Parallel

dresser.
    “Everything’s fine.” I flash an apologetic smile. “I just need the cordless phone.”
    “Then come downstairs and get it,” she says. “And stop shouting. Your dad is trying to sleep.”
    “I know, I’m sorry.” Tail between my legs, I follow her down to the kitchen to retrieve the phone.
    “Who are you calling this early?” she asks as she pours me a cup of coffee.
    “Caitlin,” I reply, already dialing her number. “Thanks for the coffee,” I call as I head back upstairs.
    “Are you serious right now?” Caitlin says when she picks up the phone. “It’s six fifteen. On a Saturday.”
    “I need a reality check.”
    “Your name is Abby Barnes. You’re a freshman at Yale. You live with Maris—”
    I cut her off. “I know all that,” I say impatiently. “Am I dating anyone?”
    “Michael,” she replies sleepily.
    “Michael,” I repeat. “Michael is my boyfriend.”
    “You didn’t know that?” asks Caitlin, wide-awake now. “Your relationship with him is new?” For the first time ever, I feel a modicum of her excitement.
    My life is a puzzle. These pieces fit together.
    There’s nothing to be scared of.
    “Not new,” I tell her. “I just didn’t expect it to still be true.”
    “Why not?” Caitlin asks. “What happened?”
    “In the real version, Michael and I met on my eighteenth birthday, the day after the collision. He was just some guy to me—Ben’s high school best friend. But he’s not ‘just some guy’ to my parallel—not anymore. She knows he’s Josh’s brother. They met yesterday, on their Thanksgiving.”
    “Well, yeah,” Caitlin replies. “That’s why you’re together.”
    My breath catches in my throat. “What are you talking about?”
    “You said you knew from the first day you met Michael that you were supposed to be with him. It’s the reason you broke up with Josh. And why you applied to Yale.”
    She chose Michael.
    “When was the breakup? Right after Thanksgiving?”
    “No, not till April. The day you got back from Bulldog Days.”
    “Bulldog Days?” I am practically screeching at her. “What the hell is Bulldog Days?”
    “Yale’s admitted students weekend. You and Michael h—”
    “SHE HOOKED UP WITH HIM? While she was with Josh ?”
    “ Hung out ,” Caitlin says calmly. “As far as I know, there was no hooking up involved. Not then, anyway. You kept it platonic till September. Your idea, not his. You started dating on your birthday.”
    “And Josh?”
    “You told him two days ago, on Thanksgiving. From what you told me yesterday, he didn’t take it very well. I don’t think you’ve spoken to him since.”
    “And Michael?”
    “He left yesterday for Boston. He’s taking you to some fancy dinner in New Haven tomorrow night.”
    It’s exactly what I wanted. Two days ago, it’s what I had.
    A lot can change in two days. A lot can change in two minutes.
    Order to chaos, then back again.
    “We made up,” I say. “You and me. Last Thanksgiving.”
    “Of course we did,” Caitlin replies. “What, you thought we’d stay mad at each other forever?”
    I smile. That’s the funny thing about life. We’re rarely aware of the bullets we dodge. The just-misses. The almost-never-happeneds. We spend so much time worrying about how the future is going to play out, and not nearly enough time admiring the precious perfection of the present.
    I close my eyes and see Josh’s face. Standing in the middle of the street yesterday, unshaven and unshowered and unwilling to doubt what he knew to be true. These aren’t someone else’s feelings, Abby. . . . The way I love you . . . don’t tell me that’s not real. It didn’t matter to him that the past wasn’t as he remembered it. All that mattered was how he felt right then, standing there with me. Here, in the present. I inhale, letting myself return to that moment. Letting myself feel what I felt then but couldn’t understand. Letting myself step into the future I glimpsed on my porch last night, a future I can’t see clearly but trust nonetheless. Right, right, right. He is right. He always was.
    And Michael is right, too. Just not for me.
    I had it backward. Michael is my parallel’s soulmate. And Josh is mine.
    Just like that, all of Caitlin’s arguments about genetic equivalence fall away. So what if my parallel and I look the same under a microscope? The soul can’t be captured in DNA. Which is exactly what Dr. Mann meant that day in his lab. You are a