Parallel

Mann from astronomy?”
    “Do I remember him? Of course I remember him, Abby.”
    “Okay, well, he has this theory . . . about parallel worlds.”
    “Cosmic entanglement,” Josh says. “I know.”
    I stare at him. “You know about the theory.”
    “Sure. The basics, anyway. I read Dr. Mann’s book when I signed up for his class. I mean, I’m not sure I believe it, but—”
    “Believe it.” Without thinking, I grab his hand. “It happened. On my birthday.”
    “ What happened?”
    “Our world collided with a parallel world. Became entangled with one. Everyone’s memories were erased, and our parallel selves started rewriting our pasts, but no one knows it. No one but me, anyway.” I hear myself, how utterly insane this all sounds, and I wonder if I’ve made a mistake. I back up a little, not wanting to leave anything out. “The parallel world is a year behind ours,” I explain. “Well, a year and a day, actually. The earthquake—well, that’s just it, it wasn’t an earthquake, it was a collision. And it didn’t happen here on September 8, 2008, it happened there. In the parallel world. We just remember it as though it happened here. It’s called—”
    “Shared reality.” Josh is staring at me in wonder, but not disbelief. Hope bubbles up inside me. He doesn’t think I’m crazy.
    “Right! But the thing is, it didn’t work like it was supposed to for me. I kept all my real memories, and I didn’t get a full set of new ones. My memories from the parallel world stop where my parallel’s stop, so I have a yearlong gap where everything from her version is just a blank. That’s why I didn’t know you and I were together. Why I—”
    “Stop.”
    I don’t hear him at first. “What?”
    “I said stop.” He looks down at his hand, which I’m still holding. I start to let go, but he grabs it back. “Just so I’m clear, your explanation for your behavior for the past month is that there was a freaking cosmic collision? That altered the way we interact in time and space? And that you’re the only one who knows it happened? Abby . . .”
    “I know. I know how crazy it sounds. But think about it, Josh.” I grip his hand, wanting so desperately to make him understand, to give him the peace he deserves. “Think about Abby,” I say softly. “The Abby you know. The Abby you love, and who loves you back. The Abby who stopped answering your calls out of the blue. The Abby who didn’t respond to a single email or text. Would she ever have done that to you?” My heart aches at the thought of what it must’ve been like for him, all that inexplicable silence. No explanation. No good-bye.
    Subtly, almost imperceptibly, he shakes his head.
    “She would never have done it, Josh. If I had known what was going on, I would never have done it. But it happened, and neither of us had any control over it, and you’re the innocent victim, and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” My voice breaks and I gasp for breath, my hand clutching his so tightly my fingers have started to cramp.
    He looks down at the hand I’m holding. “You’re saying that everything I remember about our relationship is fiction?”
    “Not fiction,” I reply. “Just not . . . what happened to us.” We both know there’s no distinction, not really.
    He lets go of my hand. “No.” He shakes his head firmly. “No.”
    The hope inside me recedes, like a wave at low tide.
    “It sounds impossible,” I say. “It should be impossible. But it’s the truth, Josh. I promise you, it is.”
    He’s quiet, his body angled away from me, and for a moment, I think he might walk away.
    “Please,” I whisper. “Don’t go.”
    “You don’t remember any of it?” he asks then, his voice incredulous and sad. “Our relationship, I mean. Nothing at all?”
    “I remember some of it,” I say. “Our first date. The Georgia Fair. Everything that happened before November twenty-seventh of last year. That’s where my parallel’s memories stop.”
    He’s still not looking at me, but I can see his tears spill over. He doesn’t even attempt to wipe them away. “What I feel . . . these aren’t someone else’s feelings, Abby. They can’t be. The way I love you . . .” His voice breaks. “Don’t tell me that’s not real.”
    My insides squeeze and contract. “I don’t know what to say,” I say softly. “Other than I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” The tears that have clogged my throat and shaken my voice since this