Chapter Sixteen
Tyler arrives at the door of my flat at eight a.m. the next morning. I haven’t skipped again, but I am still in my PJs.
‘Umm … I thought we had work to do?’ he says, his tone tinged with irritation.
But then he reads the slogan on my top and cracks a smile.
Cesca bought me these years ago and I was thrilled to find them tucked away at the bottom of this Bethany’s wardrobe.
I feel safe, comforted, and a bit more like me while I’m wrapped in the soft cotton featuring a picture of an angry cat plotting her revenge against Schrodinger.
‘Come in. I’ll go and get changed,’ I tell him. I want to tell him that I’m late because of Cesca. But I don’t know if he’ll understand.
I tried to call her this morning. She answered but I could tell she was distracted, unsure what I wanted. ‘Has something happened?’ she asked.
‘I just wanted to say hi.’
‘Right,’ she said, in a way that suggested it wasn’t right at all. ‘I thought you were calling to say something had …’ She trailed off. ‘You only call when there’s a disaster.’ She made it sound like the real disaster was me.
‘Sorry, I just … Oh. Never mind. I’ll leave you to your morning.’
‘Great.’ And then she hung up. No goodbye. No see you soon. No I love you millions.
I emerge from the bedroom in jeans and a sweatshirt, my hair swept into a messy bun.
Tyler grins at me.
‘What?’ I ask, my hand flying to my face as if perhaps it has somehow become smeared with jam on my walk from the other room.
‘You look adorable,’ he says. ‘Sorry.’ He looks away.
‘That probably isn’t what a top scientist wants to hear.
But you always look so severe when I see you at conferences and then yesterday you looked like you were wearing someone else’s clothes.
Which I get you were, in a way. But now you look like …
’ He motions towards me as if trying to find the right word.
‘Now I look like me. My me. Not this me,’ I say with a smile, even as I’m aware that the words make no sense.
‘It suits you,’ he tells me. There’s that same look in his eye as last night when he stopped me falling, when he held me close under the starlight.
I want to crawl inside his brain and understand what he’s thinking. Is it the same as my own thoughts? That perhaps we were wrong about each other, that being rivals was a waste, that there is far more to our story to come.
We spend the morning going through some more of the theory; digging into the array of textbooks stuffing the bottom half of this Bethany’s bookcase, trawling the archives of theses, even a few meanders into the more scientific areas of Reddit.
Nothing we find promises an easy answer to my predicament.
At midday I make us some cheese on toast for lunch.
It’s always been one of my favourites and over the years it’s evolved into something more elaborate and I’m relieved to find that this version of Bethany has all the right ingredients.
Toasted farmhouse loaf and then a mix of grated Cheddar, finely chopped tomatoes and shredded ham, all grilled to a golden perfection. I wait for Tyler’s response.
‘Best cheese on toast ever,’ he tells me when he sees me watching him. I’m not sure if he’s humouring me, but I’ll take it as a win.
The food helps us to get a second wind, but by three p.m. we’re flagging again and so we decide to take a break and head to the bar down the road from my flat.
In my world it’s a dive pub, somewhere I rarely go as it’s full of old men and pimply teenagers drinking illicit beer like they’re finally adults.
The landlord doesn’t care about IDs; he knows they’re only seventeen and pretending to be grown up, but he takes their money because it’s the only way to keep the lights on.
But here in this world, the outside has been painted a rather gorgeous teal, hanging baskets sway in the wind, and the rotting benches have been replaced with high-end rattan furniture.
The place is heaving, every seat outside occupied as people enjoy the summer afternoon.
We head inside and the barman grins and waves at me like I’m someone he knows.
‘Wine?’ he asks, but the upward inflection is subtle, like he’s only really pretending it’s a question to be polite.
‘Please,’ I reply.
‘And for me, thanks,’ Tyler adds.
I take out my wallet so I can pay and the barman looks at me in confusion.
‘When did I last charge you for a drink, Raven?’
Wow. This Bethany really does know this guy. ‘Oh … I …’
‘You know I’ll never charge you. Not after everything. I mean, just look at this place.’ He motions around him, at the pristine decor and gleaming metal beer taps, rows of glasses glinting in the soft lighting.
‘Thanks,’ I reply, feeling a desperate desire to run away. I have absolutely no idea what he’s talking about.
‘Have you been being coy with me, Bethany?’ Tyler says with mock incredulity.
‘Bethany saved this place. I thought I was going to lose the pub, but she helped me write a business plan for the bank, got me the loan to turn it from grungy dive to somewhere people will actually pay over six pounds for a pint.’
I have a vague memory from a few years ago, when Cesca and I came here to escape Rachel and Dad who were staying in my flat so they could go Christmas shopping and I was ready to throttle them after less than twenty-four hours.
Cesca dragged me out to the pub and the look on her face when she realized just how much of a shit-hole it was was priceless.
We’d discussed, over too warm, and too cheap wine, how this area could really use a decent pub and the landlord would probably make a killing if he spruced things up a bit.
I never told him that – Cesca said it would be meddling in a way people might not appreciate – but in this world, this Bethany obviously decided to stick her oar in. To pretty good effect, I hasten to add.
We take our wines and find a corner nook where we can talk without the risk of being overheard. I have no desire to be sectioned for thinking I’m a being from another universe, thank you very much.
‘So tell me about you,’ Tyler says, sitting down on the sofa next to me. It’s soft and squishy and we both almost disappear into the ancient leather cocoon.
‘Which me?’ I reply with a flash of a smile.
‘All of them,’ he says simply. ‘Start at the beginning and work forwards until you get to the Bethany you are normally in this life.’
I pause for a moment. ‘Why do you care?’
‘About what?’
‘About me. About helping me. About all the different versions of me scattered across the multiverse.’
He takes a deep breath and turns to face me. ‘Because, Ms Bethany Raven, you are the most fascinating person I have ever met.’
‘Which me?’ I whisper, feeling myself drawn into his orbit, feeling myself falling, falling, falling towards him.
‘All of them.’ His eyes are on mine.
If I leant in any closer my lips would meet his.
A centimetre. Another. Another.
But no. I pull myself back. Not now. Not here. Not like this.
And so instead I tell him about me. About Cesca.
About how I miss her. About all the other versions of me, each one with their own individual quirk, their own little eccentricity.
The Bethany with the decanting obsession.
The Bethany with the insane shopping habit. The Bethany who didn’t drink caffeine.
He nods and laughs and smiles in all the right places.
He walks me home at the end of the evening.
I debate kissing him on the doorstep.
I could, I think.
Would he kiss me back?
I think he might.
His eyes meet mine.
But then … It’s probably a terrible idea.
‘Goodnight, Tyler,’ I say quietly as I let myself into the flat.
‘Goodnight, Bethany Raven.’
I close the door behind me.
I should have kissed him.