Chapter 17
NEW YORK CITY
JULY 6, 2012
AGE: 26
IWAS STILL WOOZY, AND MY BODY FELT LEADEN. I WAS SINKING INTO A padded movie theater seat. The scent of artificial butter infused the air. On the screen, Meryl Streep was screaming at the actor who played her husband. I remembered this movie from my twenties. Geeta was sitting next to me, her unmistakable profile, that arrow-sharp chin and perky nose, clear in the dark. I felt a stab of gratitude. Of all the places and times I could have spun the wheel to, I was at Geeta’s side.
After the closing credits ran, I followed Geeta out of the theater and onto Twenty-Third Street. New York City was bustling, and it was still bright out, not too hot. I noticed I had on form-fitting jeans and a cropped vest. My midriff was jacked.
“Well, that was fun,” Geeta said to me as we lingered underneath the marquee. She shifted her weight on her feet a bit awkwardly. “I can’t believe how long it’s been since we’ve seen each other.”
I was mystified. How long could it possibly have been? We were in our twenties, an age when best friends still saw each other all the time.
“It hasn’t been that long,” I said, hoping she’d provide an explanation.
“I guess. What is time anyway?” Geeta forced a laugh.
I wanted to tell her that time was my magic carpet, and that I had just traveled through it to see a summer matinee with her, but I held my tongue. It wasn’t easy. I had so many questions. What had happened to us between the time I’d apprenticed with the cronut genius and now? What had happened at that party? Did I meet Alex? And what the hell was going on between Geeta and me? When we lived in the same city, Geeta and I never let a week pass without a hang.
Geeta drifted toward the curb and I could see her eyes scanning traffic for a taxi. I didn’t want her to go.
“Wait,” I said. “It’s such a beautiful day. Want to grab a drink?”
“You’re the one who said you only had time for a quick movie—the perfect way to avoid talking about anything of substance.” She was trying to sound sarcastic but I could detect a note of hurt. “Besides, I have a dinner party tonight.”
“It’s still the afternoon.”
“I’m hosting,” she said. I stopped short. It was clear I wasn’t on the guest list.
“Can I come?” I asked.
“You’re not serious, are you?” She cocked her head. “You told me that your weeks are ruled by your job, and your weekends are also ruled by your job, so I didn’t invite you. You know how small my table is.”
“I really said that?” I asked, dumbfounded. I couldn’t imagine ever saying something so idiotic.
“Yes, you did,” Geeta said. “Besides, speaking of your job, don’t you have to go to Florence’s cocktail thing tonight?”
“Florence will get over it,” I said, even though I had no idea who Florence was.
“Are you crazy? It’s not every weekend you get invited to your boss’s home.” Geeta put her hand on my shoulder, a tender concession. “Let’s get something on the calendar soon,” she added brightly. “I still haven’t seen your new apartment.”
“Me neither.” The words slipped out. “I mean, me too! I’d really like that.” But much more than that, I wanted to know how it was possible that my best friend hadn’t seen my home and was hosting a dinner party to which I was not invited because I had an obligation to brown-nose a boss named Florence.
Geeta raised her hand to flag down a cab and gave me a hug before getting in. Her embrace was listless, but I held her tight.
“Seriously, let’s not let five months go by again without catching up,” she said, shutting the door and blowing me a kiss from the back seat.
“Five months?” I mumbled as the cab drove away. It had been almost half a year?
I walked west, feeling melancholy and lost. I wasn’t sure what, exactly, I was supposed to be doing here. I needed my Memo mandate. I was still digging around in my bag for my phone when I stepped off the curb and onto the street. A runner who was hurtling up Seventh Avenue crashed into me.
“Watch it!” I cried out in alarm.
The runner was intent on keeping pace, so he barely glanced over his shoulder. “You don’t have the light!” he told me.
My jaw dropped.
“Gabe?” I cried out before I could think better of it.
He looked at me expectantly. Crap. What was I going to say? You don’t exactly know who I am, but I’ve blitzed here from the future. I know that you are going to become a lovelorn single dad and join Pittsburgh’s scrappiest a cappella entourage.
He resumed his run. I gasped as he ran straight into an oncoming bus and collapsed onto the pavement. Then the bus continued rolling along. I stood there watching the cars go by and staring at the site where Gabe’s body had just fallen. He was gone, though. He’d completely vanished. There was nothing on the ground but a couple of pigeons nosing around for a snack. Stranger still, nobody appeared to have seen this accident happen but me.
“Goodness, your imagination has quite a violent bent,” came a familiar voice. Desiree was heading my way. She linked her skinny arm with mine and led me to the opposite side of the street.
“What the hell was that?” I asked.
“That little ‘run in,’ if you will, was another one of your strange fantasies.” Desiree’s voice was as smooth as cream. “If you want to hang out with your a cappella buddy, you’re free to stay in Pittsburgh. You can’t keep summoning Gabe from your subconscious. Got it?”
“No, I don’t get it at all. Why does this keep happening?”
“Forget about him. We need to go to your apartment. It’s fabulous.”
“What are you doing here?” I asked. This was our first encounter in my alternate life.
“You think we are going to take another risk with you? Trust must be earned.”
Desiree didn’t let go of my arm as she led me down the busted-up steps of the subway station, then brandished a MetroCard and swiped us both through the turnstile. A man on the platform was playing “El Cóndor Pasa” on a one-string instrument.
“So, how was your little movie date with the old BFF?” Desiree inquired as we made our way onto one of the last cars of the downtown 1 train.
“Weird,” I said, looking down at my feet. My chunky-heeled patent leather loafers looked very expensive.
“They’re Prada,” Desiree supplied. “Now, you were saying?”
I looked back up at her. “On the one hand, it was great seeing her. On the other, how is it possible that she and I are too busy to get together anymore?”
“You both need to focus on your careers right now,” Desiree said.
“But that seems so... sad.”
“Listen, your friends will either be there in the end, or they won’t. You need to take care of yourself.”
By that point, the train doors opened at Christopher Street, which was my stop apparently. I was living in the West Village? Not bad.
“Dare I ask, what am I doing now, in this phase of my perfect life?” I said. “And who, exactly, is Florence?”
Desiree rubbed her hands together. “Now these are the right questions to be asking! You’re hustling nonstop, but you love it. You’re working at Demeter Editions, a top-notch publishing house run by Florence McIntosh. You are the marketing liaison, always coming up with creative ways for the chefs on their roster to promote their books. The job is a steppingstone, but you do excellent work and you schmooze like nobody’s business. You live in a gorgeous apartment that, thanks to an intro from Florence, one of Demeter’s authors rented to you while she travels in Asia researching ancient spices. She’ll fall in love with a trekking expert and be gone for ages so you’ll be set here for a long while.”
“Not Anya Sturgeon?” I could feel my eyes widening. I remembered reading an essay she’d written about re-learning how to cook in the mountains of Burma. I had bought her book Spice Trail the second it came out. I had it to thank for the online curry shopping habit I’d developed. “I’m subletting from her?”
“More than that—you’re her protégé,” Desiree said, smiling. “As I said, good things await on the other side.” We turned onto Barrow Street, which was always one of my favorites, with its cute cafes and brownstones decked out with colorful flowerpots. We walked up the steps of one such building.
“Okay. Wow. Anya Sturgeon is my mentor and I am living in her townhouse,” I said.
“The keys are in your pocket,” Desiree said. I dug in and there they were, attached to a leather keychain embossed with that familiar triangular pile of bones.
“Thanks for the Consortium swag,” I said. “I should probably go inside and settle in. Gotta get ready for the boss’s cocktail party and see what the Memo has in store.”
Desiree lifted her finger in the air. “Today’s something of an orientation day. It’s tomorrow that really matters.”
“Obviously,” I said.
“You should swing by Florence’s tonight, of course. And before you go to bed, I want you to set the dial for September 8, 2013. Can you remember that date?” I nodded. “In 2013, you’ll be on a kickboxing streak. The training session will be memorable. We’ll fine-tune your career—and your...”
“My what?” I prodded.
Desiree ignored my question and informed me that I was to report to the Uppercut Gym first thing the next morning. “And take it easy on the cocktails. It’s going to be a doozy of a workout.”