June, this year #3
I’ve been wondering how the versions of me in each of these lives found themselves at Lake Bluff.
After all, each time I’ve emerged from the house into a new reality, there’s been a car parked outside, and I’ve had its keys in my pocket.
The car didn’t drive itself to the Masons’ house — some cross-universal instinct must have compelled that life’s version of me, each time, to get themselves to Lake Bluff on that Friday evening.
Then I slipped through the door and into their lives, and bodies — if only for a little while.
We’ll see how long I last in this one.
I board my flight, settle into the luxury of my business-class seat, and get Contact to download a fun, beach-read audiobook to play in my earbuds while it’s in airplane mode.
I gotta admit, this Contact stuff is really, really fun to play with. Even if I never get any privacy again. Maybe I can take the lens out? Surely I don’t sleep with it in at night — that can’t be healthy for the eye.
After landing in the small hours in San Francisco — nearly two a.m. local time, and four a.m. for my body clock — I get Contact to book me an Uber to the house in Atherton.
I’m increasingly nervous as it pulls through the quiet, wide streets of this chichi suburb and onto Fletcher Drive. What am I going to find there?
The Uber stops outside a closed, modern, rusted-metal solid gate set between two high, pale-stone walls. The number 637 is cut out of the metal. This is the place.
“C-debit?” asks the driver, who has barely said a word to me. He doesn’t even offer me the option of a credit card. Maybe he knows who I am, or who I live here with, so it’s pretty obvious how I’ll pay.
He turns in his seat and zaps my eye with his scanner, making me start a little. I give him a tip that’s more generous than he deserves, and he nods at his scanner approvingly.
“Have a good night, Ms. MacKenzie.”
“Thanks.”
I drag myself and my overnight bag out of the car, and it pulls away, leaving me in the dark street in a strange city I’ve never been to before.
Thousands of miles and many universes from home.
I dig in my pocket for the set of keys and fob I found earlier.
Now that I know what Contact is capable of, I’m a little surprised that I even have these keys — surely a scan would let me in through the gate and into the house?
But maybe the tech is not so ubiquitous that it’s fully replaced regular house keys.
I scan the fob on a black panel at the side of the gate, and it beeps, but the gate doesn’t open. Instead, part of the matt black panel becomes shiny, and semi-transparent. I peer to look closer in the dark, and it emits a red flash into my left eye.
The gate starts to slide open.
Ah, I get it. A two-step security process, with the eye scan as the second stage. What my Irish father would call a “belt-and-braces” approach.
Instead of a driveway, the gate reveals a wide, shallow set of smooth stone steps leading to a large, ultra-modern, elongated, two-story house at the top of a terraced rise.
Subtle lights in the paving guide me up to a huge front door, which has a long handle and a keyhole plate, and another black panel on the wall next to it.
I’m holding what looks very much like a house key for this door, so I give it a try in the lock, but I can’t fit it in.
I give the black panel a pointed stare, it gives me another red flash, and there’s a clunk from the door.
I tug the handle, but it’s still locked.
Maybe the scan released the keyhole? I try the key again, and this time, it fits and turns effortlessly.
I guess Evan Chen, being who he is, has to be careful about security. He just didn’t bargain on an imposter version of his girlfriend, inhabiting her body and holding her house keys.
I’m almost chuckling at the ridiculousness of it all as I enter a double-height foyer, lit low by a small table lamp on a console. Next to me, through an open door, is a walk-in closet full of jackets and shoes, with an inner door that leads to a powder room. Handy.
I go to the restroom and wash my hands with its fancy soap. Now would be a good time to figure out if I can take this lens out — I don’t want to be fumbling about with it upstairs, if Evan is asleep. I really don’t want to wake him and face his questions yet, if I can avoid it.
Staring in the mirror, I pull my left eyelid wide open. The outer ring of the lens is clearly visible, slightly past the edge of my gray-blue iris.
I’ve never worn contacts, so I’m not used to this, but I’ve seen Bonnie take hers out a million times.
I mimic what I’ve seen her doing — look all the way to the left, then brace myself as I put my finger on the lens and pull it to the right.
Instantly, the text that’s been at the side of my vision disappears.
I pinch my finger and thumb over the curve of the lens, squeezing slightly, and it lifts away with ease.
Close up, it looks like a clear contact lens, but with almost microscopic metal lines joined by tiny dots in a curve around one side. Amazing.
But what to do with it? I can’t just leave it on the washstand. Oh, hold up — the earbud case in my pocket. Within it, a central, circular cavity has a clear liquid beyond a membrane at its base, while a dry section below offers two slots for the earbuds. My lens and both the earbuds fit perfectly.
I tuck the capsule back into my jeans pocket and step out into the mudroom. Leaving my sneakers under a bench, I walk silently out through the foyer, getting a glimpse of a huge, modern living area that’s in near-darkness, with a glass wall revealing a low-lit terrace and turquoise pool beyond.
This place is pretty amazing. I turn and tread quietly up the floating staircase to my left.
On the generous upper landing, there is a series of possible doors to choose from.
Which is the right bedroom? Given Evan’s loving texts, it seems very likely that we have a healthy relationship and share a room.
It would be really weird to wake him by banging my way through the wrong bedroom doors.
I turn to the far left, and there’s a set of double doors, grander than the rest. Chances are that’s the primary bedroom.
I open one of the doors as slowly and silently as possible. Moonlight is streaming through a huge window that must overlook the pool terrace. It illuminates a massive bed with a plush headboard that reaches the tall ceiling, and a sleeping form under the sheet on one side.
Guess this is my bedroom, and under the covers is tech billionaire Evan Chen. My boyfriend.
I undress quickly, pulling a silky pajama set out of my overnight bag, and climb into bed without even taking off my make-up or brushing my teeth. I don’t want to wake him.
Plus, for me it’s five in the morning, and I’m dog-tired from all this universe-hopping.
I can make out a crop of black hair on the white pillow as I pull the sheets over me, but that’s all.
He stirs, and rolls over.
“Honey. You’re back.” It’s barely more than a mumble.
“Yes. Shhh. Go back to sleep.”
“Mm-hmm.” That’s it. He’s silent again.
I lie down, facing away from him. Despite the unbelievable bizarreness of the situation I find myself in, I don’t feel unsafe with this man next to me.
On the flight here, I was recalling my brief encounter with him at a charity fundraiser. How in those few moments we’d had an intense connection. How warm and friendly he had been, and how I’d had to hide my disappointment at his departure, over cocktails and laughter with Bonnie.
No, I feel pretty safe in this bed, especially given how concerned he had seemed about my wellbeing in his texts. In fact, right now, despite everything, I have a sense of calm. And deep exhaustion.
I slip quickly into a dream-filled sleep, in which I’m walking into that basement again and again.
Ben is always there, as he was that first time, strumming his guitar.
But every time I try to get his attention, get him to look up at me by stepping toward him, he disappears and I have to run upstairs, through the front door, back down the side of the house, and into the basement again.
I can never get Ben to acknowledge me. It’s a never-ending cycle.
* * *
I wake much later, sun pouring through the big window, the blinds fully open. The bed next to me is empty, but there’s the sound of running water coming from behind a single door, which I guess is the bathroom.
The door opens, and Evan Chen steps through. Shirtless, in just a pair of Calvin Klein boxer briefs, his relatively slight frame enhanced by an undeniably ripped six-pack of abs. He’s even more handsome than when I met him years ago.
He ruffles his mussed-up black hair and smiles at me, although there’s a frown line between his brows.
“Hey, beautiful. You slept like the dead. It’s nearly noon.” He raises his eyebrows. “Good thing it’s Saturday. All we have is the gala tonight.”
I sit upright, pushing a pillow behind my head. My heart is racing a little, and my stomach performing somersaults, but hopefully my nervousness doesn’t show.
“Wow. I guess I was pretty late getting in. I’m sorry about going AWOL yesterday.”
Evan climbs back into bed beside me, the ecru skin on his chest gleaming in a sunbeam. He smells amazing. Like spearmint and eucalyptus.
“That’s okay, honey. I just wish you would have communicated with me more.
” He runs a fingertip down my bare arm. “I get that Bonnie needed you urgently, but what was with you yesterday morning? You left, like, in a weird trance, just ordered your Uber to the airport, grabbed some clothes, and walked out. Why wouldn’t you answer me when I asked where you were going? ”
I shake my head. “I’m sorry,” I repeat. “I was just super preoccupied with getting to Bonnie, I guess. I probably didn’t even hear you. I was worried about her.”