June, this year
“Morning, honey.”
Stephen is in bed beside me, in our little apartment in Aurora.
Not a dream, then. I really made it to this life, with Stephen. The life I’ve been looking for.
He grins at me. “Sleep well? I made some coffee — I’ll get you some.”
I smile back at him, sleepily, pushing my hair out of my eyes. “Thanks.”
He bounds out of bed with enthusiasm, his bare butt pale and skinny and cute, and pulls on a pair of boxer briefs.
Oh God. Is he a morning person?
This could be a problem. But, I mean, not an insurmountable one.
I sit up in bed, propping myself up with pillows, and check the phone on the nightstand beside me. Not yet a quarter after seven on a Saturday morning. I’m usually asleep until around ten, having been out late with Bonnie, and sometimes Ben, on a Friday night.
I guess I live a more wholesome life with Stephen. He’s a clean-living Catholic guy, after all.
The coffee had better be good, otherwise I’m gonna have to make some changes around here.
Stephen returns with a disappointingly small mug, which he hands to me proudly, and then reaches into the closet for some clothes.
“I’m heading out for a run along the river — my usual route.” He pulls on track pants and a T-shirt. “You have your lazy Saturday snooze, and I’ll see you for breakfast. I’ll grab some of those muffins on the way back.” He kisses me on the forehead.
“Thanks. I feel like a bagel, though — could you pick up a couple of sesame ones, please?” I take a sip of coffee. “Have a nice run.”
Ugh, no, the coffee is definitely sub-par. I’ll have to do something about that. And since when did I stop taking sugar?
Stephen pauses by the bedroom door, pushing his heels into a pair of sneakers. “Bagels? You know I can’t eat those. I don’t even want gluten crumbs in our toaster, honey. I thought we agreed, no gluten in the house at all?”
Shit, that’s right — Stephen is strictly gluten-free. I’ve noticed this at work and when we’re out for client dinners, but it’s never affected me before, of course. Now I’ll have to be more careful, since I’m living with the guy.
I shake my head. “Sorry, wasn’t thinking. Gluten-free muffins are fine.”
He gives me a quizzical look, one eyebrow raised. “You okay? You haven’t seemed like yourself ever since you got back from the meeting with the Gellermans. I’ll have to catch up with you about that.”
“Sure. I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. You go enjoy your run.”
Crap. Not only has he noticed I’m “not myself” — although, like Chris in a former life, he has no idea how literally that is true — but he also wants me to get him up to speed on some client meeting. One that I have absolutely no idea about.
I’m also still hazy on how it works when I’m entering a new universe — how the new world’s version of me somehow knows I’m coming, so their body is ready for me to somehow jump into.
I’m not even sure that Stephen’s real Millie would have been at that client meeting yesterday.
After all, her car was there for me at the Lake Bluff house.
Her body, with its cardigan and shorts outfit, was there for me to quantum-leap into.
In my weird, futuristic San Francisco life, Evan had told me that I — or his Millie, anyways — had left in some kind of trance-like state, as if compelled to go.
The women at the housing shelter had said something similar, too.
I have to assume that’s what happens each time I switch universes.
That the Millie in that world always manages to get to Lake Bluff that Friday evening, no matter where she was previously, so that I’m able to try on her life for a while.
Or, in this case, in my new reality with Stephen, to live this new life on a permanent basis.
Well, if I’m here indefinitely, I’d better figure out how to be Stephen’s wife and what I’m supposed to know. With Stephen now out of the house, it’s a good time to poke around and see what I can learn.
I abandon the mug of bitter coffee, pull on a robe from the closet, and examine the other clothes.
Nice enough . . . definitely a little more conservative and cutesy than my usual wardrobe.
Lots of cotton tops with floral prints, several cardigans and cute little sweaters, some capri pants and cotton shorts.
A distinct lack of the faded jeans and well-worn graphic T-shirts that I usually favor.
I step into the little foyer and through the door behind the kitchen wall, which last night I discovered led to a small interior bathroom.
There’s a light above a mirrored cabinet, which contains many mysterious prescription pill bottles with “STEPHEN POWELL — TWO PER DAY” printed on them.
Probably more digestive health stuff. Various, but limited, cosmetics for me, and other standard fare of toothpaste and dental floss.
Below the sink is a larger cabinet full of rolled-up, clean bath towels — a stack of yellow on the left, blue on the right — and spare toilet paper.
I pull a thick yellow towel out to use for my shower, since I have no idea which of the two currently hanging towels belongs to me.
As I pull it out, a large, floral make-up bag falls forward — it must’ve been tucked down behind the towels.
I unzip the bag, then realize why it might’ve been there — it’s full of sanitary pads and tampons.
Maybe there isn’t room for all those in the tiny cabinet above the sink.
Or maybe the Millie in this life doesn’t want Stephen looking at tampons every time he takes his morning prescription.
A bit prim, but whatever.
I dig through the make-up bag, and my fingertip catches on the edge of a blister packet of pills.
Contraceptive pills, with the blisters marked for the day of the week.
The next one to be taken is marked as a Saturday — today. That makes sense. Okay, so this Millie is on the pill. That’s fine — I’ve been on the pill myself, in the past, although I gave up a couple years ago as it was giving me breakouts and I wasn’t sleeping with anyone anyways.
I open the Saturday blister, swallow the pill down with a splash of water, then examine my face in the mirror.
My dark hair is much the same as it usually is, a just-below-chin-length bob, cut maybe a little squarer at the back.
My weight is about the same as in my regular life, my skin clear and blemish-free.
Hold up.
Last night after sex, Stephen had said, “Maybe it’ll work this time. Lift your legs up. Keep it in.”
We’re trying for a baby.
So why is this Millie on the pill?
Plus, Stephen is a devout Catholic. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t believe in using contraception.
Is that why the bag is tucked down the back of the cabinet, behind the yellow towels? Is Millie hiding her contraception from Stephen?
Is she lying to him about wanting a child? Letting him believe they’re trying, while secretly taking the pill to prevent it?
I tuck the pills back into the bottom of the make-up bag, and hide the bag back behind the towels. I turn on the shower, hang the robe up on a hook, and step under the hot water, my mind racing.
Crap. This isn’t good. There are potentially some serious cracks in this marriage, and I’ve only been here twelve hours. Who knows what else I’ll find? There may be a host of other secrets I don’t know about, and may not find any physical evidence of, so I’ll never be any the wiser.
Although, maybe that’s a good thing? Maybe it’s a fresh start for them, with me being innocent of any and all of this Millie’s secrets. Maybe I can be an honest, true wife to him going forward.
But then, that would surely involve throwing away that pill packet, and genuinely trying for a baby.
I shudder slightly, despite the warmth of the water running over my body.
Absolutely no way. I’m not ready for a child.
I may be thirty, but I’m just not there yet.
It’s not that I’d never want children, it’s just that I haven’t really had any long-term relationships, and it’s so hard to imagine raising a child with someone, when I don’t even know how to live with a partner yet.
And, now that I’m here and really thinking about it, it’s kinda tough to imagine co-parenting with Stephen.
He’s a wonderful guy — warm, and kind, and thoughtful, and incredibly smart.
But he’s also a lot more traditional than I am.
I’ve noticed in my regular life, with Stephen as a colleague, that he’s very much the breadwinner while his wife Eve stays home with the kids.
That’s not what I’d want. I have a career that’s important to me, and I don’t subscribe to such traditional gender roles.
Maybe I can talk to Stephen about not wanting a child yet. Needing to spend more time being married, just us, before we go down that road. But then again, that would mean me taking contraception, which I’m almost certain he would not be on board with.
How did Stephen and I find our way to marriage, with such different viewpoints? It’s a wonder we worked out at all.
I rinse off, step out of the shower, and head into the bedroom to get dressed.
I pick out a sleeveless button-down with a yellow stripe, and put on the same white cotton shorts as yesterday.
I haven’t looked out of the window yet, but I already know this Saturday is a hot day.
I’ve lived it several times at this point.
Although, not that many. It’s a bit strange how relatively few lives I had to live, to find the one I was looking for with Stephen. Given that there are infinite possibilities. Infinite chances.
It’s almost too easy.