Page 27 of What If It's You?

“As long as you’re sure.”

“I am. And on that note, I’d better go. It’ll take at least an hour to get Jim set up. I want as much time as possible to mine his experiences before the board meets next—the more robust the AI looks, the more money they’ll throw at me.” Drew flashed an uncharacteristically cocky grin—or was it characteristic here?—bent to kiss me on the cheek, and walked out, leaving his half-full coffee cup on the edge of the counter.

It should have been a relief not to have to play along for that much longer—I still had a lot of catching up to do, both factually and emotionally. For one thing, Drew was probably going to have some more probing questions if I kept rain-checking sex indefinitely, and I currently had no solution—or explanation—for the overwhelming guilt the prospect brought on.

But even if he wasn’t the same Drew that I knew so well, as the door clicked closed on his receding figure, the only thing I felt was overwhelming loneliness, the wide-open career vista I’d created in this life perversely claustrophobic.

Drew might have changed, but all the important traits, the qualities I loved in him, were still there.DrewI could figure out if I wound up stuck here.

The person I still couldn’t get a handle on was…me.

I clattered down the steps of the Kendall Square T station, the familiar warm, stale air enveloping me as I made my way to the turnstiles. A busker had set up on one of the benches that punctuated the inbound platform. She was playing a song that was only vaguely familiar, picking out jumping minor key intervals on her scuffed acoustic guitar. It was only halfway through the first mournful verse that I realized it was a cover of “Mamma Mia,” the slower tempoand half-step shift of the melody enough to turn the song into a ballad of despair.

Ollie would love that.

I pulled out a five-dollar bill and dropped it into the guitar case at her feet.

“Thanks, Laurel.” The girl smiled at me with genuine warmth before she moved on to the chorus.

“Oh, uh…yeah, of course. Thankyoufor the music.” If she could see my surprise at being recognized, she didn’t show it, her soft smile lingering as she played on.

I stopped thirty or so feet beyond her and started scrolling through my phone, trying to look as if I was doing something important. My plan was to head to the glass flowers display at the Harvard Museum of Natural History, in the vague hope that the surreal perfection of each of the hundreds of models might unstick whatever part of my brain was sputtering out on story ideas…or execution…or both. In school it had always been a reset button for me; it might not solve my immediate problem, but it always managed to shift my perspective enough that whatever had gone wrong didn’t feel quite so overwhelming. I’d brought along a pristine Moleskine notebook and a really good pen—never underestimate the value of a really good pen—with vague thoughts of starting an outline with more detail than “barn sex?”

My eyes drifted back to the busker, the lights in the station flickering briefly, disorienting me. The sound of the train approaching rumbled through the tunnel, and around me people started to herd toward the edge of the platform preemptively. I swayed slightly as they moved past, a wave of dizziness blurring their forms eerily.

“Hey, Laurel? You okay?”

I could see the busker standing a couple feet away, staring at me with obvious concern—had I missed her walking over somehow? But the buzzing in my ears was making it impossible to focus on that thought, and the edges of my vision were starting to blur, the people around us seeming to shift and jump at sudden,unpredictable intervals, like the rapid-fire frame switching in a horror movie, the monster is far away, closer, suddenly too close.

“Sorry, I think I need to…sit down…” I stumbled to the nearest bench, collapsing onto it and dropping my head between my knees.

“Do you need me to call someone? You look really pale.”

“I’m fine,” I forced out, eyes squeezed so tight that red was pulsing behind the lids in time with the heavy bass beat of my blood. “Just light-headed…”

I could hear the train creaking to a stop on the tracks. Swallowing hard, I sat up. When I opened my eyes, the girl was hovering a foot away, face crumpled with concern.

“I’m fine, I promise. Go, you’ll miss out on all the commuters who tip big.”

I expected a laugh—or at least a faint smile, clearly we knew each other—but the girl just frowned, then shrugged, glancing back at me over her shoulder as she walked back to her folding chair.

“If you say so.”

Too dizzy to focus on the shift in her demeanor, I dropped my elbows onto my knees again, eyes trained on the six inches between the toes of my sneakers, breathing heavily until the worst of the dizziness subsided.

My whole body stiffened.

Sneakers?

When I’d walked out of the condo half an hour ago, I was wearing ballet flats and the pants Drew was so taken with. But the black leggings I was currently wearing were sporty, ones I recognized as my go-to running look…

…in my life with Ollie.

“Oh god…” My breath came shakily and I bent double again, really focusing on the sneakers now, afraid they’d start flickering the way the people on the platform had just moments before. I rocked back and forth, hand tight around my phone as I stared, not even daring to blink, for what could have been thirty seconds or thirty minutes.

“Are you gonna, like…throw up?” The kid standing at my shoulder was weedy in his MIT hoodie, his face and body both twisting with horrified fascination as he stared.

“No. I’m…No.” I shook my head, sat up, finally convinced that my sneakers remained my sneakers. “I’ve gotta go.”

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