June, this year
I’m in the basement at Lake Bluff. It’s dark, aside from the light coming in from the doors under the upper deck, and totally silent.
No furniture at all. Hopefully this is another unoccupied version.
Which means that the Masons are still dead, but at least I won’t get run out of the house by another family.
I’d caught an evening train back to Lake Bluff — another return ticket, bought with cash given to me by Mom, so that drug-addict me can get back to the city and hopefully make better choices.
I managed to creep over the gate without being seen, it being a warm Saturday night, and the family with the teenagers seeming to all be out.
And now it’s Friday evening all over again. This time, the first thing I do is check my clothes. The hoodie and leggings given to me at the shelter have been replaced by shorts, a sleeveless summer blouse, and a light cardigan. I’ve never been a cardigan person, but whatever.
I check the shorts pockets. A phone — thank Christ — in a pink case, as well as a lip balm and a set of keys. Good. This already looks like a more regular life.
I take the stairs up into the kitchen, which is also void of any sign of occupation, and scan the living room. No furniture, appliances, or even fixtures — definitely an empty house. Definitely no Masons.
I lean against the kitchen counter and check the smartphone, which opens at the touch of my fingertip. I go straight to the texts.
And my heart all but stops.
Stephen.
Dozens of texts . . . God, more like hundreds, going back and back forever.
All from Stephen.
Mundane stuff, mostly. Groceries. Chores. Where he’ll be, and when. A bunch about work client accounts, even though this is clearly my personal phone.
But always with love and affection. Sometimes a sign-off like, “See you then, love you.” Or, “Thanks, honey. xoxo”
“Love you.”
Is this it?
Have I landed in the life where Stephen and I are together? So soon? I mean, I figured it would take a lot more multiverse-traversing attempts than this — I’m only on version . . . what? Five? Six?
My stomach is somersaulting as I scroll through the texts. Then . . . Instagram, of course! That should confirm to me what our relationship is like — at least in the public eye.
I flip to Instagram, where my feed has dozens of photos of me with Stephen.
On vacation, on a boat, at some work event.
A smattering of me with Bonnie, but not as many as usual.
Several of me with a couple of women I don’t recognize, seemingly on some kind of spa retreat.
Me with Stephen again, and his parents, last Christmas, in front of a huge, decorated tree.
“Holidays with the in-laws!” reads the caption. It’s geotagged Grand Rapids, MI.
That’s right . . . Grand Rapids is where he once told me his parents live. Back when we were first getting to know each other over our desks at Magnolia.
And, in several of the photos, clearly visible . . . both of us wearing wedding rings.
I look down at my left hand. I hadn’t noticed it before, but I’m wearing it now, along with a slender engagement ring with a small, round stone. Subtle, tasteful. Maybe a bit simple. But pretty enough.
I take a series of deep breaths.
Okay, then. This has to be it. I’m married to Stephen; we spend Christmases with his family. This was what I’ve been looking for. This was endgame.
Time to go live my best life, right?
I step through the echoey house and let myself out of the front door. The keys in my pocket are for a Toyota, which is blue and parked right outside the gate. I set the phone’s GPS to home, and it points me to Aurora, a smaller city to the east of Chicago.
Aurora. I went there once, I think, when I was small, with my parents.
Back when they were together, and we were living in Illinois, before Dad’s job had taken us to Indianapolis when I was ten.
Mom had grown up somewhere near Aurora and had friends there.
I vaguely remember a pub with a terrace overlooking a river that flowed through downtown, and my parents and Mom’s hippy friends were all drunk, and I played with a cat all afternoon and got sunburned.
Mostly, though, the word Aurora makes me think of aurora borealis, the Northern Lights — a phenomenon I know Stephen is passionate about. He was always into space, and stars, and galaxies, and had so much to say about them. I think that was why I fell for him.
Maybe we chose to live in Aurora because of its name.
As I drive the hour or so from Lake Bluff — stopping to get gas, which is weird in someone else’s car, using the credit card in their purse — I’m clammy with nerves. Finally, my life with Stephen is ahead of me.
How did it happen? Did he leave his first wife for me?
Or did we simply meet first, at Northwestern?
Maybe we met somewhere else, under totally different circumstances.
I’ll need to uncover all these answers if I’m going to live here in this life with him.
Assuming that’s what I get to do, if I choose never to go through the basement door again.
Of course, I won’t have any memories of our life together, which will likely cause a whole bunch of problems. I’ve been able to get away with it before now, when trying on these alternate lives with Chris and Rufus and Evan — mostly because I didn’t stick around long enough for it to be an issue.
But if I’m planning on staying with Stephen, I’ll need to figure out at least the majority of what happened.
Maybe Bonnie can help. A girls’ night with her, fueled by wine, with a bit of nostalgic gossip should reveal some history.
Bonnie loves to rehash memories. Although, from the relative lack of photos together, I’m not sure Bonnie and I are as close in this life as we usually are. Something else to figure out.
Right now, though, I’m just itching to get to Stephen, in whatever home we share. Because if I’m married to him, if he’s mine at last, that means I finally get to kiss him. And more . . . much more.
I mean, I’ve wanted to be with this man for years.
In Aurora, I’m right by the river in the city center when I find the address.
The building is not at all what I’d expected.
It’s a tall, red-brick-and-stone building, about fourteen or fifteen stories, close to the water by a bridge.
It’s a lot taller than the surrounding buildings, and looks more like an Art Deco hotel than an apartment block.
Plus, I guess I had Stephen down as a detached house kind of guy. A family man, I suppose. But then again, it doesn’t look like we have any kids yet, so maybe we’re enjoying apartment living while we still can.
Kids. Now that would be weird, to quantum-leap into a life where I have kids. It’s not like, at thirty, I’m not old enough.
Still, now that I’ve found the Stephen life — hopefully my forever life — it doesn’t look like that’s a risk I’ll have to take.
My phone’s GPS has taken me to the building where we live, and a fob on my keys lets me into an underground parking garage, but it takes a bit more email research to figure out which parking spot to take, and which unit I live in.
Twelfth floor . . . not bad. Views should be good, although Aurora isn’t a particularly spectacular skyline.
But maybe the view of the night sky is good from our place.
I take the elevator and find the apartment on the twelfth floor, pausing at the door. Will Stephen be home? It’s past seven-thirty on a Friday evening, and there was no text from him about having plans tonight, so I should assume he’s here.
And I need to act like this is my home, and that I know exactly what’s going on.
Here goes.
Welcome, Millie, to your new life.
I unlock the door and push it open. I’m in a narrow entryway that opens to a small apartment beyond.
“Hello?” My voice is way too timid. I try again, more confidently. “Honey? You here?”
A metal clang, and then footsteps from around the corner.
Stephen.
Right in front of me, seeming even taller than usual, especially in this small space. Brown hair a little mussed, shirt sleeves rolled up.
He raises his eyebrows and pushes his black-rimmed glasses further up his nose.
“Wow. You’re late. Did the Gellermans keep you talking all this time?
You must be starving.” He steps forward, puts a hand on my shoulder, and kisses me lightly on my sweat-moistened temple.
“I just put an eggplant and potato bake in the oven, but it’ll be forty minutes.
I can fix you a snack, if you’re hungry.
” He disappears around the corner again, leaving me standing foolishly in the foyer.
I’m really here.
We’re really married. We’re a regular couple.
Beside me is a small console table with a set of keys, some mail, and a phone charger. I act like this is my home and drop my own keys and phone on it, then remove the sandals I’m wearing and place them next to the other shoes by the door.
Around the corner, Stephen is clearing up the counter of a wall of kitchen units that faces out into the modest dining-living room. A dining table with four chairs divides the kitchen from the lounge area, which has a couch, armchair, TV cabinet, and river views from two windows.
It’s . . . sweet. Cozy. An ideal love nest for newlyweds, if that’s what we are.
How long have we been married? How did we even get together?
“You want a snack?” Stephen asks, turning from his task to me. “Something to keep you from getting hangry? We still have some of that goat cheese.”
My last meal was lunch with my mother in a park in Chicago, about five hours and one universe ago, plus it’s dinnertime in this world and this body is probably hungry.
But I don’t feel hungry. I’m in an apartment, alone with Stephen, and we’re married. My stomach is flipping non-stop.
He lifts an eyebrow at me, and smiles, waiting.
Oh. I haven’t responded to him.
“Sorry. No, I’ll wait for dinner. Thanks.”
He nods. “A drink, then? Let’s open a Friday night red.”