Page 17 of The Seven Year Slip

“No, no, no, no,” I begged. The two pigeons sat on the sill,pressed against the glass like they wanted to be inside to watch the show. They looked a bit ruffled from the morning.“No.”

The pigeons cooed, scandalized.

I set my jaw. Crushed the receipt in my hands and threw it back onto the counter. Grabbed my purse. And left the apartment. The door slammed closed behind me.

Then I unlocked it again, and went inside.

The receipt was still there.

I turned around. Left the apartment.

And shoved my way back in.

Still there on the counter.

“I can do this all day,” I told the apartment, and then I wanted to kick myself fortalking to an inanimate place.

It felt a little like I was talking to my aunt instead. She would be the kind of person to play thisexacttrick on me. We’d always butted heads, even though I loved her. She said I tied my bows too tightly, lived my life too neat, like my parents.

I just liked plans. I liked sticking to them. I liked knowing what was coming andwhenit was coming.

So, yes, this would be the exact kind of thing my aunt would do.

On my sixth reentry, I saw the crumpled receipt and the pigeons watching me like I was some fool, turned on my heels—

And came face-to-face with the stranger.

“Oh,” he said, surprised, his pale eyes wide, “you’re back already.”

I jerked backward, raising my purse. “I swear togod—”

“I’m still leaving,” he added cautiously, holding his hands up in surrender, “but I forgot my toothbrush, actually.”

I frowned. “Oh.”

“May I get it?”

I pulled my purse over my shoulder again. “Since you asked so nicely...” I stepped to the side, and let him into the rest of the apartment. He had his duffel slung across his body, the airport tag still on the strap. He went into the bathroom to get it while I stood perched at the edge of the living room, picking at my cuticles. He came back out with it triumphantly in his hand.

Maybe when he leaves this time, I’ll go back to my time, too, I thought.

“It’s a weird thing,” he said, waving his toothbrush, “but I have to have it.”

“I’m really picky with mine. They have to have the little rubber bits at the edges,” I agreed absently, before I remembered that I was supposed to be calling security because he had, in fact, come back. But he’d come back for histoothbrush...

“Oh, the ones to massage your gums?” he asked. “Those are nice.”

“And I hate it when someone just suggests that you use one of theirs they hadn’t used—it’s not the same.”

He threw his hands up. “Right? Not the same! Anyway, now that I have my emotional support toothbrush, I’ll be on my way. And if I’ve left anything else, you can just mail it here,” he added, taking a pen from the mug on the counter and jotting down his information on a napkin. He handed it to me. If he noticed the crumpled-up receipt with his note on it, he didn’t say anything.

I read his scratchy handwriting. “You’re from North Carolina?”

“The Outer Banks, yeah.”

“You’re a long way from home.”

He gave a one-shouldered shrug, more coy than dismissive. “ ‘Travel is about the gorgeous feeling of teetering in the unknown.’ ”

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