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It’s almost two.
I groan, rub my eyes, and sit up, glancing around the space. For a moment, I forget where I am. I have about thirty texts
from Wren, ranging from Where are you? to Yo, you are so covering my next shift . She then proceeds to ask how the solo show is coming, which, evidently, I am still supposed to create.
Despite the recent time travel, it’s evident from glancing at the pieces scattered around the studio that I’m in the midst
of creating something special for Ben, just like in my before world. There are more advanced themes here, however—more fully
fleshed-out concepts than anything I previously had.
I study each idea as if I’m an observer instead of the one who apparently came up with them, and despite this strange situation and how confused I am, a spark of excitement travels up my spine. Here, it seems I’m playing off the famous “How Did Humans Evolve?” graphic and building Ben from the time he was a boy to a man to an athlete to a professional to a cancer patient and beyond. I consider the theme and find it to be simple, potent, and effective. I gnaw nervously on a cuticle and remember what every art teacher ever told me about emotions: It’s important to use them, to channel them into your work. And as I throw on a smock, that is exactly what I prepare to do.
As a teacher, I’ve often talked about the concept of pain. Do we need it to create art? Do we always have to scrape the underbelly
of our emotional core to artistically say what we need to say? Before now, I haven’t really allowed myself to access the full
well of my emotions about Ben. How deeply I love him. How I finally got my happily ever after and now it might be cut short.
There’s pain here—real, throbbing pain—and apparently I’m going to share it with the world via a solo show.
Though it doesn’t seem like the most opportune time to create, I lose myself for a while anyway, in an attempt to let my thoughts
settle until I figure out what I’m supposed to do next. Before I get too consumed, I text Liam that I’m at my studio and send
him the address. I have no idea if he’s already been here or not. I’m so confused as to what has happened and what hasn’t,
and why he would be here for me and not Ben. I wonder if this is how it’s going to be now: constantly trying to figure out
what’s true and what isn’t. How exhausting.
Tossing my phone to the side, I stare at the canvases. I smooth out my sketches and begin to build, music cranked, and lose
myself to the thing I love doing most. I remember so many hours spent just like this through college and then during that
fateful week in New York when I thought everything would turn out differently. When I thought I’d get my chance and my happy
ending, all wrapped into one. But didn’t I, in some ways? Isn’t that what I’d just seen in that alternate reality? That I
did stay, that I did turn my art into something beautiful, that I did build a life with Liam? That I chose not to walk away?
Even still, there were bumps and ridges, and a part of me had seemed to abandon what mattered most in order to climb my own
career ladder. But I fixed that, didn’t I? I gave Liam more time and attention. I quit the gallery to pursue art. I chose
my art and my relationship.
I can only hope in this world that I’m not also sacrificing my relationship with Ben for my career. I won’t know what’s different
between us until he returns. Even the thought of him coming back on the path to being healed makes my heart soar.
Just as I’m finding my rhythm, there’s a knock. I stare down at myself, already paint-smeared and sticky with sweat, and open
the door.
Liam looks handsome, as always, in a fitted T-shirt and jeans that hang just so on his hips. His hands are behind his back,
and it dawns on me that in this life we are still two people who only knew each other once. What I’ve just experienced with
him isn’t real. Everything is either a memory or make-believe.
“Hi,” I say. There are so many other things I could say, so many ways I could come undone. I’ve just seen a different life. I’ve somehow changed my current reality. I’m so lost. I don’t know where I am. I don’t know
what to do next. I don’t know who to trust.
“Hi.” He produces a six-pack of beer and Thai takeout. “Hungry?”
I step aside so he can come in, suddenly realizing I’m famished.
He whistles as he takes in the large warehouse space. “So this is what a real artist’s studio looks like, huh?”
I laugh as I rinse my brushes in the sink by the door. “Your space is beyond incredible, and we both know it.”
It’s the first time I’ve acknowledged that I took up such space in his home, if only for a short time, and his eyes flick to mine and hold my gaze for a beat too long before he turns back to the windows. “I don’t know. This gives my loft a run for its money.” He sets the food on the coffee table in front of my couch and studies my work so far. He’s quiet while he moves from image to image, half-erected sketches and canvases of Ben the boy to Ben the man. Once he becomes a survivor, I want him to explode into stardust. I haven’t figured out how I’ll accomplish this yet, but I want it to be a visceral experience for the viewer.
“This is really moving, Harper. What a tribute.”
“It’s a start, at least.” I motion for him to take a seat. We tap our beers in a quick cheers, and I suck down a healthy gulp,
not realizing how thirsty I am. Liam divides the boxes of takeout between us. As I dive into one of the containers, he looks
around the studio again.
“I think it’s great you followed your passion, Harper. I know how much you always wanted all this.”
I nod, because what can I say? No, that’s not true? Apparently, somehow it is, even though I missed the actual ride to the top, as though this opportunity has just been handed
over on a silver platter... and if I’m being honest, I’m not sure how I feel about that.
I pull my legs into a cross-legged position and nurse my beer. “Do you ever paint or take photos anymore?” I want to ask him
if he’s thought about writing a book, and if he hasn’t, he should.
“Nah. No time, really.”
We fall into a comfortable silence as we finish our food. I want to tell him what he’s like in our other life, how he discovered a new dream and went after it. I scratch the label on my beer, some of the cold, gummy paper jamming under my nail. I think back to that first night at the Edwin Hotel, which already seems like a lifetime ago.
“I’m sorry about yesterday,” I say, testing the waters to see if we did, in fact, have a picnic. “I wasn’t expecting to feel
such a rush of emotion.”
“Harper, I get it. It’s all right. Let’s just focus on the story, okay?”
“Right.” My heart snags. “The story.” So the picnic did happen, though this version of Liam seems more professional, more
emotionally detached than before.
“But you’re still one of my favorite people,” he adds lightly. “Don’t forget that.”
“Don’t you mean were ?” What I really mean is, me too . Even as I think those words, they feel like a betrayal to Ben. Ben is my favorite person. Ben is my life.
“No, I mean are,” he says. “You don’t have to know someone for years for them to make a lasting impression.”
“Can you really know someone after only a week?” Seeing Liam here now and in that other life proves that yes, you can know someone in an instant if you’re meant to. I’d felt that way about Ben too. As I stare at Liam, my thoughts are all tangled
up between my fake world and this one. The lines blur between reality and fantasy.
“I think you can.” He stretches his arms in front of him and rolls his neck, then hops up and begins to pace. “Want me to
prove it?”
I laugh and motion to him. “By all means.”
He turns and steadies himself, watching me. “Okay, here goes. The first thing you do in the morning is check that Ben is still
breathing. You worry, like a mother worries about her newborn, that one day you will wake up and he won’t be there.”
This opening stuns me into absolute stillness, because it’s true.
“You make coffee for the two of you, and while you love Ben’s company, you prefer to drink it alone, outside, watching the sunrise. It’s why you chose your condo—and why you still live there—because the balcony gives you an unobstructed view of the sunrise. That matters more to you than having an extra bathroom. You miss competing in obstacle course races and sometimes channel that competitive spirit in other ways: tracking your time home from work, speed walking, or getting in and out of the grocery store faster than last time. Though you present a tough exterior, if you let yourself, you would love a good cry at the end of every day. But you’re afraid that if you fall apart, you might not be able to piece yourself back together. In the past, it was your MO to run when things got hard, but Ben’s diagnosis has taught you that it’s okay to stay.” He takes a deep breath. “And even though you are wildly successful, you still feel like you have something to prove, though I’m not sure if it’s to yourself or to the world. How am I doing so far?”
I am speechless. “How could you possibly know all of that?” It’s like he’s taken a deep look right into my soul. No one, not
even Ben, has ever been able to do that.
“I see you, Harper.”
I see you.
I glance down to make sure my tattoo is still really there, and it is. I run my fingers over the three simple words. His words,
just like Ben’s, create a physical ache inside me.
“Plus”—he laughs—“I’ve been interviewing you for days now, so I have a bit of an unfair advantage.”
“About that,” I say. “Remind me how you came to write this story.”
“My boss told me to come to Chattanooga to cover the gallery. I may have known it was yours.” He gives me a sheepish look. “I’ve followed your career these last few years. Not in a creepy way,” he adds. “I’m just really proud of you.”
“Thanks, Liam.” I close my eyes and rest my head on the couch. “Look. I know you’re here to interview me, but do you think
we could take a rain check? I’m just not feeling very chatty.”
“Of course.” He gathers the takeout containers and heads to the door. “Want me to walk you home?”
I shake my head and tell him I want to keep working. When he’s gone, I turn back to the pieces, Ben’s pensive eyes staring
out at me from each canvas. “What a mess,” I say to this fictitious version of Ben. I almost expect him to respond, to tell
me that this is all part of some master plan and one day I’ll understand. But right now I don’t. Right now I would do anything
for life to be simple, without time travel and ex-boyfriends and portals and all of these infinite possibilities.
Though it’s late, I get back to work, pouring everything I have—all the confusion, uncertainty, love, and despair—into making
something great.