Every Day (31 page)

The day is nearly half over. I only have a short time to figure out what to do with Alexander’s possibilities.

The clock always ticks. There are times you don’t hear it, and there are times that you do.

I email Nathan and ask him for Poole’s email address. I get a quick response. I email Poole a few simple questions.

I get another quick response.

I email Rhiannon and tell her I’m going to come by this afternoon.

I say it’s important.

She tells me she’ll be there.

Alexander has to tell Mickey that he can’t make their band practice after school.

“Hot date?” Mickey asks, joking.

Alexander smiles mischievously and leaves it at that.

Rhiannon is waiting for me at the bookstore. It’s become our place.

She knows me when I walk through the door. Her eyes follow me as I come closer. She doesn’t smile, but I do. I am so grateful to see her.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey,” she says.

She wants to be here, but she doesn’t think it’s a good idea. She is also grateful, but she is sure this gratitude will turn into regret.

“I have an idea,” I tell her.

“What?”

“Let’s pretend this is the first time we’ve ever met. Let’s pretend you were here to get a book, and I happened to bump into you. We struck up a conversation. I like you. You like me. Now we’re sitting down to coffee. It feels right. You don’t know that I switch bodies every day. I don’t know about your ex or anything else. We’re just two people meeting for the first time.”

“But why?”

“So we don’t have to talk about everything else. So we can just be with each other. Enjoy it.”

“I don’t see the point—”

“No past. No future. Just present. Give it a chance.”

She looks torn. She leans her chin on her fist and looks at me. Finally, she decides.

“It’s very nice to meet you,” she says. She doesn’t understand it yet, but she’s going to go with it.

I smile. “It’s very nice to meet you, as well. Where should we go?”

“You decide,” she says. “What’s your favorite place?”

I access Alexander, and the answer is right there. As if he’s handing it to me.

My smile grows wider.

“I know just the place,” I say. “But first we’ll need groceries.”

Because this is the first time we’ve met, I don’t have to tell her about Nathan or Poole or anything else that’s happened or about to happen. The past and future are what’s complicated. It’s the present that’s simple. And that simplicity is the sensation of it being just her and me.

Even though there are only a few things we need, we get a shopping cart and go down every aisle of the grocery store. It doesn’t take long before Rhiannon is standing on the front of it, I’m standing on the back of it, and we are riding as fast as we can.

We set down a rule: Every aisle has to have a story. So in the pet-food aisle, I learn more about Swizzle, the malevolent bunny rabbit. In the produce aisle, I tell her about the day I went to summer camp and had to be part of a greased-watermelon pull, and how I ended up with three stitches after the watermelon shot out of everyone’s arms and landed in my eye—the first case of watermelon abuse the hospital had ever seen. In the cereal aisle, we offer autobiographies in the form of the cereals we’ve eaten over the years, trying to pinpoint the year that the cereal turning the milk blue stopped being cool and started being gross.

Finally, we have enough food for a vegetarian feast.

“I should call my mom and tell her I’m eating at Rebecca’s,” Rhiannon says, taking out her phone.

“Tell her you’re staying over,” I suggest.

She pauses. “Really?”

“Really.”

But she doesn’t make a move to call.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“Trust me,” I say. “I know what I’m doing.”

“You know how I feel.”

“I do. But still, I want you to trust me. I’m not going to hurt you. I will never hurt you.”

She calls her mother, tells her she’s at Rebecca’s. Then she calls Rebecca and makes sure the cover story will be intact. Rebecca asks her what’s going on. Rhiannon says she’ll tell her later.

“You’ll tell her you met a boy,” I say once she’s hung up.

“A boy I just met?”

“Yeah,” I say. “A boy you’ve just met.”

We go back to Alexander’s house. There’s barely enough room in the refrigerator for the groceries we’ve bought.

“Why did we bother?” Rhiannon asks.

“Because I didn’t notice what was in here this morning. And I wanted to make sure we had exactly what we desired.”

“Do you know how to cook?”

“Not really. You?”

“Not really.”

“I guess we’ll figure it out. But first, there’s something I want to show you.”

She likes Alexander’s bedroom as much as I do. I can tell. She loses herself in reading the Post-it notes, then runs her finger over the spines of the books. Her face is a picture of delight.

Then she turns to me, and the fact can’t be denied: We’re
in a bedroom, and there’s a bed. But that’s not why I brought her here.

“Time for dinner,” I say. Then I take her hand and we walk away together.

We fill the air with music as we cook. We move in unison, move in tandem. We’ve never done this together before, but we establish our rhythm, our division of labor. I can’t help but think this is the way it could always be—the easygoing sharing of space, the enjoyable silence of knowing each other. My parents are away, and my girlfriend has come over to help cook dinner. There she is, chopping vegetables, unaware of her posture, unaware of the wildness of her hair, even unaware that I am staring at her with so much love. Outside our kitchen-size bubble, the nighttime sings. I can see it through the window, and also see her reflection mapped out on top of it. Everything is in its right place, and my heart wants to believe this can always be true. My heart wants to make it true, even as something darker tugs it away.

It’s past nine by the time we’re finished.

“Should I set the table?” Rhiannon asks, gesturing to the dining room.

“No. I’m taking you to my favorite place, remember?”

I find two trays and arrange our meals on them. I even find a dozen candlesticks to take along. Then I lead Rhiannon out the back door.

“Where are we going?” she asks once we’re in the yard.

“Look up,” I tell her.

At first she doesn’t see it—the only light is coming from the kitchen, drifting out to us like the afterglow from another world. Then, as our eyes adjust, it becomes visible to her.

“Nice,” she says, walking over so that Alexander’s tree house looms over us, the ladder at our fingertips.

“There’s a pulley system,” I say, “for the trays. I’ll go up and drop it down.”

I grab two of the candles and scurry up the ladder. The inside of the tree house matches Alexander’s memories pretty well. It’s as much a rehearsal space as a tree house, with another guitar in the corner, as well as notebooks full of lyrics and music. Even though there’s an overhead light that could be turned on, I rely on candles. Then I send down the dumbwaiter and raise the trays one by one. As soon as the second tray is safely inside, Rhiannon joins me.

“Pretty cool, isn’t it?” I ask as she looks around.

“Yeah.”

“It’s all his. His parents don’t come up here.”

“I love it.”

There isn’t any table and there aren’t any chairs, so we sit cross-legged on the floor and eat, facing each other in the candlelight. We don’t rush it—we let the taste of the moment sink in. I light more candles, and revel in the sight of her. We don’t need the moon or the sun in here. She is beautiful in our own light.

“What?” she asks.

I lean over and kiss her. Just once.

“That,” I say.

She is my first and only love. Most people know that their first love will not be their only love. But for me, she is both. This will be the only chance I give myself. This will never happen again.

There are no clocks in here, but I am aware of the minutes, aware of the hours. Even the candles conspire, getting shorter as time grows shorter. Reminding me and reminding me and reminding me.

I want this to be the first time we’ve met. I want this to be two teenagers on a first date. I want to already be planning the second date in my head. And the third.

But there are other things I have to say, other things I have to do.

When we’re finished, she pushes the trays aside. She closes the distance between us. I think she’s going to kiss me, but instead she reaches into her pocket. She pulls out one of Alexander’s pads of Post-it notes. She pulls out a pen. Then she draws a heart on the top Post-it, peels it off, and places it on my heart.

“There,” she says.

I look down at it. I look up at her.

“I have to tell you something,” I say.

I mean I have to tell her everything.

I tell her about Nathan. I tell her about Poole. I tell her I might not be the only one. I tell her there might be a way to stay in a body longer. There might be a way not to leave.

The candles are burning down. I am taking too much time. It’s almost eleven when I’m done.

“So you can stay?” she asks when I’m finished. “Are you saying you can stay?”

“Yes,” I answer. “And no.”

When first love ends, most people eventually know there will be more to come. They are not through with love. Love is not through with them. It will never be the same as the first, but it will be better in different ways.

I have no such consolation. This is why I cling so hard. This is why this is so hard.

“There might be a way to stay,” I tell her. “But I can’t. I’ll never be able to stay.”

Murder. When it all comes down to it, it would be murder to stay. No love can outbalance that.

Rhiannon pulls away from me. Stands up. Turns on me.

“You can’t do this!” she yells. “You can’t swoop in, bring me here, give me all this—and then say it can’t work. That’s cruel, A. Cruel.”

“I know,” I say. “That’s why this is a first date. That’s why this is the first time we’ve ever met.”

“How can you say that? How can you erase everything else?”

I stand up. Walk over. Wrap my arms around her. At first she resists, wants to pull away. But then she gives in.

“He’s a good guy,” I say, my voice a broken whisper. I don’t want to do this, but I have to do this. “He might even be a great guy. And today’s the day you first met. Today’s your first date. He’s going to remember being in the bookstore. He’s going to remember the first time he saw you, and how he was drawn to you, not just because you’re beautiful, but because he could see your strength. He could see how much you want to be a part of the world. He’ll remember talking with you, how easy it was, how engaging. He’ll remember not wanting it to end, and asking you if you wanted to do something else. He’ll remember you asking him his favorite place, and he’ll remember thinking about here, and wanting to show it to you. The grocery store, the stories in the aisles, the first time you saw his room—that will all be there, and I won’t have to change a single thing. His pulse is my heartbeat. The pulse is the same. I know he will understand you. You have the same kind of heart.”

“But what about you?” Rhiannon asks, her voice breaking, too.