Page 127 of Maybe in Another Life

That’s my favorite part. The part where he calls hertheGabby Hudson.

“And I get way ahead of myself, and I start Facebook-stalking her and wondering if she’s single and if she’d ever date me, and yada yada yada, the next thing I know, we’re at lunch on the beach in Santa Monica. She refused to let me pay and said going dutch was the most appropriate thing to do. And we started walking back to my car, and I didn’t tell her this then, because I knew it would freak her out, but I felt like I finally understood why people get married again. You get your heart broken, you fail at marriage, you’re not sure you’ll ever be up for it a second time. And then it all clicks into place, and you see that you failed the first time because you picked the wrong person. And now the right person is standing in front of you. So I waited the appropriate amount of months of dating, and then I told her how I felt. And she said she felt the same way. And now we’re getting married. And I’m the luckiest guy alive.”

That’s usually the end of his story, but he keeps talking.

“I was reading a book about the cosmos recently,” he says, and then he looks around and goes, “Hold on, trust me, this relates.”

The crowd laughs again.

“And I was reading about different theories about the universe. I was really taken with this theory that some very credible physicists believe in called the multiverse theory. And it states that everything that is possible happens. That means that when you flip a quarter, it comes down headsandtails. Not headsortails. Every time you flip a coin and it comes up heads, you are merely in the universe where the coin came up heads. There is another version of you out there, created the second the quarter flipped, who saw it come up tails. Every second of every day, the world is splitting further and further into an infinite number of parallel universes, where everything that could happen is happening. There are millions, trillions, or quadrillions, I guess, of different versions of ourselves living out the consequences of our choices. What I’m getting at here is that I know there may be universes out there where I made different choices and they led me somewhere else, led me tosomeoneelse.” He looks at Gabby. “And my heart breaks for every single version of me that didn’t end up with you.”

Maybe it’s the moment. Maybe it’s the hormones. But I start crying. Gabby catches my eye, and I can see that she’s teary, too. Jesse is done speaking, but no one can turn away. Everyone is staring at Gabby. I know I should do something, but I’m not sure what to do.

“Way to make the rest of us look bad,” Henry says loudly.

The crowd laughs and disperses. I look at him, and he wipes the tears from my eyes.

“I love you as much as that show-off loves her,” he jokes. “I just didn’t watch the sameNovaspecial.”

“I know,” I tell him. “I know.” Because I do know. “Do you think that theory is true?” I ask Henry. “Do you think there are versions of us out there who never met?”

“Maybe one where you didn’t get into an accident and you ended up married to a cinnamon roll chef?” he says.

“Everything that is possible happens...”

“Do you wish you were married to a cinnamon roll chef?”

“I certainly wish you were better at making cinnamon rolls,” I say. “But no, this universe is OK with me.”

“You sure? We can try to defy space and time and go find another for you.”

“No,” I tell him. “I like this one. I like you. And her.” I point to my belly. “And Gabby. And Jesse. And Carl and Tina. I’m excited to get my nursing degree. And I’m OK with the fact that sometimes when it rains, my hip aches. Yeah,” I say. “I think I’ll stay.”

“OK,” he says, kissing me. “Let me know if you change your mind.”

He slips off to the bathroom, and I start to head toward Gabby and Tina, standing by the mini-cheesecakes. I’m mostly interested in the mini-cheesecakes, but I am stopped in place behind a linebacker of a man. I ask him to move, but he doesn’t hear me. I am about to give up.

“Sir,” I hear from behind me. “Can she get through?”

The linebacker and I both turn around to see Ethan standing there.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” the linebacker says. “I’m a glutton for cheesecake. When I’m in front of it, everything around me is a blur.”

I laugh and fumble through. Ethan steps up with me.

“Six months now?” he asks. He takes a piece of banana cream pie.

“Seven,” I say, taking a piece of cheesecake.

“What is this? No cinnamon rolls for you?”

“It is a nighttime party,” I say. “So it’s OK. But I’ve been eating them pretty much nonstop lately. Henry says you can smell cinnamon in my hair.”

Ethan laughs. “I believe it. I’m sure I told you that after we broke up, I couldn’t smell a cinnamon roll without getting depressed.”

“You never told me that,” I say, laughing. “How long did that last? Until Thanksgiving break?”

He laughs back. “Fair enough,” he says. “It is true, though.”

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