Page 22 of Parallel

“There isn’t,” I reply firmly. “And in the meantime, I have a real life, and these dreams are making itseemlike a life I don’t want. I would rather not know any of this than be unhappy with what Ihave.”

His teeth sink into his lower lip, an action that makes my stomach clench in an unfamiliar way. Both pleasant and unpleasant at the same time. “Maybe your dreams are saying you’re already unhappy with what youhave.”

I look away from him. It’s sort of what Caroline said too. “Then I’d like them to stop telling methat.”

He sighs. “We’ll need to wait on the results before I prescribe anything. I assume you’re heading home. I can call you there with results when they’rein.”

I shake my head. “I’ve got to get to work. We go to print next week. I’ve lost way too much time as itis.”

“Print?” he asks, frowning. “Aren’t you anarchitect?”

I still. “What made you thinkthat?”

“I’m not sure,” he says slowly. “I thought I saw it in your file. But…you aren’t? I could havesworn...”

The room grows silent. My voice is a whisper when I finally speak. “I was an architecture major in college, but my father died after my sophomore year and I had to move home where it wasn’t an option. But…in my head, when we were in London, that’s what I was studying. I was there getting a graduatedegree.”

The weirdness of it rests between us. “I guess,” he says with a faltering smile, “you’re not the only stalker of the two of us,then.”

* * *

I walk into the office,hoping to escape Dee. No luck—she’s just leaving as I walk in. She holds the door but remains still, blocking my path. “We are seriously behind,” she says, jaw clenched. “Please try to get caught up. I need proofs before you leavetoday.”

A torrent of words I won’t say to her rises in my throat:we’ve worked together for six freaking years. You know I was just hospitalized and you know I never take sick leave. How dare you act put upon rightnow?

I clench my fists and slide past her into the office. We need this job. I could leave and wind up with half the pay and a boss who’s just as awful. And then my inheritance, the one I’ve refused to touch for the past seven years, will be gone as soon as Jeff loses his job, frittered away on the mortgage and groceries and I’ll have nothing to show forit.

The layout is already open on my Mac and has obviously been tinkered with by someone who has no knowledge of Photoshop. Only Dee would dare, and she’s managed to create twice as much work for me as I’d have had otherwise. I let my head sink back against my chair, staring up at the exposed ceiling, at the gleaming metal of heating ducts and maze of white pipes, wondering how I will feel about Dee and this job if Nick calls with badnews.

Will I be glad I sucked it up all these years, managed to keep us afloat all the times when Jeff was out of work? Or will I feel like this place stole six years of mylife?

Except, the magazine didn’t steal those years. I stole them from myself. I’m the one who listened when my mom begged me to stay at home after my father died. I’m the one who let Jeff persuade me it would be foolish to go back to school for architecture. I’m the one who chose to remain at this desk for solong.

I never fought for a single thing I wanted, and now it might be toolate.

The real question, however, is what I will do if itisn’t.

* * *

It’s latein the afternoon when I finally hear from the hospital. I’m oddly disappointed that it’s one of the nurses calling, rather than Nick. "Dr. Reilly is wondering if you can come in tomorrow for another MRI,” shesays.

I lay my pen down. “Another one? Was there aproblem?”

“I doubt it,” she says breezily. “It’s a different kind of MRI. It may be that the other one wasn’tclear.”

I convince myself it doesn’t mean anything. It’s not until much later, when Jeff and I are having dinner and he asks about the test, that I actually start toworry.

“So what is it again that the hospital wants you to do tomorrow?” heasks.

I shrug as I help myself to seconds, which is something I never do. Poor Jeff probably made extra for his lunch tomorrow and I’m demolishing it, but I’ve had nothing to eat since that juice this morning. “Some other kind of MRI. They didn’t reallyexplain.”

There’s a crease between his eyebrows. “Do you think it meansanything?”

I hesitate, will away the nervous flutter in my chest. “It doesn’t sound like it. It sounds like they used the wrong kind of test. Why? Doyouthink it meansanything?”

Jeff frowns. “That guy barely looked old enough to be out of med school, so I wouldn’t be at all surprised to learn he ordered the wrong test. You need to switchdoctors.”

I set down my fork, but it remains in my grip, stiffly held. I want to argue in Nick’s defense, but it would be poorly received, given what happened in the hospital last night. “I don’t know that he ordered the wrong test,” I reply, the words spoken carefully. “I’m just saying it might be whathappened.”

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