Page 8 of Parallel

Yes, I’ve known things before, things I should not know. But this is different. I’m seeing the life I might have had, if my father hadn’t gotten sick and my mother hadn’t fallen apart after he died. Because that was all part of the plan—get my architecture degree, move to London for graduate school. This knowledge…it feels like something I’msupposedto know. If feels important, like a life-altering conversation held while drunk, recalled only in small flashes the nextday.

I grab my wedding binder, the nearest thing I can find. I skip past all the details about shoes and dresses and invitations, until I get to the blank pages in the back, and then I start to sketch. When I’m done, the interior of our flat—mine and Nick’s—sits in front of me. The tiny box of a kitchen, half the wall taken up by a radiator that would wake us with itsclunk clunk clunkeach morning. The bedroom, so small we had to edge around our bed to get in and out, and the garden terrace you could only reach by climbing on top of the radiator and out the bedroom windows. I stare at the drawing, feeling unsettled. It’s far too specific to be something I just dreamedup.

The tightness in my chest has gone nowhere. I miss it, that imaginary flat. I miss the icy floors on winter mornings and Nick’s broad hand pulling me through the window on a summer night so we could sit on the terrace. I miss the smell of chlorine on his skin and the way he’d look at me when someone made a comment—his eyes light and amused while his mouth didn’t give an inch—because he knew what I was thinking when no one else did. I miss beingunderstood.

And I don’t want to miss anything. A week ago I was happy with my life, and now,now, it’s as if I’ve given something up…something I want more than the life I actuallyhave.

* * *

My boss is waitingin reception to pounce on me when I walk through the office doors a few hours later. Dee is bone thin, unnaturally tall, and prone to wearing a fur stole whenever the temperature drops below 70, which never fails to make me think of Cruella de Vil. The comparison is, sadly, all tooapt.

“Where’s the layout?” she demands, tapping her nails on the Lucite console besideher.

“Good morning, Dee,” I reply. “I’m feeling so much better,thanks.”

Not that I expected her to ask how I was after yesterday’s hospital visit. In six years at this magazine, she has never even managed to saygood morning. For her to inquire about my health would require stronger mood stabilizers than modern medicine hasdiscovered.

Her nose crinkles. “The layout, Quinn,” she says between her teeth. “Where isit?”

“I made the changes from home last night. I just need to print itout.”

“And where’s the Resort Wearpreview?”

I sigh deeply. Lots of the people I graduated with love what they do and salivate at the idea of beginning a project. But graphic design was never my first choice, and I’m reminded of that every time Dee assigns me something new. “It’s not due until nextweek.”

Her mouth tightens. “Just because I give you a due date doesn’t mean you have to waituntilthe duedate.”

“Hmmm,” I reply, walking past. As in,hmmm, how interesting you think so. I’ve learned over time that the best way to handle Dee is mostly by pretending she hasn’t spoken at all. I should have expected it, really. Do anything so egregious as take a vacation or a day of sick leave, and Dee will always come after you with sharpened fangs when youreturn.

Trevor, Dee’s lovely but beleaguered assistant, and my closest friend here, appears at my desk moments after I’ve opened up myMac.

“Hmmm,” repeats Trevor, imitating my airy tone before he gives me a wide smile. “You already aggravate her enough by being so cute, you know, withoutalsofailing to kiss herass.”

“She’ll fire meeventually.”

“Never,” he says decisively, perching on the edge of the file cabinet. “You know what she wants beforesheknows what she wants. What I don’t understand is why youstay.”

“I stay because she pays me more than any other graphic artist I know.” The move to D.C. has been hard on us—Jeff’s quit two jobs since we arrived six years ago and was let go from two others—and it’s made my tenure atWashington Insiderlast far longer than I’d have liked. For the foreseeable future, I need to know I can pay our bills by myself, because there’s no reason to think I won’t be doing soagain.

Trevor generally manages to keep his opinions about my personal life to himself, but I see the response he’s holding in flash across his face—you wouldn’t have to stay here if Jeff could keep a job—before he blinks it away and grins at me. “Anyway, aren’t you going to ask me about mydate?”

I groan. Trevor always shows me his dates’ Grindr profiles before he goes out—in part, because he’s excited, but mostly so I can avenge his death if something awful happens. Last night’s date—the guy with five different photos of his greased-up chest, the one whose profile read simplyI’m here to fuck—actually looked slightlylesscreepy thanmost.

“I’m scared to ask, but how was yourdate?”

He closes his eyes, the smile on his face absolutely indecent. “You know when you’re messing around with someone and you want him so much you think you’ll die if you don’t getit?”

I assume the question is rhetorical, but when I don’t answer, he elbows me. “Come on. Jeff’s boring, but he’s still hot. At some point in your relationship, he’s had you ready tobeg.”

I stiffen. “Noteveryoneis like that, Trevor. And Jeff isn’t boring. You just prefer guys who oil their chests over guys who call when they’re supposed to call and show up when they’ve promised theywill.”

He pets my hair as he leaves, like it’s a fur coat or a cuddly pet. “Pretty, pretty Quinn. You break my heartsometimes.”

It’s nothing Trevor hasn’t said before, but given that I’ve been fantasizing about an absolute stranger for the better part of twenty-four hours, it’s sort of poorlytimed.

After he leaves, I send the most recent layout to print and call my mother, who’s already left three messages so far this morning. Because she tends to handle uncertainty poorly, I told her yesterday’s blackout was the result of a pre-wedding diet. Only now do I realize this means I’ll spend the next seven weeks being interrogated about my foodintake.

“You had breakfast, right?” sheasks.

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