Page 15 of Parallel

“How? Her eyes were closed. She’d never even metme.”

He shrugs. “You had a million fangirls when you were swimming. She’s probably some superfan and knew you’d be the one treatingher.”

I shake my head. “I really don’t think so. She knew way too much, and she said it all in front of her fiancé, who was clearly unhappy about it, by theway.”

“What other explanation is there? Unless you believe inpsychics.”

I stare at my drink. “Here’s the thing: I’ve seen her before. I mean, not in real life. I’ve dreamed about her.” Jace is looking at me like I’m crazy, which I can hardly fault him for. I wonder if this is how I look at my patients sometimes. God, I hope not. “I know this sounds nuts, but I swear I’ve dreamed about her. And in those dreams we’re definitely together, and then here she is today telling me we’re married. I mean, I know it’s not true, but it’s like I’m somehow not connecting to a huge part of mymemory.”

He raises a brow. “Well, no matter what has happened and no matter what you feel, she’s still your patient. You can’t act onit.”

I scowl at him. “Of course I’m not going toacton it,” I reply. “Give me a little credit. I’m just trying to figure out what the hell is goingon.”

He appears unimpressed by this situation, like it’s an every-day occurrence to feel intensely attached to a patient you’ve never met, and then have her claim to be your wife. “Look, you probably had a dream about a girl who looks vaguely like her, nothing more. And then your mind drew these connecting lines where they don’t exist. The real question is why you’re doingit.”

“What’s that supposed tomean?”

He leans on the bar, swinging his stool to face me. “Don’t you think the timing of it is a little suspect? Your fear of commitment is legendary, and now the minute you and Meg start moving in together,bam, you decide you’ve been dreaming about a patient you’ve never met. You’re freaking out and looking for the escape hatch. Nothingmore.”

“We aren’t moving in together,” I mutter, swirling the ice in my emptyglass.

“Fine, whatever,” he says. “You and Meg are moving forward. Samething.”

Fuck. I want to be someone who can do that, move a relationship forward. I want it to be with Meg. But the fact that I’m now feeling so attached to a complete stranger tells me I’m definitely not ready to do so. And a piece of me wonders if Quinn Stewart is the reasonwhy.

7

QUINN

Nick and I are in our favorite pub. It’s a recent find, and though the drinks are overpriced, the music is amazing—it’s mostly British bands, but they play a fair amount of older stuff from home. “Everlong” by Foo Fighters comes on and most of the bar starts singing. I’ve never given the lyrics much thought but as we sing-shout them tonight, I realize how perfect they are. It’s a song about love, perhaps a slightly obsessive love, and meeting someone you waited for, maybe before you even knew he existed. I have goose bumps when itconcludes.

“I’ve loved that song since I was a kid,” Nick says, holding my eye. “But now I think it’s myfavorite.”

“Mine too,” Iwhisper.

A rotation of British bands starts up next. Arctic Monkeys, Florence and the Machine—music you can dance to. The crowd even manages to dance to Radiohead, though I’m not sure how. “Sofa Song” by The Kooks starts playing and he grabs myhand.

“Come on,” hesays.

“I don’t dance,” I whine, pulling back. “Remember? That whole thing where I was so bad at it you had to propose just to make itstop?”

He laughs. “Yes, thank God I happened to have an engagement ring in my pocket thatnight.”

On the dance floor he gets me in position and coaches me once more, with his “one, two, one, two, rock step”. Then he spins me out and back to him. As I land against his chest I feel a shift inside me, and it’s as if I’m in two places at once. Here with him now, but also in his childhood treehouse. The treehouse I’ve never laid eyes on but know intimately. I remember the creak of the floorboards under our feet, the slanted roof he had to duck to avoid. A chill creeps up from the base of my spine. “I feel like we’ve done this before,” I tell him. The words are spoken at a near-whisper. “In yourtreehouse.”

He pulls me closer, knowing this weird knowledge I have of us unsettles me. “All I care about is the fact that you’re with me now,” hesays.

I smile, but my throat tightens at his words. Lately I’ve had this odd sense that our time is running out, and I have no idea why. “Distract me,” Iwhisper.

With a flick of his wrist I’m spinning away from him, anchored by his hand, and then twirling back. When I look up again, his face is inches from mine. “Distracting enough?” heasks.

“Yeah.” My shoulders settle and I smile up at him. “I think we’re okay at this as long you’re doing all thework.”

A feral light is in his eyes that wasn’t there a moment ago. “I’m more than happy to do all the work,” he says, his voice low and raspy, “if that’s what you’re worriedabout.”

Desire is like a fist, squeezing tight in mystomach.

“Take me home,” I say, going on my toes to press my mouth to his. “You’re at your most distractingthere.”

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