Parallel

uniquely created being with a transcendent soul. A soul whose yearnings can’t be predicted or effectively explained, whose composition can’t be quantified, whose true nature remains a mystery, as mysterious as it ever was. My parallel and I have different soulmates because we’re different souls.
    “I have to break up with Michael,” I say then.
    “What?” Caitlin sounds genuinely shocked. “Why?”
    “I’m with the wrong brother,” I tell her, and promptly hang up.
    Forgetting what time it is, I dial Michael’s number. He answers on the fifth ring, his voice muffled and groggy. “Abby?”
    “We have to break up.” It just pops out, the moment I hear his voice. So much for doing it delicately.
    Silence.
    “Michael?”
    “If this is a joke, it would’ve been funnier at noon.”
    “It’s not a joke,” I say quietly.
    I hear footsteps on his end and then the sound of a door closing.
    “Can I ask why?” His voice is low and echoes slightly, like he’s in a bathroom. I picture him in a T-shirt and boxers, his hair all mussed up from sleep, sitting on the edge of someone’s bathtub. I inhale, imagining the smell of him, so different from Josh despite their shared DNA. Briefly, strangely, I wonder if a soul has a scent.
    He’s waiting for an explanation. I consider giving him a nonanswer, something about valuing our friendship or needing time to myself. But he deserves more than that. He deserves the truth.
    “I think I’m in love with Josh,” I say softly.
    “You think you’re in love with Josh,” he repeats, his voice hollow. I nod, then realize he can’t see me nodding. “And here I thought you were in love with me.”
    “It’s . . . ,” I begin, then stop. Destiny? It sounds ridiculous, even to me. “It doesn’t make sense,” I say instead. “I know that.”
    “How could you do this?” His voice is angry now. And hurt.
    “I didn’t mean to,” I say, my throat tight.
    “But you did,” he replies. “You did mean to. It’s not like this is an accident, Abby. You’re doing this. You’re deciding. You’re the one throwing our relationship away.”
    There are a few seconds of silence before the line goes dead. For exactly ten more, I panic. What if I’m picking the wrong guy? I barely know Josh. Yesterday was the first live conversation we’ve ever had. Everything else I know about him is from memory. He seemed certain, but can I really know for sure that he and I are meant to be together? The answer, of course, is no. We can never know for sure. The best we can do is take what we do know, and what we’ve learned, and what we believe to be true about ourselves, and then make a choice.
    My parallel made her choice. She chose Michael.
    I choose Josh.
    Momentarily paralyzed, I stare at my phone. There’s no going back from this. If things don’t work out with Josh, I will have lost them both.
    I’m praying as I dial Josh’s number. Please answer, please answer, please answer. After two rings, an operator’s voice kicks in. “The number you have attempted to contact is not receiving calls from your number.”
    My heart sinks. He doesn’t remember our conversation yesterday. My parallel erased it.
    All at once, a sense of urgency takes hold. I’ve glimpsed my destiny. Not all of it, but a crucial part. If this moment is the only moment I can be sure of, then I have to make it count.
    Fingertips tingling, I type “last minute airfare” into Google and hit enter. Five minutes later I’m entering my debit card number for a flight from ATL to LAX that departs in three hours and six minutes and brings the amount in my checking account below three digits.
    I throw a change of clothes and a toothbrush into my bag and take a quick shower. As I’m speed-washing my hair, I debate how to sell this impromptu trip to my parents. They like Josh, obviously. But do they like him enough to let me fly across the country on three hours’ notice to see him?
    “So he doesn’t know you’re coming,” Mom says when I tell them my plan. “You’re just going to show up at his dorm room?”
    “Not his dorm room,” I reply. “His seat. At the UCLA game. I know where he’s sitting.” Wanting to preserve the element of surprise, I told Tyler that I was hoping to catch a glimpse of Josh on TV and thus wanted to know where he was sitting. Tyler didn’t buy it, but he got me the seat number, anyway.
    “That’s my girl,” Dad says approvingly. “Grabbing the bull by the