Chapter Three
'What if I didn't go to the ATO party?'
Elizabeth typed the question into the text box, and hit Enter. Given that she and Henry first met at the party Becky had dragged her to, it seemed the logical next thing to ask if she wanted to find worlds in which her and Henry's paths never crossed and, in so doing, prove they weren't meant to be.
The moment she touched Enter the starry 'What If…?' and the text box disappeared, and the wait cursor popped up; the rainbow travelled round the Möbius loop three times before it too vanished and tiles rolled out across the screen.
This time she swiped to the second page of universes and clicked on a thumbnail near the middle of the top row.
The sides of the selected tile lit up, the same yellow-white glow as before, softly strobing, growing brighter and brighter, as the thumbnail expanded towards the edges of the screen.
oOoOo
Universe ID: b2aQ1J03wcC
October 17, 1986
Elizabeth hunched over the desk at the end of her bed, gaze glued to the page as the final few lines of her essay poured out the nib of her pen. After two-plus hours of writing (notes, mainly), the muscles in her hand were threatening to cramp, and she could almost taste the relief, like a tingle of euphoria on the horizon, to finally be done.
Behind her, the door handle rattled, and the door swung open, and the scent of the corridor—an amalgam of floral perfumes, knockoff colognes, spilt alcohol and a whiff of puke, which only ever varied in specificity of the components and their relative proportions—flooded in.
"How was the party?" she asked Becky, her focus still on the page as she scribbled down the finishing sentence.
But Becky didn't reply.
Instead, the room filled with the sound of hands fumbling at clothing, shoes being toed off and clattering to the carpet, the slam of the door, wet mouths meeting, moans…
Elizabeth turned to see Becky and a sandy-haired guy—both now topless—stumbling towards Becky's bed.
"Uh…guys?" Elizabeth said.
Becky flumped back on the mattress, pulling the guy with her. Her hands skimmed over his torso, heading south.
"Guys?" Elizabeth tried again, louder this time.
Becky's fingers found the guy's belt, and at the jingle of the buckle, followed by the revelation that the guy was, in fact, going commando, Elizabeth dropped her pen, grabbed her bag from the foot of her bed, and dashed to the door.
She'd taken accommodation in dorms to meet people and make friends, but this she did not sign up for.
oOoOo
In the Oval Office, Elizabeth watched as her alternate-world self fled the dorm, then, no doubt debating where she ought to head next, wandered along the red brick paths that weaved through the Grounds, the darkness that surrounded her softened by the pools of lamplight.
As unpleasant as it had been—well, until she met Henry—she was glad that in her universe she had gone to the party; witnessing Becky and the guy on-screen was bad enough. No one needed to see that in real life.
(She only hoped none of the Secret Service agents who stood guard beyond the office windows had caught a glimpse of the on-screen action. Imagine trying to explain that.
Though, copping to watching porn while sat at her desk in the Oval Office was probably less damaging than claiming she had a tablet that could show her other worlds…
Then again, she was a woman, so maybe insanity would be less shocking to the American public than possession of a libido.)
She continued to watch her alternate self a while longer, waiting to see where the evening would take her and what her life in this alternate universe was like without Henry, but as she viewed the path alternate-her walked, something akin to dread crept over her, like the chill from the shadow of an approaching thunderstorm:
No.
She couldn't be going there.
Skipping the party was supposed to change things!
oOoOo
Universe ID: b2aQ1J03wcC
"Rough day?"
Elizabeth perched on a red pleather barstool at the counter of Downtown Diner, staring at the menu she clutched in both hands. At the voice, she looked up to see a guy stood on the opposite side of the counter, hands braced against the glossy white surface; he had short dark hair, was maybe a few years older than herself, and wore a white tee beneath a black apron, the tee's sleeves tight around his biceps.
She let her gaze drift over him a long moment. He was handsome in a way that made her heartbeat patter, the kind of good looks the girls in high school would have lost their minds over—that she would have lost her mind over, if only she hadn't been too busy obsessing over her grades.
"What makes you say that?" she said.
"Well, you're looking at that menu like you're trying to decide which dish you'd most like to murder."
A smile danced in his eyes as he said it, making their hazel warmth seem even warmer.
He had a point: Her stare had been a little intense.
With a sigh, she placed the menu down, then folded her arms atop the counter. She lifted her gaze to meet his. "I just got turfed out of my dorm by my roommate having sex with some random guy she picked up at a frat party. They didn't seem too concerned if I was there or not, but I'd rather not hang around and watch that, so now I'm here, debating whether I risk going back to my room and seeing something I really don't want to see or just face the fact I'm probably going to have to spend the night camped out at the library."
The guy took all of that in, expression unchanging. Then, as casual as one would if she'd just told him she'd missed dinner and was feeling hungry—but not too hungry—he said, "In that case, I recommend the grilled cheese."
She quirked an eyebrow at him.
He shrugged, the motion accentuated by the dish towel slung over his right shoulder, and the smile migrated from his eyes to form a subtle inflection at the corner of his lips. "It won't solve the roommate problem, but it'll make you forget about it for at least five minutes."
"Forget because it's so good or forget because it's gonna give me food poisoning?"
He chuckled, husky and a touch bashful.
"It'll be the best you've ever had," he said.
The look she gave him must have verged on skeptical, for he added, "I promise. And if it isn't, then it's on me."
'Best you've ever had…'? Offering to pay…?
Even she could tell he was flirting.
She tried to play it cool, reined back the smile which, in response to his smile, pulled at her cheeks. "Do you extend this guarantee to all your customers?"
"Just the ones who look like they could kill me with a toothpick."
And she really wouldn't mind finding out if this guy went commando…
"Grilled cheese it is," she said.
oOoOo
"God, this is good." Elizabeth hunched over the plate as she chewed, one triangle of sandwich grasped in both hands, the whole world reduced to the scent of melted butter and golden toast, the zing of cheddar cheese and the fullness of fat on her tongue, the grease on her fingertips and the stinging heat.
"I told you." The guy beamed from the other side of the counter; he'd stood there and watched her take her first bite, waiting to see her reaction.
She swallowed, and immediately bit into the sandwich again. It was so hot that it almost blistered her mouth, but she didn't care; she could burn off every last tastebud and die a happy woman, having experienced that grilled cheese perfection.
"Honestly, part of me was hoping it would suck," she spoke through her mouthful, "so then I'd get it for free."
"Don't worry," the guy said. "I'll take care of it."
She stopped chewing, and looked up at him. She probably had strings of melted cheese dangling from her lips like some kind of dairy-loving vampire, but she didn't care about that either. "You don't have to do that."
"I know," he said, in a tone that added the, But I want to.
And, if a hot guy wanted to make her hot sandwiches and then pay for them, who was she to argue?
"I'm Elizabeth," she said.
His beam turned full-on lighthouse. "Henry."
oOoOo
In the Oval Office, Elizabeth jabbed Pause.
She set the tablet down on the desk, pinched her eyes shut, and rocked back in her chair.
Inside, she groaned.
So much for this question being the one to prove that her and Henry's relationship was no more than chance, a one-universe-in-infinity (and so a statistically necessary and unremarkable) thing. Even without going to the party, they met; and even without watching, she could tell what would happen next: They would talk for the rest of his shift and something between them would click, then, as they stepped out onto the street, he would turn to her and offer to walk her home, and when instead of meeting his gaze, she stared down at her Chucks' toes, the scuffed whites a grungy yellow in the glow that flooded out the diner's window, unable to admit she wasn't ready for the evening—for this tentative thing between them—to end, he would, in a tone as nervous as she felt, suggest a private four a.m. bowling session.
"Isn't that closed now?" she would ask with a frown.
To which he would reply, "Not if you have a friend who works there and has given you a copy of the key."
And she would smile and say yes. And so to the bowling alley they would go—just as they had in this world.
(Or, in other words, she'd lost over an hour to watching her life take a minor detour with nothing significant changing.)
She lowered her hand from the bridge of her nose, drew a deep breath, and picked up the tablet again. Part of her was tempted to look at another one of the worlds her question had generated, to see if it was only bad luck that in the one she'd picked she and Henry met just a couple of hours later than they did in this reality, but she didn't want to risk wasting even more time on watching them meet that same night—what were the odds those other worlds reflected some minor change also? Maybe she'd walk a different route to the diner, maybe she'd head to the library before the diner, maybe the precise wording of their conversation would differ…
No.
What she needed was a new question, a bigger question, a scenario that would definitely prevent her and Henry from meeting and thus demonstrate she definitely wasn't making a mistake—they definitely weren't meant to be.
oOoOo
Elizabeth pressed the 'x' in the top right-hand corner, closing the window to that world, then returned to the screen where the stars spelled out 'What If…?'.
She thought for a moment, the tock of the grandfather clock heavy in the hush, reminding her the court hearing was drawing ever closer and she didn't have time to waste.
What else could she change?
What decision had she made which, when altered, would cause her life to veer off on a totally different trajectory?
Yes!
That would work.
She tapped the text box, and using the keyboard that dropped down below, she typed:
'What if I went to Cambridge instead of UVA?'
In her final year at Houghton Hall she'd applied to Cambridge and had been offered a place; part of her decision to apply was due to Joey's plans for Oxford—she'd never had a friend as good as him, and she wanted to at least be in the same country as him—but deeper than that, she yearned to put as much distance between herself and her past as possible, to start over in a new place, to be a different person: On the opposite side of the Atlantic, she'd be the American girl, not the orphan forced to play mother to her little brother.
But in the end she'd felt she couldn't abandon Will like that—she knew he needed her more than she needed to escape—and so she'd stayed.
Once she'd met Henry she didn't look back on that decision—she didn't want to be in any other place or long to be a different person—but now, exploring the path she didn't take could be just what she needed: How could she and Henry meet if they no longer lived in the same country?
She pressed Enter.
No wait cursor appeared this time, just tiles rolling out, left to right, top to bottom, to cover the screen.
She selected the very first thumbnail; its sides glowed and expanded, and the window to the alternate universe opened.
oOoOo
Universe ID: DPltLUgYxX1
October 16, 1986
Elizabeth barged her shoulder into the plodge door and threw all her weight into pushing the damn thing open. God only knew why they made it so freaking heavy. Maybe it was a ploy to get the boaties to pack on muscle so they might actually stand a chance in Bumps that year.
Once she'd forced it just wide enough for her to squeeze through, she slipped into the plodge, where a fug of centrally-heated air greeted her, then let it fall shut with a BANG. She probably should have checked to see if anyone was behind her, but she couldn't have held it open if she'd wanted to—and besides, what damage would a door to someone's nose really do? The other students all already hated her.
…Okay, maybe hate was a little strong.
But they certainly didn't like her.
She'd thought being a foreign student would be fun, that it would bestow on her a certain intrigue and enable her to fashion herself a new identity, but instead the home students caught one whiff of her accent and immediately looked at her with disdain; with the way they referred to her in that hushed tone as the American, just as the girls at Houghton Hall had whispered the orphan, she might as well have been the leper.
(Could her great English adventure be one big mistake?)
Shoving the thought aside, she headed for the right-hand wall, where the freshers' pigeonholes stood. Someone had taped a sign, handwritten on pale blue paper, to the top ledge—"Friendly reminder: Your pidge is the one BELOW your name!"—which she had to lift in order to reach her cubby.
She pulled out the usual pieces of paper, inviting her to join this soc or attend that Bop, but someone—one of the night porters, presumably—had tucked something else inside as well: a pink telephone message slip.
She frowned down at the note as she read it:
Message for: Miss Elizabeth Adams.
From: Miss Brooks of Walpole School.
Regarding: William Adams.
Notes: Please call ASAP.
Her heart raced with the first trills of panic—Will! Had something happened? Was he hurt? Was he- —but that lasted less than a second before it gave way to a sinking feeling.
If something had happened to Will they would have sent someone to tell her in person—experience had taught her that much—which could only mean one thing: they needed to talk to her (ASAP) because Will had done something. Again. And she'd bet her life it wasn't making the lacrosse team or getting an A on a History test.
oOoOo
After her morning lectures, Elizabeth headed to one of the red telephone boxes in town rather than making her usual trip to Fitzbillies for a Chelsea bun; hopefully she'd have time to swing by the cafe afterwards, but what with the cost of the international call she was about to place she'd probably be forced to stick to the broken buns from now on.
"Miss Adams," Miss Brooks said, when Elizabeth's call finally went through to her office. Her tone straddled the border of regretful and wary; it caused Elizabeth's shoulders to tense, as if she were physically, as well as mentally, bracing herself. "…I'm afraid William has been suspended."
"Suspended?" Elizabeth said, so loudly that a clutch of students walking by stopped talking and turned their heads to stare at her through the phone box's windows. She ignored them. "What for?"
"I think it's best if we discuss it in person," Miss Brooks said. "There will be a hearing on the twenty-ninth, but in the meantime, someone needs to collect him. I tried contacting your aunt, but it appears she's away on business."
"I'm away, too," Elizabeth said, though the school must already have been aware of that, given they had called her on a UK number. "I'm studying in England."
"I'm afraid we must insist someone come this weekend. Perhaps you'd like to contact another family member."
Elizabeth's head bowed, and her fingertips dug deep into her brow, trying to ease the tension. She'd known something like this would happen, she'd known Will still needed her.
She sighed, chest heavy, crushed beneath inevitability's firm boot. "I'll make arrangements," she said—because what choice did she have? She could put as much distance between herself and her home as she liked, but it would never be enough to escape the fact that they'd lost their parents, that she was all Will had left and it was her responsibility to take care of him. "I'll see you this weekend."
She hung up the phone, then stood silently in the box, while the world rushed by around her.
There would be no Fitzbillies that lunchtime, no lectures or super that afternoon: she had to pack.
And, if she were to be honest with herself, she knew that once she left Cambridge she wouldn't be coming back.
oOoOo
In the Oval Office, Elizabeth pressed and held down the Fast Forward button; while footage of the alternate world zipped by, showing alternate-her cycling back to college and packing her bags, as sped-up and unfunny as a chase scene at the end of The Benny Hill Show, she shook her head, her jaw tense.
Of course Will had ruined her opportunity, of course he'd gotten himself suspended and had forced her to return to the States within weeks of leaving. It was so typical of him: Unaware of the impact his actions had on others. Not caring that everyone else had no choice but to deal with his messes.
Part of her wished alternate-her had left Will to it, made him sort himself out for once, but she knew no version of her ever would.
And perhaps that's what fate was counting on…
She frowned at the footage on-screen, and let go of the Fast Forward button.
oOoOo
Universe ID: DPltLUgYxX1
October 18, 1986
"Rough night?"
Elizabeth sat on a red pleather barstool at the counter of Downtown Diner in Charlottesville, Virginia; it was the early hours of God-knows-what morning (travelling had created a vacuum that her whole concept of time had been sucked into) and rather than heading straight to the horse farm to grab a few hours' sleep before embarking on her road trip to Will's school the fact the last time she'd eaten she'd been on British soil and the fear the most she'd find in the cupboards at the house would be a box of Dixies Drumstick Snack Crackers, at least two months out of date and no doubt half mouse-chowed, had driven her to stop at the all-night diner to refuel.
She'd been staring at the menu she held in both hands, its laminated surface glossy with reflected light, but at the voice inquiring of her, Rough night?, she glanced up.
A guy, maybe a few years older than herself, stood on the opposite side of the counter; he had dark hair, an athletic build, high-school-royalty tier good looks.
She eyed him for a long moment, ignoring the way her heartbeat had quickened (apparently, neither hunger nor exhaustion were enough to curb basic biology). "What makes you say that?" she said.
A gentle smile warmed his eyes. "Well, you're looking at that menu like it's a list of personal shortcomings." But the moment he said it, that smile fled, chased away by a flash of panic, and in a hurry, he added, "Not that I'm suggesting you have any shortcomings."
Her lips curved, the smile unbidden; it was a long time since someone had cared about offending her.
"Believe me," she said, "I have plenty."
oOoOo
In the Oval Office, Elizabeth watched as the alternate version of herself settled into conversation with alternate-Henry. Even moving across the Atlantic hadn't been enough to stop she and Henry from meeting and, as skipping through the footage showed, shortly after dating. But it couldn't be fate that brought them together. They couldn't be soulmates or 'energetically aligned' or meant to be—because, if they were, then he wouldn't have walked out on her, and they wouldn't have only two-and-a-half hours left until their divorce hearing. No. All these meetings had to be coincidence. It simply had to be coincidence, and she would prove it.
And maybe in order to prove it all she needed to do was to change the tack of her questioning…