Parallel

the tension between us evaporates. I lean my head against her shoulder. “I thought the woman was going to have a heart attack in our kitchen,” she says.
    “How’d the meal go?”
    “About like it always does. Oh, although apparently your grandparents are on the South Beach diet. Neither of them would touch my pie.”
    “Ooh, does that mean there’s some left?”
    “Almost all of it. Want some?”
    “Yes, please. After the day I had, I could use a slice of normal.”
    “What happened?”
    “Imagine the most awkward social encounter you’ve ever experienced. Then add biscuits and turkey and multiply it by five.”
    “That bad?”
    “Worse. Over store-bought cherry cobbler, Josh’s brother accused their stepdad of sleeping with their mom while their dad was still alive.”
    “In front of you?”
    “I think it might’ve been because of me, actually. If I hadn’t been there, I think Michael would’ve left before dessert. But it doesn’t end there. Turns out their dad was the one having the affair, and their mom has been keeping it a secret. I guess the woman their dad was sleeping with lost an earring in a hotel room, and the concierge left a message about it on his home number. Michael heard it and assumed the earring was his mom’s, and that she’d been with Martin.”
    “Well, at least the truth is out now, right? So maybe they can get past it?”
    “I hope so.”
    I follow her down the stairs and into the kitchen, where we both have a double slice of pie and a tall glass of milk. As we eat, I tell her about my dream. The pie, the gate, Michael’s piercing green eyes.
    “It’s weird, right?”
    “That you dreamed about him? Nah. You and Josh had just been talking about him.”
    “But I didn’t know what he looked like,” I point out. “No mental image. And there aren’t any framed photos of him at the Wagners’ house, either. I looked this afternoon. Besides,” I say, licking pie off my fork, “in my dream he wasn’t Josh’s brother. He was . . . I dunno. My boyfriend or something. And he was giving me pie. This pie, in fact. Which, by the way, is awesome as always.”
    “Hey, at least he has good taste,” Mom says, polishing off her piece.
    I smile, picturing Michael’s face in my head. “Smart, good-looking, and great taste in pie,” I muse. “I could do worse.”
    “We’re talking about your dream guy, not your boyfriend’s brother, right?” She’s teasing, but I feel myself flush.
    “Right.”
    “And your boyfriend’s brother? What’s your take on him?”
    “I dunno,” I admit. “He’s hard to read. But there was something about him. . . .” I trail off, imagining my palm on his chiseled cheek, then catch myself. He’s my boyfriend’s brother. “He goes to Yale, actually,” I say, clearing my throat and the image from my mind. “He was encouraging me to apply.”
    “Did you yell at him, too?”
    “Very funny.” I open my mouth to make a snarky comment but yawn instead. “Uh-oh,” I tell her, “I feel a pie-induced coma coming on.”
    “Works every time,” she replies, stifling her own yawn. She reaches for my empty plate.
    I kiss her good night and head up to my room. There, on my desk, is my laptop, my out-box still open on my screen. My mom must’ve brought it back up. My vision blurs for a sec, and I picture myself standing next to Michael in front of a massive wrought-iron gate, a newspaper tucked under my arm. It’s the same sidewalk we were standing on in my dream last night. Where is that? The location feels familiar, but I can’t place it as anywhere I’ve ever been. As if prompted, I open my bottom file drawer and pull out the stack of college brochures I’ve been meaning to organize but haven’t yet. The Yale one is at the bottom, a few errant coffee grounds stuck to the back of it from its brief stint in the kitchen garbage can the day I got it. The image on the cover is an imposing stone building, what looks like a Gothic cathedral but probably isn’t. The library, maybe?
    On impulse, I flip the brochure over. There it is. Phelps Gate, according to the caption beneath the photo. In the photo, there is a student passing through the oversized archway—the same archway Michael walked through in my dream. Michael, a guy I’d never met before today. Michael, my boyfriend’s brother, a guy who just happens to go Yale, a place I’ve never visited and, before this moment, couldn’t have connected to a single piece of