Chapter Twenty #3
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because I already tried renaming the unknown user as you—your calibration mix-up was the only thing I could come up with for why it would exist—and it spat an error saying it was a duplicate profile. Which makes sense, since I already signed out your incomplete profile a couple days ago.”
“Oh. Got it.” I deflated. I’d hoped that would be enough to solve this.
“If that’s it, I really should get back to this…”
Oh god, I didn’t really have to tell him I’d completely fucked his program sideways to find out about a crush, did I? A crush on him ?
But I could already see him scanning the screen for the leave meeting button, and this was my last chance to make things right, not just for me, but for my friend. Courage, don’t fail me now.
“Actually, there’s more to it.”
“Oh?” He stared at me expectantly, head tilting in a way that, a week ago, I wouldn’t have recognized as subtle annoyance.
“Question for you: Was one of the data points you input on your profile ever, umm…that-time-you-asked-me-out?” The last words came out as a single breathless squeak.
“What?” He sniffed, halfway to dismissing it, then stopped short, tilting his head to the side again, as though heeding a dog whistle offscreen. “Actually…yes . I think I did input that. But how did you—” He blinked at me, a massively exhausted deer in the headlights. “Wait…are you saying that you …?” Horror slackened his face.
“Yes?” My entire body was just one big cringe.
“Okay. Okay that’s not good, but that doesn’t mean it’s screwing everything up. I mean…like you said, you never even finished your profile. So maybe the AI is a little snagged on the question, but—”
“Drew…I’m pretty sure it’s more than a tiny snag. In fact…I know this is the problem. It has to be the problem.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve been sort of…sliding between worlds since that night? Like…this one and the one where you and I wound up together?”
His jaw dropped so fast I was surprised it didn’t audibly clunk. After a few hard swallows, he spoke.
“Why don’t you tell me what’s happened so far?”
For the second time that day I told everything, from the first wakeup in his arms to the moment other-him had booted me back here.
“Wow. At least I’m not a total idiot in this other universe,” he said with a bitter smirk.
“Drew, you’re a certified genius in every universe.”
“I’m not a—”
“We’re not doing that right now. I’m gonna need you to believe you’re a genius, and then act like the genius that can fix this before I, you know…” I exploded my fingers, poof . Drew pulled his chin back, startled, then nodded.
“Okay, heard. But I’m really not sure what you want me to do at this point, Laurel. Not that I’m gonna give up.” He raised both hands, shaking his head jerkily. The motion seemed to physically rattle his brain in his fragile, too-tired head, and he pinched his eyes closed for a second. “It’s just…I’ve done everything I can think of. Renamed the profile to you, manually stopped every sequence the program was running, which would have included my original input about the day I, uh…that day.” His eyes darted to the side. “Anyway. Yeah. If there’s something I could do on this end, it already should have resolved.”
“So I’m…safe? Other-Drew seemed pretty convinced he’d sorted it out on his end.”
“I mean…unless the program stops pulling so much power, they’re going to shut it down. They confirmed it earlier today. It’s too big a threat to their core services.” The pity on his face cracked open my chest. “Things might be okay, or…” He winced, then shook his head.
“Okay, then what if I…I don’t know, come in now? Maybe the program will let me finish the calibration after everything you’ve done to clear the deck?” I could hear the hint of desperation in my voice. Judging by his pained look, Drew could, too.
“It’s not that I don’t appreciate the offer, but…it wouldn’t make a difference, Laurel.”
“You’re saying it’s too late? I’m just…doomed?”
“Not necessarily,” he said, his pained expression telegraphing but almost for sure . God, he and Dana should really work on their bedside manner. “What I meant though was that you coming in wouldn’t change anything.”
“You can’t know that. You told me about Luke and JaeHo, how they just needed to make a fixed decision. And if I did that, told the computer to stop wondering about me, we could still—”
“ Laurel . You’re not listening to me.” The other Laurel I’d been however briefly bristled at the patronizing tone, but I forced myself not to snap at him. “Do you remember how I told you the program was reading the electrical impulses in your brain?” He had the slow, singsong tone of a children’s puppeteer.
“Yes…” I ground out. Honestly, I wasn’t sure he really had detailed that, and it certainly wasn’t a hill I wanted to die on right now, but if I made it out of this we were going to hammer out some very ironclad terms of service together.
“Good. Right. So that—learning your specific neuronal signature—is precisely so you won’t have to constantly connect via the hardware.” He looked at me expectantly. I frowned.
“Spell it out for me.”
“If your sequence is the problem right now—which I think we can both assume is the case—the program would… hear you making any important decisions anyway.”
“ Hear me?”
He shrugged, rolling his eyes.
“You know what I mean.”
“So you’re saying…there really is no way out of this?”
He licked his upper lip, eyes narrowing as he chose his words.
“I’m saying that there’s nothing you can do, from a technical perspective, that will change the outcome at this point.”
“Wow. Okay. Nice knowing you, I guess.” Tears sprung to my eyes and I barked out a manic laugh.
“I’m sorry, Laurel. I’m going to keep trying, okay? I’m not giving up. And if it comes to it, I’ll tell them what happened to you, there’s no way they’d shut it down if they knew you might…I mean…”
“Okay. Sure.” I could have let his words soothe me, but I was past that. Because how would that call go, precisely? He would tell a bunch of ultra-higher-ups that his buggy pre-beta program actually ported an employee to another universe and their entire business should wait until he—maybe, eventually—sorted out how that had happened, which might take a while, by the way, since it should have been totally impossible? If they believed him—and they wouldn’t—they still might shut it down. Billions upon billions in profit motive versus a problem no one could even prove existed, even if that problem was an entire actual person …I didn’t have a lot of faith I’d win that fight. For all they knew, there might not even be a me left after they pulled the plug to get angry over the result, or anyone who remembered me to do it in my stead.
We sat there, too stunned to speak, for several long seconds.
“On that note…I should probably get back to it.”
“Right. Yeah, okay.” I blinked rapidly, the pain in his eyes so intense, and so real, that it made my own impending who-knew-what loom that much larger. Then it hit me: This loss might not just be mine. In the other world, Drew had asked the question because we weren’t happy, but in this one…
“Drew, in case this is the last time we get to, you know…talk…” He winced. “I have to ask, were you still…hoping?”
“Hoping what?”
“That it would be us,” I said, sorrow tightening my throat. “That we would wind up together. I mean…you asked the question however many months ago, and we’ve always been… close …”
He smiled softly.
“Laurel, you’re an incredible person, you know that, right?”
“Oh god. So you have been holding out hope?”
“Sorry…no.” He shook his head.
“Wait…what?”
“I mean, have I ever wondered if we would have worked out? Of course. You’re a total catch, that’s why I asked you out in the first place. But Laurel…that was almost five years ago.”
“But…but you asked the program about that day…”
“Yeah, because we had to input inflection points that happened at the Pixel offices, and they needed to have really clear this or that directives in order for the AI to understand what we were asking of it. After the Luke and JaeHo screwup, I wanted to be absolutely certain no one else could input the same question I did, so…you know…” He grimaced. “But like I said, you’re a total catch. It’s not like I don’t still know that.”
“It’s okay, Drew, my ego can handle the fact that you’re not pining,” I said with a weak laugh. I could feel embarrassment heating my cheeks, because hadn’t I been so sure? But just behind it, there was a wash of relief: I hadn’t been torturing him all those years, our friendship wasn’t just some long game he was still hoping to win. We loved each other, but we weren’t in love with each other. “Honestly…I’m glad to hear we’re on the same page.”
“So…you’re okay, then? With us? Because I really do think you’re an incredible person, even if I don’t…you know…”
“Don’t worry, Drew, we’re good. I just want you to be happy.”
He smiled gently.
“Okay, well…good luck, Laurel.”
“You too. I’ll see you on the other side. Or, you know…I won’t.”
He nodded solemnly, opened his mouth for a second, then shook his head and clicked off the call.
So that was that. My fate was now officially in the hands of a computer program that spouted Mr. Ed lyrics to prove how clever it was. There was nothing left that Drew—or I—could do to change whatever was going to happen to me.
Because I had told the program that my choice was fixed. I’d been thinking as hard as I could, all day long—and before that even, in both worlds—that I chose Ollie . That the life I wanted to continue was with him . That there was no “what if” for me with Drew. And then, briefly, I’d tried to think the opposite and that hadn’t worked either.
Which meant…there had never been anything I could do. Whatever was happening with me had been out of my hands from the moment I imagined the same choice that Drew had. I’d been doomed from the start.
All because I’d been too blind to see that whatever might be…less than perfect between me and Ollie—and since when did I think relationships ever achieved perfection?—there was still so much more magic and possibility threaded through our lives together, so much more to explore with him than I could have possibly found with anyone else. I’d been so focused on what might happen down the line, on the possibility that forever would prove too much for us to bear, that I’d never realized Ollie was quietly undergirding all my right nows, that he’d chosen me even when it meant not choosing himself. God, how fucking selfish could you get?
“Lo…are you okay?”
I startled at the sound of Ollie’s voice in the doorway. He was stretched out along the jamb, staring at me with obvious concern.
“I’m fine. Why?”
“Because you’re crying.” He crossed to me, swiped a thumb gently across my cheek. “I realized you’d been gone a while so I decided to check in. Did something happen?” He tilted his head toward the blank computer screen.
“Oh, umm…no.” I shook my head, blinking furiously, I love you I love you I love you. “One of my team members just pinned a video to our latest mood board with…a little girl and her sick dog?” That was a plausible lie. Go with that. “And there were all these images of them together and you could see how much he adored her but she took it for granted. Like…she loved him so much but she didn’t realize it until it was too late?” The tears started falling more thickly. Maybe this was…not the analogy I wanted to dig into right now. “I think I must be about to start my period,” I finally said, with a hiccup-laugh. Ollie bent to press his lips to my hair.
“Or you’re just a decent human being. Would…a third helping of ratatouille cheer you up? Or do we have ice cream in the freezer?”
“If I eat anything else right now I might actually explode,” I said, smiling softly.
“Okay, so not food. What else might help?”
I leaned my head against him. This . Being with him, touching him, feeling his heartbeat reverberate through my skin, so that just for a moment, it felt like we were too connected to ever be pulled apart.
But every single beat was actually the ticking of a doomsday clock, another second I’d never get back with him, and the idea was so horrible it made the walls start to close in. I needed more than that. I wanted to really connect with Ollie, really see him now, since I’d probably already lost the chance to spend forever together.
And suddenly I knew.
“I want to hear your score,” I said, sitting up to look at him. “The one you’re writing for the game.”
“Really?” He scrunched his nose in disbelief. “It’s not that interesting without the visuals.”
“But weren’t you playing the game the other day? When I walked in on you?”
“That was a static playthrough Ryan gave me. So I could match the music to the action.”
“Perfect. We’ll use that.”
I squeezed Ollie’s thigh, trying to transmit my excitement. It seemed to catch, sparking into a shy smile, an ember floating up into his eyes.
“Okay. But if you get bored just tell me.”
“I will. But I won’t.”
I pulled an extra chair in from the kitchen table while Ollie got his rig set up.
“So the game starts in a cave. Bobo—that’s you,” he pointed at a recumbent figure on the screen, more anthropomorphic lima bean than man. “He wakes up to this booming voice telling him the fate of the world is in his hands. And last he can remember, he was a turnip farmer, so the cave, and the whole ‘voice of the gods’ thing, kinda throws him for a loop. But…actually, the tutorial is baked in at the beginning, so you can just read along.” He rolled his eyes, flushing slightly as he started both the video and audio tracks. I followed along as the character on the screen tiptoed around searching for his clothing, then something to make porridge in, Can’t go out saving the world on an empty stomach, then learned from the goddess how to wield his wooden spoon and pot lid as a basic sword and shield. The animation was simple and cheery, but the text running along the bottom was darkly funny, and the music drove everything along, skittering anxiously at the start, then plodding along stolidly with Bobo the porridge fiend, then bursting into a minor-key orchestral fanfare as he finally exited the cave mouth to find a spectacular—and grim—scene before him, squat cartoon huts ablaze, adorable cartoon animals bolting every which way, the destruction taking on an air of epic beauty when paired with Ollie’s haunting, melancholy music.
“Ollie…this is incredible,” I said, leaning closer to the screen as the game continued, a charming blend of simple commonsense tasks ( First things first, I’ll need to find this town’s well. And a bucket. Well…maybe a few buckets. ) and puzzles with a mystical flavor, Ollie’s musical cues both signaling which was which and offering hints for the player, if they were paying close attention.
“You don’t think it’s too…out there?”
“The game?”
“The score.”
I didn’t even have to take in his obvious need, the hunger in his eyes, because I was already responding honestly.
“That’s what I was talking about. It feels so…organic. Like the world couldn’t exist without it, if that makes sense.”
“Yeah, that makes sense.” He grinned hugely at the keyboard.
“I can’t believe I didn’t know about this,” I murmured, eyes fixed on the screen, the story unfolding there absolutely mesmerizing.
“It’s not like I brought it to show and tell,” he said.
“Fair. But I should have asked. You haven’t joined a new band in what…six months now? I could’ve guessed you were focused on something else. I’m sorry I wasn’t paying more attention.”
“It’s okay,” he said reflexively.
“It’s not. But I promise, I won’t do that again.” I reached for his hand and squeezed. The fact that I wouldn’t have a chance to make good on it only made me sad. His Adam’s apple bobbed and he nodded. “So what’s next?”
“For the game?”
“Sure, but I actually meant for you. Are you going to keep working with Ryan? Are you gonna try to find a job with a gaming company? Like one of the big ones I mean?”
“Not that. I think a corporate job would actually kill me,” Ollie said, laughing once. “And I’d love to work with Ryan on another game, but that’ll probably take a while. We’re only just starting to sort out how to distribute this one. If we get enough funding to get to that stage in the first place.” He shrugged, going for nonchalant and hitting it…if you didn’t look harder.
“So you find someone else making an indie game, then. Ryan must know some people. Or some smaller studios? Could he point you in the right direction?”
“He has…but none of the ones that I’ve vibed with are Boston-based,” Ollie said, carefully focusing on the screen.
“So?”
He turned to me, half-frowning.
“So I didn’t figure it was worth going after some job in Baltimore when I don’t even know if I’m any good at this.”
“But now you do know. You’re good at this. Like… really good, Ollie.” I stared straight into his eyes. He swallowed hard.
“So what, we’d just up and move to Baltimore for some pipe dream with an indie gaming company?”
“Maybe. Or maybe you’d move there and I’d come on weekends for a while, until I found a job. We’d make it work.”
“Lo…be serious.”
The look he gave me, mostly eye-rolling dismissal with the tiniest thread of pain, nearly broke my heart.
“Ollie…this isn’t just something you’re messing around with, right?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean…the way your eyes lit up when you were telling me about the rock-troll sequence?” I laughed. “I haven’t seen you that excited about something since…I don’t even know how long. Maybe ever .”
“Okay…yes. I love this. But we also have a life here. Your whole life is here.”
“For now. But it doesn’t have to be that way forever. Especially not if you find the job of your dreams in Baltimore, or Denver, or wherever else they make indie games.”
“Lo…I don’t want you to give everything up for me.”
“I wouldn’t be.” It felt so simple now, it was almost impossible to believe I hadn’t seen it before. “ You’re my everything, Ollie. My job, living here—all that stuff doesn’t mean much if you’re not happy too.”
“But you just got that huge promotion.” I could see the hope flickering in the corners of his eyes, but he was still warding against it, shoulders tight, jaw tense.
“Yeah, well, Pixel has a lot of offices. Or I could look for something else entirely—you were right, that job is taking over way too much of my life. And my options have vested at this point. I could always take some time off and…” Even voicing the idea that I could write, especially after the abject failure I’d made of it when I was given the chance in World D, seemed silly, dangerous somehow. I bit my lip, shrugging lightly. “I could try something different, at least for a while. Take a risk for once.”
“So…what are you saying?”
“I’m saying that I want you to go after this. And when a dozen different designers are begging you to join their team, we’ll figure out what our next step is. Together.”
Ollie’s Adam’s apple started bobbing again, and his dark eyes sparkled liquidly as he took my hand.
“That would be…incredible. If it really is together.”
“It will be. Forever.”
I’d never meant anything more, every part of me aching with love for him, and pride in this amazing thing he’d done, and hope that he could find a way to turn this incredible talent into something more, something that gave him that same sparkly look of pure joy every day of his life.
And more, it gave me courage. Ollie had always believed I could do something different, pursue something scary and hard and without the promise of regular gold stars to serve as mile markers. I always claimed we couldn’t do it because money, but really…we barely even touched the majority of my salary, my savings were frankly ludicrous for someone my age. And seeing him be awesome at something very near what he’d always been awesome at didn’t just…suddenly make me believe I was also a creative genius. That felt like the kind of arrogance that had probably left me so hopelessly muddled in World D. But it made me wonder whether trying—and even failing—wasn’t as scary as I’d always made it out to be in my own mind.
I might never get to see it happen for him—even less so for me, I didn’t even have a book idea let alone a manuscript to peddle. But I had to hope that even if the very idea of me evaporated whenever this ended, a strange dream that grew ever dimmer as reality slowly took its place—even then, he would know that this was the thing he was meant to do. And that the people who loved him wanted it for him more than anything in any world.
I couldn’t choose how long forever might be, but while I was here, I knew exactly how I wanted to spend it.