Parallel

birthday. According to the emails I just read, they won’t have “that conversation” for two more weeks. But if that’s true, then my relationship with Michael couldn’t have started the way I remember it. But clearly it did. I’ve got a picture of him scream-singing the lyrics to “Whatta Man” on the dance floor at Alchemy to prove it.
    How is that possible?
    “Easy,” Caitlin says after I explain the situation to her. “It’s just cause and effect.”
    “Okay, new rule: When we’re talking about cosmic entanglement, you’re not allowed to use the phrase ‘it’s just.’ It’s never ‘ just’ anything.”
    “Would you like me to explain this to you or not?”
    “Yes. Go.”
    “If a tree falls in the forest and no one hears it, did it make a sound?”
    “I’m serious, Caitlin.”
    “So am I! You asked why your parallel’s relationship with Josh hasn’t affected your relationship with Michael. I’m giving you the answer: because no one knew about it. Think about it: The only person at your birthday dinner who knew you in high school was me, and I had no idea that you and Josh were still together. I stopped keeping up with your love life when we stopped talking.”
    “Ugh. It just feels so gross,” I moan. “I kissed Michael that night, and I was still with Josh.”
    “Abby, you weren’t actually with Josh. He just remembers it as though you were.”
    I know this, but I still feel weird about it.
    “Abby!” my mom calls from the kitchen. “What time are you leaving to get Michael?”
    Yikes. I’m supposed to be at his house in half an hour, and I still haven’t showered.
    “I have to go,” I tell Caitlin. “Call you later?”
    “Have fun,” Caitlin calls in a singsong voice. “Fingers crossed your dad does something super embarrassing.”
    “I’m hanging up on you,” I say, and do.
    Five minutes before I’m supposed to be at Michael’s house, I gun it out of our driveway, one hand on the steering wheel, the other fumbling with the clasp on my grandma’s pearls, which I’m wearing for good luck despite the fact that they in no way go with my outfit. After this morning’s revelations, lucky pearls seemed appropriate.
    At the first stoplight, I enter the address Michael sent into my phone’s GPS, expecting at least a fifteen-minute drive. Estimated driving time four minutes? I pull over onto the shoulder and look at the map on my screen. Lilac Lane is a short street in what looks like a big subdivision. I scan the names of the streets near it. Daisy Court. Rose Terrace. Gardenia Place. Apparently, the builder had a flower fetish.
    One name jumps out at me: Poplar Drive, two streets over. We had a party there junior year, before the road was paved. We left our cars at Tyler’s house and walked over. Now the flower names make sense: Poplar Drive is in Garden Grove, a little enclave of newer homes in Tyler’s sprawling subdivision. Michael’s parents live in Tyler’s neighborhood? Whoa. That means if they’d moved here four years ago instead of two, Michael and I would’ve gone to high school together. Would we have dated? Would my parents have allowed me to date him? They let me go to prom with Casey Decker freshman year, but he was only a junior because he skipped first grade, and he only asked me to the dance because the girls in his own grade called him Casey Pecker. I don’t think my dad would’ve been as keen on Casey if he’d looked like Michael.
    I wonder what my dad thought of Josh when they met. Not what he told my parallel, but how he really felt. Judging from the tone of their email exchange, Dad was a big fan of Astronomy Boy. Did he like him instantly, or was it a gradual thing? Will my dad like Michael less because he’ll compare him to Josh?
    Would I like Michael less if I could compare him to Josh? Truly compare them, not just how they appear on paper or in memory, but how they really are when you’re with them. Michael is smart and charming and confident. Josh is . . . a different version of that. Less . . . knock-you-off-your-feet. More . . . what? The word right keeps pounding in my head. Right, right, right.
    I pull up in front of a modest two-story brick colonial at the end of a cul-de-sac. The numbers 4424 are painted on the curb. Wait, is this right? I thought I turned on Lilac, but this must be Poplar. I’ve definitely been on this street before. Turning around in the cul-de-sac, I drive back to the beginning of the street to check