25
After I’m showered, to-go coffee in hand, I tell Liam goodbye and settle onto the streets of Brooklyn.
While I was getting ready, I poked around enough to know that I now own Rita Clementine’s gallery. Rita Freaking Clementine , the woman I ran away from all those years ago because I couldn’t hack it. I’ve also learned a few more things.
Apparently Rita helped make me into the art sensation I always wanted to be, which means I must have never left New York.
At some point, she handed over her gallery to me.
I’m kind of a big fucking deal.
Because I have no idea if I’ve died and gone to some parallel semi-heaven, I’m indulging in this false reality for the sheer fact that my life turning out this way is something I once dreamed about, and now it’s here, staring me in the face. But the more realistic part of me knows that Wren has somehow issued a strange spell and her words of “see you on the other side” have come true. Do I know her in this life too?
Quickly, I scroll through my phone, but I don’t see her contact info. Luckily, I know her number by heart and will call her
the moment I get settled at the gallery.
It is a cool morning, despite being the start of summer. Though I am confused and am wondering about Ben— Where is he? What if I can’t get back to him in time? What if I never see him again? —I also can’t help but revel in the fact that I’m in Brooklyn. That this is my home. My home with Liam . This Brooklyn looks a bit different from the one I visited a decade ago. For starters, it’s packed. I dodge people on the
street and feel a tiny thrill at what’s ahead.
After a short walk, I approach the gallery from memory and almost faint. I assumed the gallery would have the same name, but
instead it says “Swanson Gallery.” I swallow, taking a mental picture for when I wake up from this crazy dream, then tug on
the door. Locked. I rummage in my purse for a set of keys and try a few of them until the right one slides into place with
a satisfying click.
Inside, I flip on the lights and take a sharp breath. The art is stunning. Every piece is exactly something I would have chosen.
I’m reminded of working at the gallery in Chicago and how I used to fantasize about owning my own space someday.
I almost clap my hands in excitement as I see a series from local artists and squint as I spot one of the names: Keisha Hollis.
Could this be the same Keisha I met at that underground gallery so long ago? The girl who was so hungry for my spot?
An immediate sense of satisfaction overtakes me as I assess the eclectic mix of mediums and talent here. Did I choose all these pieces? Did I get to deliver the news and change an artist’s life as Rita must have changed mine? I ransack my memory for something concrete and walk the halls like a stranger, taking my time to memorize everything I see.
Finally, I wander back to where Rita’s office used to be, except my name is now etched on the door. My fingers trace the gold
embossed letters before I spin in a circle, waiting for someone to jump out and tell me this is all some big joke. When no
one comes, I carefully open the door. Inside there’s sleek, modern furniture, a stack of art books on oak shelves, and photos
of my life with Liam jamming up any free space. I study each one. There’s one of us on a boat, one in the mountains, and one
in the loft. In all of them we seem happy, the evidence of our life that I have somehow missed, displayed on a clear time
line.
I drop my purse on the desk and pore over the contents of my life. Another photo of me and Liam, arms wrapped around each
other, perches next to my desktop computer. My heart gives that achy kick again. Is this really happening?
Before I can answer that question, Kendall bounds in, and I smile when I see her. She looks virtually the same, except one
side of her head is shaved. “Yo, what’s up? You never texted me back.”
I open my mouth to respond, but I don’t know what to say. Instead, I motion to the chair across from my desk. “Sit.”
She sighs, adjusts one of a million signature bracelets, and crosses her impossibly long legs. “What’s going on?”
I fold my hands together and exhale. “I actually have no idea.” I contemplate how to explain my situation in a way where she
doesn’t immediately assume I’m crazy. “This morning I woke up in Liam Hale’s apartment.”
She waits. “And?”
“And yesterday I was in Chattanooga with my dying husband.”
She makes a face. “Chattanooga? Ew. Why would you be in Chattanooga? And what husband? What are you talking about, Harper?” She sighs again. “You know we have a big day today. So whatever this is”—she waves her hands in my direction—“Needs to wait.”
I stand, cross the tiny space to shut the door, and sit back down. “I know this sounds insane, but somehow I have time traveled
from my life in Tennessee to Brooklyn.”
She waits a beat, then bursts out laughing. “Harper, come on. What’s this really about?”
I know how I sound, but I continue. “Ten years ago I walked out of this door and never came back. Rita didn’t like my piece,
and I never saw Liam again. Or you, for that matter. And now, suddenly, I’m here, in this version of a life I once wanted.”
She blinks at me, her dark eyes even moodier than normal. “I’m not following.”
In strange scenarios like these, there’s always one supporting character who believes the time travel story could be true,
right? I need this to be Kendall. I need it for my own sanity. “This is not my life,” I say. “I have no idea what I’m doing
or how I got here.”
She stands, her impatience dissolving as she adjusts her Gucci belt. “Not this again, Harper. Look, everyone’s getting really
tired of this whole ‘woe is me’ act. Rita gave you this opportunity because you deserve it. You’ve earned your spot here.
You belong, so do your job, okay? You’ve got this!” She moves to the door. “I’ve got a busy day, but when you’re done having
this whole midlife crisis thing, let’s do lunch. Okay? Bye, babe!” She leaves me sitting there, even more confused than before.
I think back to ten years ago, when she gave me a gentle reminder to keep my eye on my career, not Liam, but had I listened? No. When I walked away from art and Brooklyn, it seemed I’d lost her friendship too. But that wasn’t her fault. It was mine.
But in this life, I stayed. In this life, she is here and so am I. In this life, I am with Liam, and I have a thriving career.
I ransack my office in an attempt to bring myself up to speed. It seems I have two assistants who run my entire life, and
I ask both of them to clear my schedule for the next couple of days. The last thing I want to do is mess up something for
this version of myself. Instead, I need to figure out why I’m here and how to get back.
On my computer, I google Ben’s name and find a few old articles about some of his work as a composer. But there’s nothing
within the last couple of years. As I’m just about to pull up his Instagram, there’s a succession of rapid knocks on my door.
Rita Clementine sticks her head inside.
She looks the same too, just a little older and sharper. Her cheeks are hollowed and stained with rouge. “What’s this about
you canceling the next two days? Are you ill?” She stares me down over her bright-red reading glasses.
“No, I’m fine. I just—”
“You just nothing , Harper. Unless you’re dying, you’re working.” She crosses her arms. “Do you remember when I had my heart attack?”
“You had a heart attack?”
Rita rolls her eyes. “You told me you could handle it. Is taking a few days off handling it? No, it’s not.”
I try to piece these stray bits of information together. So Rita had a heart attack. Is that why she gave me the gallery?
“I can handle it,” I say, even though I’m pretty sure that no, I definitely cannot handle it —whatever it even is.
“Well, good. We have artists to greet, so chop-chop.” She claps twice and leaves me once again stunned by the hurried tone. Why is everyone in such a rush?
I think about my life back home, the kids I teach, the lazy mountain days, the slow pace. Is it just a New York thing, or
an art thing?
The next few hours pass in a blur, though I find that my brain knows just what to do. Somehow I understand how to critique
and what to say, as if this version of my brain is being channeled through the other Harper’s body. Is this what an out-of-body
experience feels like? By the end of the day, I am utterly drained. Liam texts that he wants to go out for dinner and tells
me where to meet.
Though I am exhausted to my bones, I’m also starving, so I hightail it out of the gallery before Rita or Kendall chain me
to my desk. The air is muggy, and I realize I didn’t even step outside today. As I stare at my pale arms, even though it’s
summer, I wonder if this is why. Am I a workaholic in this life?
Liam is standing outside the main gallery door, looking as handsome as ever. I wave awkwardly and try to keep as much space
between us as I can while we walk.
Sensing the tension, Liam maintains the distance and shoves his hands in his pockets. “How was your day?”
I think about trying to tell him the truth too, but refrain. “Busy. Yours?”
“Same.”
We move silently down the street. I ask him questions about his work to keep him talking so I don’t have to. He is about to launch his second book, after his first did surprisingly well. I study the way his face lights up as he talks about this new career path. What a departure from the journalist he has always been: the Liam who chases stories, who lives out of a suitcase, who is comfortable behind the scenes. I remember when he told me one of his greatest dreams was to write a novel. Now this Liam is front and center, owning his own work.
At the restaurant, we sit at a tiny table outside, which is across the street from a park. The table wobbles, and rather than
complain, Liam wedges a coaster underneath the leg. As we sip our beers, we watch kids running wild in the park, overtired
parents sitting on benches, chatting as the sun prepares to set. The thrum of this life fuels me, even after such a weird,
crazy day. My mind still struggles to catch up, but there’s something so right about being here that I don’t want to miss
a thing. Liam scans the menu and chats easily with the server.
After we’ve ordered, I close my menu and ask him something that’s been on my mind all day. “Why aren’t we married?”
He pauses with his beer at his lips. “Uh, because you don’t want to get married?”
I open my mouth to protest but then close it. The real me chose to get married, but what if this city and my career have changed
me? When I look at Liam, however, I can’t imagine a world where I would choose not to lock that shit down . I was smitten after only a week with him. What changed? We’re obviously committed to each other in every other way.
I shrug. “Well, people can change their minds.” Even as the words leave my mouth, I have no clue what I’m saying. I’m not
going to get married in this fake life when my real husband is in another universe.
“ Are you changing your mind?” There’s something uncertain in his gaze, and I wonder if I’ve hurt Liam by saying no.
Again, I shrug and try to keep it light. “Who knows?”
“No, really, Harper. Are you changing your mind?” He reaches across the table and takes my hand in his, rubbing his fingers over my bare ring finger. It feels strange not to wear my wedding band, to let another man hold my hand, to sit in Brooklyn, talking about marriage with someone else. How am I here? How is this even happening?
“I guess not.” I stumble over my words, more confused than ever.
He gives a terse nod and sits back, a numb look on his face as he downs his beer and orders another. This is too much to absorb.
I try to steer the conversation into different territory, mainly asking him questions so the conversation doesn’t turn back
to me.
Amazingly, we finish our dinner without revealing the fact that I am time traveling and make the long walk back to the loft. It feels good to walk, to soak in the city I haven’t seen in years. I don’t know
how long I will have a glimpse into this reality, but it’s been validating to know that I didn’t imagine what I felt all those
years ago, to see what life could be like... if only I had stayed. I glance at Liam, who has grown mute, and wonder what
must have happened between us on that fateful day to make me stay. Why I didn’t run away. Why Rita said yes. How I was so
brave.
The sun has set, and the streetlights play tricks on my eyes, but still, I can see Liam’s profile as he digs in his pocket
to find the keys for the loft. A loft that has become our home. I instantly think of my condo with Ben. Ben pulling out his
keys. Ben opening the door.
Liam holds the door open for me. “You coming?”
But this isn’t my real world, and I’m not with Ben. Standing here, looking at my past, however, I suddenly waver between wanting
to wake up and wanting to stay right here for just a little bit longer, in the place I feel I once belonged.