June, this year
There’s my best friend. Big smile, blonde curls, and lashes for days. But this formal corporate headshot doesn’t really look like my Bonnie. Too stiff, too buttoned-up. And where did she get that power-suit blazer? It’s nothing like the pictures I took of her when we were setting up her website and social media profiles.
I examine Bonnie’s LinkedIn entry. Economic Development Officer at Chicago’s City Hall. Really? It’s a world away from her career as I know it, as the owner of A Bonnie Home interiors store and design consultancy. Sure, she’d studied Political Sciences at Northwestern, but she’d never really liked it, and she’d far preferred the Business Studies class we’d taken together. She’d confided in me about her dream to have her own business someday, and I’d encouraged her. When her parents had died, she got a chunk of inheritance and I pushed her to take the plunge.
Has my influence in Bonnie’s life been so significant that it altered her career path from what it otherwise would have been?
I tuck my legs underneath me on the living room’s little couch, finding a more comfortable position with my laptop. It’s weird how relatively relaxed I feel in this marina-side townhouse, given that it’s been less than twenty-four hours since I found myself in the wrong universe, married to an ex I haven’t seen in years. It’s almost like there’s some psychological muscle memory that remembers this place — at least the version of me it is truly home for.
It’s as though I’m both her, and not her.
Back to the task at hand — figuring out this new life. I’ve already checked out my own LinkedIn profile, and it’s mercifully not too dissimilar to that of my regular life. Instead of my internship at Frank Mason’s architectural firm after university, I had a couple of years in South-East Asia, where I apparently worked in “hospitality” at various resorts, before coming back to the city and landing the same job as I have in my real life, at Magnolia Marketing and Advertising.
I guess some things were meant to be.
I’ve also checked Stephen’s profile, and he is also my colleague in this world. But his cell number isn’t in this phone, unlike in my life. So it seems we’re not as close. Probably because I’m also married, and therefore presumably haven’t been crushing on him for years.
There are more people to investigate, too. My mind lingering on the Masons, I type “Ben Mason” into the LinkedIn search bar, and Ben’s profile pops up. A cool black-and-white picture of him, unusually clean-shaven, and a list of his theatrical accomplishments. Currently, it seems, he’s General Manager of the Lookingglass Theater downtown — a pretty sweet gig. But it doesn’t look from his resumé like he’s directed a lot of his own plays — he’s more on the management side.
Last time I saw Ben, which was a couple of weeks ago, he was celebrating the hugely successful run of his latest play that he’d written and directed — a “whydunit” murder story about a toxic, competitive artists’ retreat, which had gotten critical acclaim in all the reviews. But that doesn’t seem to exist in this world.
I can understand different influences inadvertently changing the course of people’s lives and careers. Maybe me being able to help Ben get his first play staged at Northwestern was what kickstarted his playwriting-directing career in my world. Or maybe it was something else entirely — a totally different course of events.
But what I can’t figure out is why I’m not close with Bonnie and Ben in this reality. Did something happen that caused us to stop being friends? Or was I never close with them?
Maybe my email history will tell me. I’ve got archived emails dating back at least fifteen years, as I’m so horrible at clearing anything out, and I’m guessing that’s true here, too. My email address is the same in this world, so I’m able to log in and check to see if Bonnie and I were ever friends.
I find a host of messages between us, dating back from eleven years ago, the summer she and I met — most of them very similar to what I remember. Arranging to stay with her family that first Labor Day weekend. Various emails about starting Northwestern. Dozens, into the hundreds, of messages over the next year or so, all aligning with what I remember. Talking about social stuff, evenings out with Ben, weekends with the whole Mason family.
So, we were friends in this world, too. I blow out a slow breath of relief.
But wait. After the Christmas of our sophomore year... no more emails. Just one from me in the Sent box, asking her to please call me back and saying that I was very sorry. That’s all. No reply. That seems to be our last correspondence.
What in the world happened to us?
I pull myself back to the present, and check the clock on the mantel. It’s not yet two p.m., and Chris is out all day — first getting my engagement and wedding rings resized, and then to visit his parents and stay for an early dinner. He was so kind to me last night — treating me with care after my accident, picking up on how traumatized I was feeling. Although, of course, he had no idea just how messed up I was feeling. Giving me space as we went to bed in the cutely decorated bedroom, he’d even said I didn’t seem like myself. I had almost laughed at that. If only he knew how true it was.
He won’t be back until at least eight or nine, so I’ve got five hours to do some detective work.
More than anything, I want to call Bonnie — to meet her for a coffee, try to figure out what went wrong with our friendship. But I don’t know how to contact her, and it’s a Saturday, so she won’t be at City Hall. We’re not even friends on Facebook, and she doesn’t have an Instagram profile. I could send her a Facebook friend request, or a DM, but she’s hopeless with social media — at least the Bonnie I know is — and I suspect she wouldn’t see a message for days. I’ve no idea if her old email address still works, but I doubt it.
What about Ben? He’d know what happened between us. I don’t have his personal number either, but it’s much more likely that he’d be at work on a Saturday, as GM of a theater.
I look up the number for the Lookingglass Theater, and call it from my cell. A woman answers, quicker than I was expecting.
“Uh, hi. I’m trying to get a hold of your General Manager, Ben Mason. Is he there?” My voice is high and shaky.
“Sure, let me put you through to his office,” the woman replies. “One second.”
Crap. What am I going to say to Ben when he answers? “Hi, this is your sister’s ex-bestie Millie, except I’m in a parallel universe and I’d like to know why we’re not friends anymore?” Why the hell didn’t I spend at least a couple of minutes thinking this through?
“Hello?” Ben’s voice. Low, gentle, unmistakable.
“Huh-hi,” I stammer. “This is... this is Millie. I mean, Millie MacKenzie. I... uh... I guess it’s been a while and I wondered—”
“Millie? Shit.” Ben’s tone rises by an octave. “It’s been forever. I didn’t expect to hear from you again. Wow. How’ve you been?”
“Uh, yeah, uh, great, I guess.” Thank God he can’t see the vivid red flush all over my neck. “Yeah, it’s been a long time. And look at you, managing a theater. That’s awesome.”
A pause. “Yeah, yeah, thanks,” he replies. “Wow. After all this time. What prompted you to call?”
I have to come up with a story, and fast.
“Well, erm... it’s like... I had this thing happen to me...” Crap, this isn’t going well. “So, it was, like, an accident. Yeah, I had a car crash, and I hit my head—” inspiration is now striking me — “yeah, I hit my head and I have some longer-term memory loss. And I wanted to call Bonnie, but her number isn’t on my phone, and it seems like we’re not friends anymore, but I can’t remember anything that happened between us to make us fall out. I was hoping you could help.”
A sharp intake of breath. “Wow, Millie, I’m sorry. That sucks. I’m glad you weren’t hurt worse, though.” He pauses again. “I mean, sure — I guess I could fill you in. I’m about to go into a stage crew meeting and then I have some stuff to do. But I can take a break between, say, four and five. I could call you back, if you’re free then? Or, I dunno, we could meet for a coffee or something. Where are you?”
I nod, even though he can’t see me. “I’m in New Buffalo. It’s... it’s where I’ve been living. But I can get downtown by four — that’d be great. Meet you outside the theater?”
“Sounds good,” he replies. “I’ll see you then.”
I spend the next half-hour making myself look presentable, changing into a white linen shirt and a cute pair of lemon-yellow shorts I found in the closet upstairs, and some tan sandals that were by the front door. I check the time — 2:32 p.m. — plenty of time to get into the city for four p.m.
But hold up. I’m an hour ahead in New Buffalo. It’s only 1:32 p.m. in Chicago.
Jeez. As if it wasn’t bad enough dealing with traveling to an alternate universe, I’ve now got to deal with time zone differences? That’s almost worse.
And it means I’ve got an extra hour to kill. Then again, it’s always easy for me to do that — for my gap year, I spent nine months in Europe doing nothing but kill time in cafés, mostly by writing stories. And, now that I appear to be in the presumably unique position of being a multiverse voyager, I should be able to come up with some decent new material.
I check around for a notepad and pen, and it hits me that there is already a notebook in the black purse I found in the Golf yesterday. I grab the purse from the vestibule by the front door, and pull the notebook out.
It’s full of scribblings. Jammed with ideas for stories, snippets of poetic sentences, bullet points of a plot about a young woman traveling through Asia. Maybe inspired by this Millie’s real life experiences. After all, she’s had a different life path from me over the past decade.
Looks like this version of me also enjoys creative writing, and has probably been more diligent than me about pursuing it. Maybe I can kill my extra time in a café in the city, and add some of my own ideas to hers in the notebook today. That’d freak her out, if she ever gets back to her own life.
I chuckle, and pack the notebook back into the purse. Deciding against writing a note for Chris — I should easily be back by 7:30, if I leave the city at five — I grab the keys to the green Golf and head out to the highway.
In the city, searching for a parking spot, I’m ridiculously nervous. I mean, I’ve seen Ben recently — but this Ben hasn’t seen me in years, and I don’t know how he’ll be with me. Plus, the truth is, I’ve never really hung out with Ben on our own much. We were almost always with Bonnie, our common denominator, and being together just the two of us would have been weird, given that one of us has pretty much always been in a relationship. Not that a man and a woman can’t be platonic friends outside of a relationship, of course. It just never really felt like we were separate buddies, without Bonnie around.
In fact, the only time I’ve fully hung out with him on our own was the night he and I went to see that cover band play at Howl at the Moon. Which had been kinda... new, for us. And we were having a really great time together. But then I ran out on him, because Stephen had texted that he needed me to troubleshoot some work crisis.
I don’t even remember what the emergency was. But I’ll never forget the expression on Ben’s face when I left him alone in the bar. A look of sheer disappointment. I guess he was disappointed in me for being into a married man, and bailing on our night to help him.
I eventually find an overpriced parking spot just off Michigan Avenue, and head around the corner to a café that I’ve been to several times before. I take my latte to a window seat and pull out the notebook, reading through this Millie’s notes again before starting to add my own jottings and questions about multiverses and alternate lives, tying the thoughts back into my conversation with Stephen on the roof terrace.
How could this... impossible thing happen? Then again, it’s clearly not impossible, since it’s happening to me. The multiverse is evidently real — I’m living proof of that. But what is it?
Do our lives split off into new realities at every moment of minuscule choice or circumstance? Is every single possible permutation of my life being played out in an infinite number of realities — and the same goes for every person who ever lived?
And if that’s the case, how is it that I somehow flipped from one reality to another? That’s the thing that seems impossible — much more so, to me, than the existence of alternate realities. What caused me to step into the wrong one?
It happened at Bonnie’s house, I know that much. One moment I was texting with her about dim sum in the driveway, the next I’m stepping through the basement door and I find myself in the same house, but belonging to someone else, in the wrong reality.
So, then, is it the basement that is some kind of multiverse travel hub? But no, I was already in the wrong world, the moment I stepped into the basement — thinking back, it didn’t have the Mason’s couch or wall art, and it already smelled of that family’s dinner.
Maybe the basement door itself, then? Like a doorway to another world? But why would such an incongruous door be my own personal multiverse portal?
Maybe it’s because I’m about to meet him, but Ben springs to mind. I’ll always associate him with that basement, as I first met him in that room, more than a decade ago. The weekend I was welcomed into the Mason family.
Perhaps that’s it — a life-defining moment is enough to create some kind of soft spot between worlds. And if you go through that soft spot again...
I get so absorbed in my notepad scribblings that I don’t look at my phone again until 3:52 p.m. Shit — now I’m gonna be several minutes late to meet Ben. By the time I’ve hurried the six blocks, he’s already standing on the steps by the main doors of the old, castellated building the theater is housed in — always an incongruous sight among the gleaming towers of downtown Chicago’s Magnificent Mile.
Staring down at his phone, Ben doesn’t see me approach and it gives me a moment to assess him. His dark-blond hair is much shorter and neater than the last time I saw him, and he’s unusually clean-shaven. Why is that? Surely my compliments in our regular lives about how much his beard suits him haven’t made that much of a difference? But then again, the difference is probably due to something else entirely. Maybe in this life, he’s dating someone who doesn’t like a beard.
Of course, he’s still objectively very handsome without it — more chiseled, even — but less like the man I know. More like a manager, less of an artist.
“Ben.”
He looks up as I come closer and gives me a tentative smile.
“Millie, hey. Good to see you. You’re looking well.”
We hesitate, then give each other a slightly awkward side-hug.
“Sorry to keep you waiting — I got a bit sidetracked.”
“No problem. You wanna grab a coffee to go? It’s such a beautiful day — I figured we could walk and talk. I just gotta be back by five.”
“Sounds good.”
As we turn to step down to the street, Ben runs his left hand through his thick hair. No wedding ring. Interesting. At least that means he didn’t end up marrying that god-awful girlfriend he was with for all those years. Although, who knows, maybe they’re still living together.
He makes some small talk as we walk — perhaps slightly nervously — about his theater’s current production, and asks me about my marketing job as we line up for iced coffees from the Starbucks beneath the John Hancock tower. Thankfully I can answer his questions, as my job is the same as in my world — it seems like it’s about the only thing that’s consistent. I resist the urge to ask him about his own playwriting, given that his LinkedIn profile suggested he hadn’t seen as much success there as I know him for.
When we emerge into the sunshine with our drinks, he leads me further north up Michigan Avenue. I know him well enough to know where he’s taking me without having to ask — towards the Oak Street Beach park, and then along the lakefront path. He’s been regularly walking, running, and riding this trail ever since I’ve known him.
How are such insignificant things still the same, yet entire friendships have changed?
“You said you’ve lost some of your memories, including what happened with my sister, right?” he asks me, eventually, after we’ve hit the beach and are heading south along the waterfront. The late-afternoon sun is hot, and the beach and path are packed with families and tourists enjoying the long weekend.
I nod through a slurp of my iced coffee, while stepping aside to give space to a passing rollerblader. “Yeah, some things are pretty hazy. I was wondering... what can you tell me about why she and I are no longer friends — at least from your perspective? I only have patchy memories from that time.”
He pauses for a moment, narrowing his eyes against the dazzling sunlight. “You really hurt her, Millie. Over that whole thing with Rufus, our theater professor. You do remember him, right?”
Oh, fuck. I’ve been hoping not to ever think about that guy again. I behaved so badly back then, and I hadn’t even stopped seeing Rufus even after Bonnie and Ben found out. In truth, after that night, I’d slept with Rufus on several more occasions, and it had only stopped because of something totally out of my control.
My neck flushes red. “I remember him, yes.” My voice is small, almost lost over the sound of music and chatter from those around us. “But I don’t remember falling out with Bonnie about it.”
“Right. Well, we found out that you guys were... involved, and I made you swear you’d end it. My sister and I both thought you’d done the right thing, and it was over. But that Christmas, Bonnie saw you with him in a bar downtown, when you’d told her you were going to be staying with your mom over the holidays. She was totally crushed that you’d lied to her.” Ben takes the last sip of his drink, as if stalling for time to figure out what he’ll say next. “Honestly, she was never able to forgive you for it, and the trust was totally gone. I guess, after that, you just drifted apart. Which meant that I also didn’t get to see you again.” He looks sideways at me. “It was a kinda shitty move on your part, Millie.”
My stomach sinks, and the drink in my hand suddenly seems cloying and sickly. I throw the rest in an overflowing garbage can, trying to make sense of this information.
How can that have happened? Sure, I remember that Christmas, very clearly. Things had been a little strained with Bonnie, after she’d found out about my affair with Rufus around Thanksgiving, but we were generally fine. I’d made holiday plans to stay in Indy with Mom, in an attempt to rebuild our relationship somewhat. But Mom had canceled on me last minute, as usual, in favor of some new love interest. Unexpectedly alone for the holidays, I’d met Rufus for a festive drink downtown and we’d stayed a night at the Allegro Hotel.
But why had I been alone those holidays, and not spending it with Bonnie and her family, given that Mom had canceled? Oh, hold up — hadn’t the Masons gone to Florida that year?
I turn to Ben, slowing my walk. “It’s all a bit... muddy. I have a vague memory of your sister and parents being away on vacation those holidays, but maybe I got that wrong.”
He nods, his lips in a slight downward turn. It’s weird how much more of his mouth I can see without the facial hair. Maybe the beard has been hiding some of his more subtle expressions all this time.
“Yeah, I can’t remember exactly what happened either, but I think that was the last year Mom and Dad went to Florida to visit our grandparents for the holidays. Bonnie...” he hesitates, clearly trying to pull the memory out. “I think she was supposed to go too, but managed to miss the flight for some reason, and couldn’t get another, so she ended up staying here over Christmas. And she figured you were in Indy, so she had no reason to spend the holidays with you. I remember she was out with old friends from high school the night she saw you with Rufus.”
Shit. That’s not what happened in my world.
It’s all coming back to me now. Bonnie definitely made it to Florida to see her grandparents — in my timeline, she still has a photo on her bedside table of her with them, standing in front of their Christmas tree. She treasures that picture, as it was the last time she ever saw them.
But in this world, she missed the flight and never made it there.
Seeing me with Rufus must’ve been devastating for her in that moment, given she thought I was with my mom, and she was supposed to be with family herself. It must’ve felt like a monumental betrayal.
“I never lied to her,” I tell Ben, somewhat pathetically. “I was supposed to go visit Mom, and do some damage repair to our relationship, but Mom canceled on me last minute. I didn’t even know to tell Bonnie that I was in town for the holidays after all, as she was supposed to be in Florida.”
He frowns. “Okay. But you were with Rufus that night. And you had let her, let us both, believe you weren’t seeing him anymore. That was a lie of omission, at best.”
I sigh, looking out over the glittering water, where a couple of jet skis are tearing up the gentle swell. “Yeah. That’s true.” I pause. “I just didn’t want her — either of you — to be disappointed in me. I was making some pretty bad choices back then.”
Ben nods, and we walk in silence for a few minutes. The sound of the families laughing together tugs at my chest. Ben seems lost in thought. Then he stops abruptly, laying a hand on my arm, pulling me to an awkward halt. “So, then, you do still remember kind of a lot from back then? I thought you’d lost a bunch of memories to a head injury.”
Shit.
“I, er, well, just some memories. And you’ve been very helpful in prompting some others to come back to the surface. I’m grateful. Really.”
We’re standing in the way of other walkers, so we resume our pace, and Ben changes the subject.
“You said you’ve been living in New Buffalo? What took you out there?”
Oh, God. Now I have to tell him about Chris. My so-called husband, and the house we live in.
“I live there... with Chris. You remember him, from the Notables? We got married this past spring, and bought a cute little townhouse on the marina there. His folks are in Grand Rapids, so I guess it made sense for us to settle there, between Chicago and Grand Rapids. I mean, it did make sense to live there.”
Ben is silent again for a moment, and I glance at his profile. His eyebrows are raised, and he looks at me sideways. “You’re married?” He nods downwards, towards my left hand. “No wedding ring, though.”
“Oh. No.” I flutter my left hand as if to show the rings’ absence. “Chris is getting my engagement and wedding ring resized as we speak.”
So, Ben has also been checking out my left hand for a wedding ring.
“Well... then, congratulations,” he says, without much enthusiasm. “I remember Chris, yeah. He was a good guy. I’d heard you were dating, back at Northwestern, after the whole Rufus thing. But last I heard, you’d gone off solo traveling in Asia for a couple of years.”
We’ve reached the Ohio Street Beach park, and Ben leads us past the cute beach café and turns us right, back into the city in the direction of the theater.
“Yeah, I guess Chris and I got back together after I came back to Chicago,” I tell him as we descend the steps into the gloomy underpass beneath the lakefront highway. “I’ve lost a bunch of memories from back then, too,” I add, hurriedly, “so I don’t exactly recall how that happened. But he’s filling me in on a lot of stuff.”
My voice is echoey in this enclosed space, giving me a weird, slightly out-of-body sensation. Not that this whole reality isn’t a total out-of-body experience.
Literally.
“In that case, it’s good that you have him,” Ben replies. “I just hope he makes you happy.”
“He’s a great guy,” I say, noncommittal. “He does everything he can to make me happy.”
That much I’m sure is true. Whether I’m actually happy in this life... who the hell knows? But presumably I married Chris for a good reason.
“What about you?” I ask Ben. “Are you happy?” We emerge into the sunshine on Ohio Street.
“Oh, yeah, pretty good,” he says. His voice is a little flat, though. “Work is fine, and I like my place. I’ve been seeing someone new — Lexie. She’s Irish, and a lot of fun. No complaints about my life, I guess. I still hang out with my sister a lot — she’s still single, just dating around. We always spend holidays together, with our parents being gone.” He turns his head sharply to me. “Wait — you do remember what happened to our parents, right? It was a weird time, given that you and Bon were no longer friends at that point. I had to tell you via Facebook.”
I pull in a deep breath. It’s hard to imagine going through that devastation without Bonnie’s friendship, and even harder to imagine not being there for her when it happened.
“I remember that, yeah. It was so awful.” I hesitate. “Do you think Bonnie would accept an olive branch from me? I’d love to see her again. Make up for some of that lost time.”
Ben screws up his face. “Honestly, Millie, I doubt it. I think there’s too much water under the bridge at this point. Probably best that we all move on with our lives. You have Chris, and your great job, and your new home, you know?”
I swallow the lump that’s forming in my throat. I can’t live here, in this world, with only Chris in my life. He’s a sweet man, but a man I barely know anymore, and a man I’m definitely not in love with.
What do I do here, if I can’t rebuild my friendship with Bonnie and, by extension, Ben?
“Sure, I get it.” I turn my face away so he can’t see the tears that are starting to cloud my vision. “Probably for the best that I don’t reopen old wounds. But if you feel like telling her that you and I met up, feel free to say I was asking after her and that I’m hoping she’s happy. If it won’t cause any pain to do so.”
We walk for a few moments in silence, and then I stop at the intersection of the side street where the Golf is parked. “My car’s down here, and you need to get back to the theater.” I pull out my phone to check the time, and it’s ten to five. “Perfect timing. It’s been great seeing you, Ben.” I reach up to give him another slightly clumsy hug.
He squeezes for a fraction of a second, then pulls back. “You too, Millie. You take care.” With that, he turns and crosses the intersection, his long legs making easy work of the distance. I watch him walking up the street, and he doesn’t look back.
I unlock the Golf, and sit in it for a few minutes, deep-breathing away the threatening tears. I honestly don’t know how to live in this world without Bonnie and Ben. They’re the only people who feel like home to me, and now I can’t see them again. That too-familiar sting of loneliness stabs at me — remnants of my troubled teenage years. The pain that only the Mason family were ever able to take away.
Now I have to drive back to New Buffalo, and have Saturday movie night with my “husband” Chris, and then go to the bed we share.
And then what?