Parallel

this boy I barely know but can’t stop thinking about, despite the fact that I’m supposed to be in love with his brother?
    “I should probably get going,” I hear Josh say. “Early flight tomorrow.”
    “You’re going back to L.A. already?”
    “We play UCLA tomorrow,” he replies. “Big game.”
    “Well, it was good to see you,” I say awkwardly, holding out the postcard. My hand trembles slightly. Why don’t I want him to leave?
    “Keep it,” he replies. “To remember.” He smiles sadly. Without thinking, I throw my arms around his neck. At first, his body feels tense against mine, like he’s bracing against the hug. But then, the tension gives way and he hugs me back. Only for a few seconds, though. Then he pulls away. “Bye, Abby,” he says, turning to go. “Take care of yourself.”
    “Do you think things happen for a reason?” I ask suddenly. Josh turns back around.
    “Absolutely.”
    “Do you believe in soulmates?”
    “Ask me tomorrow,” he says. Then he turns and walks away.
    At quarter past one, I’m still awake, waiting for the refuge of sleep. The moon is bright outside my window, casting its light inside my room.
    I sigh, rolling over for what must be the ninetieth time since I got in bed, and repeat what I’ve been telling myself over and over again ever since Josh left. She’s not going to meet him. There’s nothing to worry about. She’s already told Josh she can’t make it. The day will come and go, and Michael will leave early Friday morning to fly up to Boston like he always does. Nothing will change. I tell myself these things and pretend to believe them, but I am afraid. I don’t want to lose Michael. Not now.
    Lying on my side, my face inches from the Post-it note I stuck to my nightstand reminding me to “remember Thanksgiving” as soon as I wake up tomorrow, I say a silent prayer that my parallel’s holiday will happen exactly the way it’s supposed to. I imagine her at the table with my parents and grandparents, eating my grandma’s turkey. I imagine her in the kitchen with my mom, washing dishes at the sink. I imagine her on the couch with my grandfather, watching the black-and-white version of It’s a Wonderful Life , a movie I’ve seen so many times I can recite the entire thing by heart. I close my eyes, playing back my favorite scene.
    George Bailey’s words echo in my mind as I finally drift off to sleep: What do you want? You want the moon? Just say the word and I’ll throw a lasso around it and pull it down. Hey. That’s a pretty good idea. I’ll give you the moon, Mary. Except it’s not Jimmy Stewart’s face I’m seeing behind my eyelids but Josh’s. And the name that echoes is my own.

13
    THERE
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 27, 2008
(Thanksgiving Day)
    I’m on a sidewalk, walking along the side of a stone building that runs the length of the block. The sidewalk is crowded with people dressed in jackets and scarves, arms full of books and notebooks, hands wrapped around giant cups of coffee, bustling here and there. The air is cold on my nose. “Abby!” I hear someone call. I turn to my right and am facing a black wrought-iron gate beneath a tall stone archway. On the other side of the gate, a guy—dark hair, chiseled cheeks, perfect teeth—smiles at me. Suddenly, there’s a beep and the gate opens. The guy comes toward me. “Hi,” he says as he gets nearer. “I brought you something.” I look down. There’s a box in his hands. “It’s pumpkin pie.”
    I wake up with a start.
    The air in my bedroom is heavy with the spicy sweetness of my mom’s Pepper Pumpkin Pie, her one contribution to the meal my grandma insists on cooking every year—in our kitchen. “Thanksgiving isn’t a time for recipes,” goes Grandma’s annual refrain, aimed directly at my mom, who doesn’t like to make anything twice. “Thanksgiving is about tradition.” Apparently, adherence to tradition requires a modern gourmet kitchen. Grandma refuses to have Thanksgiving any place but ours.
    Still in my pajamas, I pad down the back stairs.
    “There she is!” my grandpa announces when I enter the room, opening his arms wide for a hug.
    “Happy Thanksgiving, Grandpa,” I murmur into his neck. “I’m glad you told me about the stars.” I went to bed thinking about all those nines, wondering what to make of them. He squeezes me tighter, and I hold on, not wanting to let go yet. When I finally do, I walk over to where my grandmother is standing, her