Chapter 9
I blink in disbelief.
It worked. I’m back here, in this room of clean whites and gold floors and—I count them—nine more balloons suspended in the air. Number twenty-one, popped and done. I smooth the skirt of my pickleball dress and shift in my sneakers.
“Welcome back.” Her voice is lyrical, like a poem.
Jumping in response, I turn to the angel. Her green eyes dance, crimson hair still billowing to her waist. “Thank . . . you,” I manage. “That was—wow. That was something else.”
She smiles, close-lipped. “You could say that.” A beat. “Do you have any questions?”
“Ha!” I huff. “So many.”
“Well, I’m here to help.” Her brows lift. “However I can.”
“Well,” I start, mind hammering. “There is one thing I must know. Is this . . . alternate life . . . truly another life? Another universe? Or can the decisions I make affect—” I pause again.
“I guess what I want to know is, can these new choices impact my other life? My real life? The realities of my present day, with Reid and my kids? If I ever find my way back?”
The angel purses her lips, tilting her gorgeous head. “You’re experiencing a separate life—a separate world. A version where Sutton Lancaster makes different choices. But where you are still entirely you.”
I nod. “Okay.”
She still didn’t answer the question, at least not directly. I think of the various multiverse theories, the ways they have always intrigued me. Parallel universes, unfolding at once, containing everything, all of it true.
“So,” I press, “the worlds can never intersect? Therefore, I can’t change the future?”
If I hadn’t been staring at her face so carefully, I might’ve missed it—but I’m sure that I see it then. For the faintest of moments, the angel falters, her eyes dropping.
Is it possible she doesn’t know?
She glides across the room, dodging balloon strings, giving an airy cough before finally answering. “I don’t believe so, no. I have never seen it happen.”
“But you can’t say for sure.”
She sighs under balloon number twenty-six, holding the giant snowflake.
“I cannot say for certain, no,” she says. “But I believe faith can move mountains.”
I scratch my head and squeeze my eyes shut, not capable of comprehending this potential twist yet.
Changing the future? Exhaling, I resolve to remember this as another question tumbles to mind.
“When I returned from the bathroom—at the party—to Quinn and to Parker,” I say, “would that version of me remember him and the conversation? Pick up where we left off?”
She seems to relax. “Yes, of course. That timeline of events is reality. You simply embodied that version of yourself briefly—taking over all agency—before coming back here.”
I rub my temples, but I think I’m tracking. Just barely. I clasp my hands with a sigh.
“Any more questions?” the angel asks.
“Not now,” I say. “I think I’m ready—or at least as ready as I can be.” I’m ready to choose my next adventure.
I eye the balloon holding the Statue of Liberty, heart flipping at the thought of New York, but unable to imagine going forward that far just yet, all the way to age twenty-nine.
Not to young motherhood—diapers and preschool and Goldfish-crumb-covered, wild, sticky, consuming love—but something else entirely.
Toward the back of the room, I spot it then, the director’s clapboard.
I didn’t notice it before. It’s black and white, laced in silver glitter, reminding me of a Christmas ornament.
I can practically hear it snapping shut—action!
—onto age twenty-three. Two years ahead, which would put me postgraduation, past my and Reid’s wedding date, way past Holden, and who knew where else.
Hollywood, evidently.
Mid–housing crisis and economic recession, according to recent history already lived—but it couldn’t possibly be worse as a single twentysomething than it was as a newlywed.
The angel holds out the needle, my magic sword. I grip the handle and approach the balloon with equal parts bold confidence and rattling nerves.
I’m ready to take my next stab.
I brace for the burst.