24
I open my eyes and blink into the early morning light.
My fingers graze the nightstand for my phone, except my wrist knocks into something long and flat, not my wobbly side table.
I glance to the left and realize I am not in my bed. I roll my head to the right slowly, as if it might detach from my shoulders,
to find Liam sleeping soundly. One of his bare legs is hitched over the blanket on his massive king-size bed. He is shirtless,
in fitted black briefs, and I take a moment to admire his physique before shooting up in bed.
Holy hell, why am I in Liam’s bed?
I close my eyes again and realize I must be dreaming. I literally pinch myself and wait to wake up. After counting to ten,
I blink again and let my eyes trail to the window. The Manhattan Bridge hulks outside, just as I remember. Suddenly I am aware
of two things: I am in Liam’s loft. And I am mostly naked.
I must be having a stroke.
I scramble out of bed, but Liam doesn’t budge. He is a hard sleeper, at least from what I remember during our week together. I stumble backward and stare down at myself. I am wearing only a white T-shirt—his, by the looks of it. My legs are bare and pale. I study my hands, as if I’m expecting to see someone else’s. I glance at my wrist where my I see you tattoo is.
Instead of the tiny words, there’s only a bare swatch of skin. I rub at it, as if my tattoo will suddenly reappear. I spin
in a circle, hyperventilating. Where is my tattoo? Where is Ben? Where is my condo? How did I get to New York?
I run back to the bed and grip Liam’s shoulders. I shake him roughly. “Liam, wake up. Wake up .”
He opens his eyes and moans, hooking an arm around my waist and tugging me toward him. I wriggle out of his grasp, horrified,
though his hands work their way over my thighs and send an electric jolt through every traitorous inch.
“Let me sleep, woman. You kept me up half the night.” He taps me lightly on the bottom.
“Liam, what is happening?”
“What is happening with what?” He cocks himself onto one elbow, stomach flexing, eyes still closed. His hair is mussed, and
I look anywhere but at his well-defined torso.
I spread my arms wide, then drop them. “How did I get here?”
He looks at me, eyes thick with sleep. “Is that a metaphorical question?”
I stab my finger toward his window. “Last night I was in Chattanooga. You were in a hotel. This morning I woke up here, in
this loft. A loft I haven’t seen in ten years, Liam. Am I dead?” I spin in a circle and pat the visible parts of my body. “Is this some sort of fever dream?”
“Did you hit your head, my love?” A smile plays at the corner of his lips, and I want to shake him. I glance at my hands again.
My wedding ring is gone. Where is it?
“Liam, I’m serious. Where’s Ben?”
He sits up fully and rakes a hand through his hair. “Who’s Ben?” He slides on a pair of sweatpants and a pang literally hits
my gut like a knife.
“ Ben Ben! My husband. The man you are doing a story on for the Times .”
Now Liam looks worried. He stands and presses a hand to my forehead. “Harper, I don’t work for the Times anymore. Are you sleepwalking or something?” He waves a hand in front of my face. “You’re scaring me.”
“You’re scaring me . I’m not supposed to be here. I’m...” I turn around, and that’s when I see it: Liam’s studio. Or should I say, my studio. My art is everywhere, big and small pieces, ceramics and mixed media. “Oh my God.” I rush over to the workspace,
poring over every piece. This is my art. My supplies. My clothes. My decorative touches. My eyes roam over the loft and soak
it all in. So many things have been updated, but much of it is the same. I search for something with the date on it and see
a copy of the newspaper crisply folded on the desk. I reach for it, hunting for the date at the top. This paper is from yesterday.
I touch my body, making sure once again that I am real. Is this a dream? It doesn’t feel like a dream.
What’s the last thing I remember? The ritual before bed. “Oh my God,” I say again. I lower the paper. Am I time traveling? Even as I think it, I know things like that aren’t possible... are they? “Liam, how long have we been together?”
He’s already making coffee and turns to me, eyebrows scrunched. “Is that a trick question?” Seeing the seriousness on my face,
he continues. “Um, a decade. But you know that already.”
I collapse in the chair behind me. This is real. This is happening. Somehow I’m in an alternate reality with Liam, which is playing out because of a full moon ritual I was basically bullied into doing last night. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to remember what I said. The words come to me in a sweet, ironic rush:
I want Ben to be cancer-free. I want to be known for my art.
My eyes snap open again. Is this some cruel trick of the universe? Ben is cancer-free, but I’m not with him? A cold panic
sweeps across my skin, and I fear I’m going to be sick. Things like this just don’t happen, except in movies or books. I do
not believe in time travel or portals or parallel time lines. I’ve never even thought about it. My eyes lift to Liam again.
But I have thought about Liam. Hundreds of times. And now I’m here, with him.
“What day is it?”
“Wednesday.” He places the coffee bag to the side, pads over in his bare feet, and squats down until his face is flush with
mine. “Harp, what’s going on?” Harp. Only Ben calls me Harp. I open my mouth again to try to explain, but I know my best bet is to play along until I can figure
out what’s going on. I place my trembling hands on Liam’s face, because this is what Harper who has been with Liam for a decade
would do, and summon up a smile.
“I think I had a very weird, very real dream, and I’m just super confused.” My eyes flick to the studio and back again.
“And in it, you were married to some guy named Ben?” His fingers dance over mine. “If you won’t marry me, you certainly aren’t
marrying Ben.”
Won’t marry Liam? What on earth is he talking about? There are so many questions, but I don’t want to bombard him any more than I already have. “Just a dream,” I say in an attempt to keep my voice calm. Before I can stop him, he leans in and slides his thumb against my cheek. My entire face ignites and my legs instinctively open to make space for him. He glances down, one eyebrow cocked, and leans in for a kiss.
Realizing where I am, who I am (Ben’s wife!), and what is happening, I snap my legs closed and gently push him away. Inside,
my brain screams to get up now . Though I would never cheat on Ben, my body seems to have other ideas.
Liam moves back without complaint and stares deeply into my eyes. “You still take my breath away,” he says, “even after all
this time. You know that?” One hand slides up my thigh, and I practically bolt from the chair.
“I need to pee,” I blurt. I rush to the bathroom, close the door, and gaze at myself in the mirror. “Wake up, Harper. Please
wake up.” I stare into my own large brown eyes in the mirror and practically demand answers. My auburn hair is wild and loose
around my shoulders. There’s still the dark freckle above my lip, the slight bump in my nose where a rogue elbow in an obstacle
course race broke it, the full lips, the strong chin. It’s still me, but it doesn’t feel like me. I look at myself until my eyes blur, practically willing something to happen. Maybe for the ground to shake. Or lightning
to strike. Something to get me back to my life, back to Ben.
After it’s clear I’m stuck in this psycho dream, I take a few breaths and open the door. I peer out carefully, as if monsters
might jump out and attack. Instead, Liam is busy pulling down mugs as the last of the coffee bubbles into the pot. Ben flashes
through my head again. Beyond anything that is happening, I know I must find him.
“Everything okay?” Liam asks.
“Yeah. I just really had to pee.” I shift uncomfortably from foot to foot, tugging on the hem of my T-shirt. Don’t I own pants ?
“Hungry?”
I motion to the coffee. “Coffee’s fine.” He pours a healthy dash of cream into a mug, just like I prefer, then slides it over
and stares at me pensively while I take a distracted sip.
“I’ll be right back.” He excuses himself to the bathroom. In his absence, I hunt for my phone. I find it underneath some sketch
pads and try my same code. “Ha!” It works. The phone unlocks, and I pull up my contacts first, scrolling to find Ben. There
is no Ben.
“Don’t panic,” I say. “You’re most likely dead or in some kind of made-for-TV rom-com.” I gnaw on a nail and dial his cell.
He doesn’t answer, and when the voicemail clicks on, I consider leaving a crazy, Hi, it’s your wife you might not have met yet! message, but the recording says I’ve reached the cell phone of Lisa Howard.
I hang up and then stare at my phone as though it will give me answers. Where is Ben?
I move to my calendar, open it, and am shocked to see a bunch of color-coded meetings that take up the majority of every day
for the foreseeable future. “What in the world?” I scroll through them, and my mouth literally drops open. Interviews, podcasts,
gallery visits. Who am I, and what have I become?
I open my email and scan through the messages. I rack my brain for who to contact, who could give me some insight into my
life here, and then snap my fingers. Kendall! I type her name in my phone and there she is. I read through our text chain,
a text chain I never created, and am surprised to find that we are still in contact. Does she still work at the gallery?
Before I can dig anymore, Liam emerges in a T-shirt and sweatpants, a lazy smile on his face. Though it still feels like a betrayal, my heart kicks. I know this is not my life. This is either a dream or a glimpse of some alternate future, and I will most likely wake up tomorrow and all will be as it should. But to be here, even for a moment, in this fantastical reality, with Liam, in this loft, as an artist—and a successful one, by the looks of it—fills me with a strange kind of joy I can’t articulate.
And then I think of Ben, wherever he is, and a pit in my stomach grows to the size of Texas. If I’m in this life, does that
mean I never met him?
Liam pours himself a cup of coffee, and I join him on the balcony. I think about sitting with Liam just last night, on a different
balcony. But here, it’s our balcony. I settle into a chair, glancing at all the herbs and plants spilling across the black wrought iron. My fingers fondle
the petals. I wonder whose idea it was to bring in plants.
The city beckons below, and something sparks in my chest. A calling. A remembrance. After I left New York, I would think of
this place, and this loft, figuring I was romanticizing the whole “grass is greener” life. Because in truth, I did only know
Liam for a week. We didn’t go through the daily grind of domestic life. We didn’t really go through anything, beyond falling
for each other and then letting it dissolve just as quickly. But at this moment, I feel weirdly validated. Being here feels
exactly how I always thought it would feel. I glance at Liam, who props his feet on the rail. Even though it feels like a
deep betrayal to even think about it, in this moment, this place feels like home.
“You going to the gallery today?” His eyes are warm. I cannot get over that we are still together, that he apparently still tells me I’m beautiful ten years in, that he makes me coffee and wants to kiss me good morning and lets me sleep in his T-shirt.
I freeze, because I don’t know what gallery he is referring to. “Probably,” I answer. “You?”
He smiles. “Oh, you know. The life of a writer never ceases. Just trying to prep before I hit the road. There’s still a lot
to do.”
“Where are you going?”
He stares at me with his head cocked. “I told you all the cities they put on this book tour. We talked about it last week.”
“You wrote a book?” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, but Liam laughs.
“Har har. I know. I thought I would never write books, but here we are.” He reaches over to squeeze my knee. “It’s basically
your fault.”
“My fault?”
He rolls his eyes. “Harper, come on. You used to constantly complain about all of my deadlines working for the paper.”
What, so he just quit his successful career because I had a problem with it? “Did I?”
He looks at me. “What’s with you today?”
I lift my coffee. “Give me one more cup of this and I’ll be able to tell you.”
We sip in silence, but my brain works overtime. I want to know everything about my life and who is in it, but first I have
to figure out what is happening.
And more importantly, I have to find Ben.