Parallel

went home for Thanksgiving,” he replies.
    “And this year?”
    “Same. Arriving Wednesday night at eight fifty-two p.m., departing Friday morning at eight forty-eight a.m.,” he says. “Same flights as last year.”
    “Short trip.”
    “It’s a long thirty-six hours,” he says flatly, and reaches for the last slice. He doesn’t elaborate.
    I pick at a piece of pepperoni, not sure what to say next.
    We sit in silence for a few minutes as Michael works on his second piece of pizza and I play with the rest of mine. Should I change the subject? Wait for him to say something? After a few bites, he smiles. “You know what’d make those thirty-six hours better this year?” he asks me. His tone is lighter now, his eyes brighter. “A turkey dinner at the Barnes house.” He takes another bite, watching my reaction. I’m so elated that he just used my last name that it takes me a second to realize that he’s just invited himself over for Thanksgiving.
    “You have pizza sauce on your lip,” I say coyly. He licks his lips. “Still there,” I tell him. He smiles and reaches for a napkin.
    “You’re just gonna leave me hanging, huh?”
    I lean forward, my thumb reaching his upper lip before his napkin does. “Pretty much,” I tease.
    “No sympathy at all for the poor, lonely guy who can’t bear to spend Thanksgiving away from his girlfriend?”
    “Nope.” My voice sounds tight. Airless. Probably because sometime between his use of the word “girlfriend” and this moment, I stopped breathing. It’s the first time he’s said it. Suddenly, intensely, I want to be exactly that. His girlfriend. For as long as fate will let me.
    Parallel Abby, please don’t screw this up.
    “That’s a shame,” Michael says, leaning across the table until his face is inches from mine. My eyelids flutter as I breathe in the spicy-sweet scent of mint, pepperoni, and aftershave. Who knew the smell of cured meat could turn a person on? My lips tingle in anticipation. I’ve been thinking about that kiss my parallel self got from Josh all day, unable to shake the memory of it. This is exactly what I need: an even more amazing kiss to take its place. I let my eyes close, feeling his lips touch mine, wishing we were in his bedroom instead of this crowded restaurant.
    “Abby?” a small voice says. My eyes pop open. A tearstained Pink Ranger is standing next to our table, holding a plastic pumpkin.
    “Marissa? Are you okay?”
    “Ben broke up with me.”
    “What?” My eyes dart to Michael. His eyebrows are arched in surprise, but the expression strikes me as false. The face you’d make at your surprise party, when it’s not a surprise at all. He knew. I look back at Marissa. “When?”
    “Right before I puked in this pumpkin,” she says miserably, holding out the orange plastic container, which is, indeed, filled with vomit. Michael recoils. I take the pumpkin and set it on the floor beneath the table.
    “Sit,” I tell her, sliding over to make room. “How much have you had to drink?”
    “Too much.” She puts her forehead down on the table.
    I look at Michael.
    “Uh, I’ll get some water,” he says, and stands.
    “What happened?” I ask as soon as Michael leaves.
    “I don’t know.” She looks at me with red-rimmed eyes. “He just started acting weird. I kept asking what was wrong, and he kept saying he was just tired. But he didn’t seem tired, you know? So I told him that, and his face got all twisted, and he said he’d wanted to wait until tomorrow to tell me, but he felt like he was lying by not saying anything. And then his voice broke, and I knew.” Her eyes well up again. “He said he didn’t want to hurt me, but he just didn’t feel the same way about me anymore. And that’s when I puked.”
    “Where were you?”
    “On our way back from the cemetery.”
    “You did yoga like this?”
    She nods miserably. “I don’t know where I got the pumpkin. Someone must have given it to me.” She nudges it with her shoe. “There’s candy at the bottom.”
    I look down and instantly regret it.
    Don’t throw up, don’t throw up, don’t throw up.
    Michael returns with a pitcher of water and some breadsticks, which he sets on the table in front of Marissa. She stares at the cup vacantly.
    “Should I . . .” Michael looks from Marissa to his empty seat as if not sure what to do with himself.
    “I think we’re good,” I tell him. I doubt Marissa wants her ex-boyfriend’s best friend