair graying at the temples, and a well-trimmed goatee beard.

“Ah, the luminous Millie MacKenzie,” he says, reaching out an immaculately manicured hand. “I’ve been hoping to meet you. I’m a big fan of your partner’s work, of course, and I know you have played a large role in that. Amir Habib.” He has an unidentifiable accent, maybe Saudi or Israeli.

I shake his hand with a smile. “Thank you. But I don’t know how much of a role I’ve played in Evan’s achievements. That’s all him.”

Amir lets go of my hand, and tilts his head graciously. “Oh, my dear, you are too modest. Your influence on Contact and its success is legend. Even your Mr. Chen himself has proclaimed, in every interview I’ve read, that the company’s breakthrough would never have happened without you.”

What?

That can’t be true, surely. I know precisely squat about technology — I can’t have influenced it that much.

“He gives me too much credit,” I reply, with a smile that I hope hides my sudden fluster.

“Not at all,” Amir says, determinedly. “I’m a big follower of Mr. Chen and Contact Technologies, and his story is consistent. He was about to give up on the company, which was floundering without a true purpose. Then he met you, and you convinced him that, quite aside from the main purposes it is used for by consumers today, his technology could do so much to augment the vision of partially sighted people, as well as helping deaf communities and others with disabilities. He reapplied his work with renewed vigor and a fresh mission, all because of you.” Amir smiles, revealing perfect white teeth. “Of course, nobody ever expected adoption to be so widespread among the general public, did they? Or that it would prove to become the pervasive communication medium of our generation, stuck in every eyeball in the Western World.”

I stare at him, my glass poised halfway to my lips.

Iinfluenced all that? Without meeting me, Evan’s company would’ve failed, and people would still be using regular smartphones like in my world?

But I didn’t get together with Evan in my world. And his company did fail.

It’s the butterfly effect.

That server, back in Chicago at an event very like this one, spilling a tray of champagne, eventually resulted in one of the most revolutionary technologies this world has ever seen. Via my relationship with one man.

I nod at Amir, slowly. A word he used has stuck with me. “Pervasive?” I raise an eyebrow. “That doesn’t sound like a compliment.”

He takes a sip of a dark brown drink over ice. “It is not meant to be, my dear.” He gives his head a tiny shake. “Something that was invented with the best of intentions, now being used by your government to monitor and control not only its own citizens — the sheeple, as they say — but any and all humans using this technology.”

Amir leans in, lowering his voice. “Rest assured, you will never find my compatriots using Contact. Cellphones and social media are dangerous enough for monitoring behavior — we won’t be placing insidious tracker implants in our eyes that can pass information on my people’s habits and whereabouts to your government. Not to mention, potentially sending us subliminal messages that we can barely perceive, in order to do their bidding.” He grins again, too close.

My pulse races and I take a step back, with a slight scoffing laugh. “Mr. Habib, I’m sure you’re exaggerating. But of course, what technology you and your compatriots use is entirely up to you.” I take a swig to finish the rest of my drink. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to find Evan and a fresh glass of champagne.”

I turn and stride away, slightly shaken, wobbling a little in my heels on the carpet.

I had scoffed, but the truth is, I don’t know that Contact isn’t selling data to the government to monitor US or other citizens. And I don’t believe Contact would ever send subliminal messages to users, but I do know any technology can be hacked, and that rules can change in times of crisis or war. I’d be na?ve to think that wasn’t ever a possibility.

This tech, built for convenience, communication, and to help those in need — technology that I was instrumental in advancing — might at some point be used for evil.

Evan being celebrated tonight for winning the Tech For Global Good award is beginning to have a sour taste in my mouth.

My billionaire boyfriend finds me at the bar, reaching for another drink. He slips an arm around my waist. “Don’t let me deny you another champagne, but I’m about ready to get outta here. I’ve got to drive us home, and I have an early flight in the morning.”

I turn to him in surprise. It’s the first I’ve heard of his flight tomorrow.

He squints at me. “Don’t tell me you forgot about my trip to DC. My flight leaves at eight a.m. so I can be there in time for the senator’s meet and greet.”

I smile at him, feigning dumbness. “Sorry. Totally forgot,” I lie. I put the glass back down. “Let’s head out.”

We make our way out of the ballroom, although it takes some time as people come up to Evan on the way, wanting to chat or say goodbye. Evan is the perfect statesman, greeting them all warmly, and deftly moving on without making them feel slighted. We eventually make it out to the porte-cochere, where the valet rushes to retrieve our car.

“Who was that mysterious guy you were talking to so closely?” he asks me, as we wait.

I blow out a breath. “Random dude. Said his name was... Amir Habib.” I pause. “Speaking of DC and senators, he was pretty shady with me about Contact. Talking about how it had been corrupted from something to help the partially sighted and deaf communities into a tool for the government to monitor the ‘sheeple,’ as he put it.” I screw up my nose. “He was a bit intense. I had to extricate myself.”

Evan nods slowly, scanning the drive for his Tesla. “Sorry you had to deal with that. I hate that the position I’m in with the feds is trickling down to you. It’s hard for me, you know that — but it shouldn’t be tough on you, too.”

What’shard for him?

What’s the trip to DC about, meeting with politicians? What “position” is he in? What are the feds asking of him?

But I can’t ask him that. Clearly, I’m supposed to already know. Maybe this version of me knows stuff she shouldn’t.

Maybe it’s not such a charmed life, after all.

Maybe it’s time to get out. Back to Lake Bluff to reset.

And Evan is going away tomorrow, for several days. That gives me the perfect opportunity to get back to Chicago without him noticing I’ve disappeared for another twenty-four hours. The other Millie will be back in San Francisco by Monday, and Evan will never know the difference. Unless, of course, he checks her Contact geolocation.

I’ll leave her a note to tell her why she’s finding herself in Chicago, and make sure she talks to Evan about the dangers of Contact. I’ll even book her a flight home. But more than that, I cannot do.

Back at the house, upstairs in bed, Evan and I crash out. He’s a good man, but I can’t be with him. I don’t love him, he’s not my partner — and he’s not my problem.

In the morning, after he’s gone, I’ll be gone too.