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Anna K Jenny Lee [Lee, Jenny] Year: 2020 Language: english File: EPUB, 519 KB

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The Accursed PBJ Books G.S. Burdick Year: 1982 Language: english File: PDF, 72.18 MB

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Do not quote for publication until verified with the finished book. This advance, uncorrected reader’s proof is the property of Simon & Schuster. It is being made available for promotional purposes and review by the recipient and may not be used for any other purpose or transferred to any third party. Simon & Schuster reserves the right to terminate availability of the proof at any time. Any duplication, sale or distribution to the public is a violation of the law. This file will no longer be accessible upon publication of this book.



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Perfect for fans of Me Before You and One Day—a striking, powerful, and moving love story following an ambitious lawyer who experiences an astonishing vision that could change her life forever.

Where do you see yourself in five years?



When Type-A Manhattan lawyer Dannie Cohan is asked this question at the most important interview of her career, she has a meticulously crafted answer at the ready. Later, after nailing her interview and accepting her boyfriend’s marriage proposal, Dannie goes to sleep knowing she is right on track to achieve her five-year plan.



But when she wakes up, she’s suddenly in a different apartment, with a different ring on her finger, and beside a very different man. The television news is on in the background, and she can just make out the scrolling date. It’s the same night—December 15—but 2025, five years in the future.



After a very intense, shocking hour, Dannie wakes again, at the brink of midnight, back in 2020. She can’t shake what has happened. It certainly felt much more than merely a dream, but she isn’t the kind of person who believes in visions. That nonsense is only charming coming from free-spirited types, like her lifelong best friend, Bella. Determined to ignore the odd experience, she files it away in the back of her mind.



That is, until four-and-a-half years later, when by chance Dannie meets the very same man from her long-ago vision.



Brimming with;  joy and heartbreak, In Five Years is an unforgettable love story that reminds us of the power of loyalty, friendship, and the unpredictable nature of destiny.



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Rebecca Serle is an author and television writer who lives in New York and Los Angeles. Serle codeveloped the hit TV adaptation of her YA series Famous in Love, and is also the author of The Dinner List, and YA novels The Edge of Falling and When You Were Mine. She received her MFA from the New School in NYC. Find out more at RebeccaSerle.com.





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			Dear Reader,

			It is my pleasure to share with you this early copy of Rebecca Serle’s In Five Years. In my two decades in publishing, I have never discovered a love story this fresh and unforgettable. I have never encountered a friendship story this moving and magical. I have never witnessed a book move like wildfire through a company in the way this one has—people have to read it (overnight); people have to share it (with their best friend); and people have to talk it about it (especially about how they cried and also how, for the record, they are not criers).

			With great poignancy and warmth, Rebecca Serle brings us the story of Dannie, an ambitious young lawyer determined to succeed in the big city alongside her best friend, and total opposite, Bella. Dannie is certainly living in the right place. Manhattan perfectly matches her energy and drive—and her reverential feelings about efficiency. Dannie’s a planner, and so far, her life is unfolding according to the plan she laid out long ago. On the night of her engagement, however, everything will unravel—and the only person who will understand how devastating this is for Dannie is Bella. Joined at the hip since elementary school, they have been each other’s family for over twenty years, and watching them navigate life’s twists and turns makes for one of the most touching and memorable love stories I have ever had the privilege of reading.

			So yes, this is a love story, brimming with joy and heartbreak, but it is definitely not the one you’re expecting. I hope these words inspire you to turn the first page of In Five Years, and that you will find yourself as swept away as I was. If so, I would love to hear from you.

			All best,



			Lindsay Sagnette

			VP, Editorial Director

			(212) 698-7057 | Lindsay.Sagnette@SimonandSchuster.com


Atria Books | 1230 Avenue of the Americas | New York, NY 10020





Also by Rebecca Serle

			The Dinner List

			Young Adult

			Truly Madly Famously

			Famous in Love

			The Edge of Falling

			When You Were Mine





For Leila Sales,

who has lit up the last five years,

and the five before them.

We dreamed it because it had already happened.





The future is the one thing you can count on not abandoning you, kid, he’d said. The future always finds you. Stand still, and it will find you. The way the land just has to run to sea.


			—MARIANNE WIGGINS, EVIDENCE OF THINGS UNSEEN





Coming over the bridge to Manhattan.

Pie.


			—NORA EPHRON





Chapter One


			Twenty-five. That’s the number I count to every morning before I even open my eyes. It’s a meditative calming technique that helps your brain with memory, focus, and attention, but the real reason I do it is because that’s how long it takes my boyfriend, David, to get out of bed next to me and flip the coffee maker on, and for me to smell the beans.

			Thirty-six. That’s how many minutes it takes me to brush my teeth, shower, and put on face toner, serum, cream, makeup, and a suit for work. If I wash my hair, it’s forty-three.

			Eighteen. That’s the walk to work in minutes from our Murray Hill apartment to East Forty-Seventh Street, where the law offices of Sutter, Boyt and Barn are located.

			Twenty. That’s how many months I believe you should be dating someone before you move in with them.

			Twenty-eight. The right age to get engaged.

			Thirty. The right age to get married.

			My name is Dannie Kohan. And I believe in living by numbers.

			“Happy Interview Day,” David says when I walk into the kitchen. Today. December 15. I’m wearing a bathrobe, hair spun up into a towel. He’s still in his pajamas, and his brown hair has a significant amount of salt and pepper for someone who has not yet crossed thirty, but I like it. It makes him look dignified, particularly when he wears glasses, which he often does.

			“Thank you,” I say. I wrap my arms around him, kiss his neck and then his lips. I’ve already brushed my teeth, but David never has morning breath. Ever. When we first started dating, I thought he was getting up out of bed before me to swoosh some toothpaste in there, but when we moved in together, I realized it’s just his natural state. He wakes up that way. The same cannot be said for me.

			“Coffee is ready.”

			He squints at me, and my heart tugs at the look on his face, the way it scrunches all up when he’s trying to pay attention but doesn’t have his contacts in yet.

			He takes a mug down and then pours. I go to the refrigerator, and when he hands me the cup, I add a dollop of creamer. Coffee Mate, hazelnut. David thinks it’s sacrilegious but he buys it, to indulge me. This is the kind of man he is. Judgmental, and generous.

			I take the coffee cup and go sit in our kitchen nook that overlooks Third Avenue. Murray Hill isn’t the most glamorous neighborhood in New York, and it gets a bad rap (every Jewish fraternity and sorority kid in the Tri-State area moves here after graduation. The average street style is a Penn sweatshirt), but there’s nowhere else in the city where we’d be able to afford a two-bedroom with a full kitchen in a doorman building, and between the two of us, we make more money than a pair of twenty-eight-year-olds has any right to.

			David works in finance as an investment banker at Tishman Speyer, a real estate conglomerate. I’m a corporate lawyer. And today, I have an interview at the top law firm in the city. Wachtell. The mecca. The pinnacle. The mythological headquarters that sits in a black-and-gray fortress on West Fifty-Second street. The top lawyers in the country all work there. The client list is unfathomable; they represent everyone: Boeing. ING. AT&T. All of the biggest corporate mergers, the deals that determine the vicissitudes of our global markets, happen within their walls.

			I’ve wanted to work at Wachtell since I was ten years old and my father used to take me into the city for lunch at Serendipity and a matinee. We’d pass all the big buildings in Times Square, and then I’d insist we walk to 51 West Fifty-Second Street so I could gaze up at the CBS building, where Wachtell has historically had its offices since 1965.

			“You’re going to kill it today, babe,” David says. He stretches his arms overhead, revealing a slice of stomach. David is tall and lanky. All of his T-shirts are too small when he stretches, which I welcome. “You ready?”

			“Of course.”

			When this interview first came up, I thought it was a joke. A headhunter calling me from Wachtell, yeah right. Bella, my best friend—and the proverbial surprise-obsessed flighty blonde—must have paid someone off. But no, it was for real. Wachtell, Lipton, Rosen & Katz wanted to interview me. Today, December 15. I marked the date in my planner in Sharpie. Nothing was going to erase this.

			“Don’t forget we’re going to dinner to celebrate tonight,” David says.

			“I won’t know if I got the job today,” I tell him. “That’s not how interviews work.”

			“Really? Explain it to me, then.” He’s flirting with me. David is a great flirt. You wouldn’t think it, he’s so buttoned-up most of the time, but he has a great, witty mind. It’s one of the things I love most about him. It was one of the things that first attracted me to him.

			I raise my eyebrows at him and he downshifts. “Of course you’ll get the job. It’s in your plan.”

			“I appreciate your confidence.”

			I don’t push him, because I know what tonight is. David is terrible with secrets, and an even worse liar. Tonight, on this, the second month of my twenty-eighth year, David Andrew Rosen is going to propose to me.

			“Two Raisin Bran scoops, half a banana?” he asks. He’s holding out a bowl to me.

			“Big days are bagel days,” I say. “Whitefish. You know that.”

			Before we find out about a big case, I always stop at Sarge’s on Lexington. Their whitefish salad rivals Katz’s downtown, and the wait, even with a line, is never more than four and a half minutes. I revel in their efficiency.

			“Make sure you bring gum,” David says, sliding in next to me. I bat my eyes and take a sip of coffee. It goes down sweet and warm.

			“You’re here late,” I tell him. I’ve just realized. He should have been gone hours ago. He works market hours. It occurs to me he might not be going to the office at all today. Maybe he still has to pick up the ring.

			“I thought I’d see you off.” He flips his watch over. It’s Apple. I got it for him for our two-year anniversary, four months ago. “But I should jet. I was going to work out.”

			David never works out. He has a monthly membership to Equinox I think he’s used maybe twice in two and a half years. He’s naturally lean, and runs sometimes on the weekends. The wasted expense is a point of contention between us, so I don’t bring it up this morning. I don’t want anything to get in the way of today, and certainly not this early.

			“Sure,” I say. “I’m gonna get ready.”

			“But you have time.” David pulls me toward him and threads a hand into the collar of my robe. I let it linger for one, two, three, four . . .

			“I thought you were late. And I can’t lose focus.”

			He nods. Kisses me. He gets it. “In that case, we’re doubling up tonight,” he says.

			“Don’t tease me.” I pinch his bicep.

			My cell phone is ringing where it sits plugged in on my nightstand in the bedroom, and I follow the noise. The screen fills up with a photo of a blue-eyed, blond-haired shiksa goddess sticking her tongue sideways at the camera. Bella. I’m surprised. My best friend is only awake before noon if she’s been up all night.

			“Good morning,” I tell her. “Where are you? Not New York.”

			She yawns. I imagine her stretching on some seaside terrace, a silk kimono pooling around her.

			“Not New York. Paris,” she says.

			Well that explains her ability to speak at this hour. “I thought you were leaving this afternoon?” I have her flight on my phone: UA 782. Leaves Newark at 3:48 p.m.

			“I went early,” she says. “Dad wanted to do dinner tonight. Just to bitch about mom, clearly.” She pauses, and I hear her sneeze. “What are you doing today?”

			Does she know about tonight? David would have told her, I think, but she’s also bad at keeping secrets—especially from me.

			“Big day for work and then we’re going to dinner.”

			“Right. Dinner,” she says. She definitely knows.

			I put the phone down on speaker and shake out my hair. It will take me seven minutes to blow it dry. I check the clock: 8:57 a.m. Plenty of time. The interview isn’t until eleven.

			“I almost tried you three hours ago.”

			“Well that would have been early.”

			“But you’d still pick up,” she says. “Lunatic.”

			Bella knows I leave my phone on all night.

			Bella and I have been best friends since we were seven years old. Me, Nice Jewish Girl from The Main Line of Philadelphia. Her, French-Italian Princess whose parents threw her a thirteenth birthday party big enough to stop any bat mitzvah in its tracks. Bella is spoiled, mercurial, and more than a little bit magical. It’s not just me. Everywhere she goes people fall at her feet. She is the easiest to love, and gives love freely. But she’s fragile, too. A membrane of skin stretched so thinly over her emotions it’s always threatening to burst.

			Her parents’ bank account is large and easily accessible, but their time and attention are not. Growing up, she practically lived at my house. It was always the two of us.

			“Bells, I gotta go. I have that interview today.”

			“That’s right! Watchman!”

			“Wachtell.”

			“What are you going to wear?”

			“Probably a black suit. I always wear a black suit.” I’m already mentally thumbing through my closet, even though I’ve had the suit chosen since they called me.

			“How thrilling,” she deadpans, and I imagine her scrunching up her pin small nose like she’s just smelled something unsavory.

			“When are you back?” I ask.

			“Probably Tuesday,” she says. “But I don’t know. Renaldo might meet me, in which case we’d go to the Riviera for a few days. You wouldn’t think it, but it’s great this time of year. No one is around. You have the whole place to yourself.”

			Renaldo. I haven’t heard his name in a beat. I think he was before Francesco, the pianist, and after Marcus, the filmmaker. Bella is always in love, always. But her romances, while intense and dramatic, never last for more than a few months. She rarely, if ever, calls someone her boyfriend. I think the last one might have been when we were in college. And what of Jacques?

			“Have fun,” I say. “Text me when you land and send me pictures, especially of Renaldo, for my files, you know.”

			“Yes, Mom.”

			“Love you,” I say.

			“Love you more.”

			I blow-dry my hair and keep it down, running a flat iron over the hairline and the ends so it doesn’t frizz up. I put on small pearl stud earrings my parents gave me for my college graduation, and my favorite Movado watch David bought me for Hanukkah last year. My chosen black suit, fresh from the dry cleaners, hangs on the back of my closet door. When I put it on, I add a red-and-white ruffled shirt underneath, in Bella’s honor. A little spark of detail, or life, as she would say.

			I come back into the kitchen and give a little spin. David’s made little to no progress on getting dressed or leaving. He’s definitely taking the day off. “What do we think?” I ask him.

			“You’re hired,” he says. He puts a hand on my hip and gives me a light kiss on the cheek.

			I smile at him. “That’s the plan,” I say.



			Sarge’s is predictably empty at 10 a.m.—it’s a morning-commute place—so it only takes two minutes and forty seconds for me to get my whitefish bagel. I eat it walking. Sometimes I stand at the counter table at the window. There are no stools, but there’s usually room to stash my bag.

			The city is all dressed up for the holidays. The streetlamps lit, the windows frosted. It’s thirty-one degrees out, practically balmy by New York winter standards. And it hasn’t snowed yet, which makes walking in heels a breeze. So far, so good.

			I arrive at Wachtell’s headquarters at 10:45 a.m. My stomach starts working against me, and I toss the rest of the bagel. This is it. The thing I’ve worked the last six years for. Well, really, the thing I’ve worked the last eighteen years for. Every SAT prep test, every history class, every hour studying for the LSAT. The countless 2 a.m. nights. Every time I’ve been chewed out by a partner for something I didn’t do, every time I’ve been chewed out by a partner for something I did do, every single piece of effort has been leading me to, and preparing me for, this one moment.

			I pop a piece of gum. I take a deep breath, and enter the building.

			Fifty-one West Fifty-Second Street is giant, but I know exactly what door I need to enter, and what security desk I need to check in at (the entrance on Fifty-Second, the desk right in front). I’ve rehearsed this chain of events so many times in my head, like a ballet. First the door, then the pivot, then a sashay to the left and a quick succession of steps. One two three, one two three . . .

			The elevator doors open to the thirty-third floor, and I suck in my breath. I can feel the energy, like candy to the vein, as I look around at the people moving in and out of glass-doored conference rooms like extras on the show Suits, hired for today—for me, for my viewing pleasure alone. The place is in full bloom. I get the feeling that you could walk in here at any hour, any day of the week, and this is what you would see. Midnight on Saturday, Sunday at 8 a.m. It’s a world out of time, functioning on its own schedule.

			This is what I want. This is what I’ve always wanted. To be somewhere that stops at nothing. To be surrounded by the pace and rhythm of greatness.

			“Ms. Kohan?” A young woman greets me where I stand. She wears a Banana Republic sheath dress, no blazer. She’s a receptionist. I know, because all lawyers are required to wear suits at Wachtell. “Right this way.”

			“Thank you so much.”

			She leads me around the bullpen. I spot the corners, the offices on full display. Glass and wood and chrome. The thump thump thump of money. She leads me into a conference room with a long mahogany table. On it sits a glass tumbler of water and three glasses. I take in this subtle and revealing piece of information. There are going to be two partners in here for the interview, not one. It’s good, of course, it’s fine. I know my stuff frontward and backward. I could practically draw a floor plan of their offices for them. I’ve got this.

			Two minutes stretch to five minutes stretch to ten. The receptionist is long gone. I’m contemplating pouring myself a glass of water when the door opens and in walks Miles Aldridge. First in his class at Harvard. Yale Law Review. And a senior partner at Wachtell. He’s a legend, and now he’s in the same room as me. I inhale.

			“Ms. Kohan,” he says. “So glad you could make this date work.”

			“Naturally, Mr. Aldridge,” I say. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

			He raises his eyebrows at me. He’s impressed I know his name sight unseen. Three points.

			“Shall we?” He gestures for me to sit, and I do. He pours us each a glass of water. The other one sits there, untouched. “So,” he says. “Let’s begin. Tell me a little bit about yourself.”

			I work through the answers I’ve practiced, honed, and sculpted over the last few days. From Philadelphia. My father owned a lighting business, and when I was not even ten years old, I helped him with contracts in the back office. In order to sort and file to my heart’s content, I had to read into them a bit, and I fell in love with the organization, the way language—the pure truth in the words—was nonnegotiable. It was like poetry, but poetry with outcome, poetry with concrete meaning—with actionable power. I knew it was what I wanted to do. I went to Columbia Law and graduated second in my class. I clerked for the Southern District of New York before accepting the reality of what I’d always known, which is that I wanted to be a corporate lawyer. I wanted to practice a kind of law that is high stakes, dynamic, incredibly competitive, and yes, has the opportunity to make a lot of money.

			Why?

			Because it’s what I was born to do, what I have trained for, and what has led me here today, to the place I always knew I’d be. The golden gates. Their headquarters.

			We go through my resume, point by point. Aldridge is surprisingly thorough, which is to my benefit, as it gives me more time to express my accomplishments. He asks me why I think I’d be a good fit, what kind of work culture I gravitate toward. I tell him that when I stepped off the elevator and saw all the endless movement, all the frenzied bustle, I felt as if I were home. It’s not hyperbole, he can tell. He chuckles.

			“It’s aggressive,” he says. “And endless, as you say. Many spin out.”

			I cross my hands on the table. “I can assure you,” I tell him. “That won’t be a problem here.”

			And then he asks me the proverbial question. The one you always prepare for because they always ask:

			Where do you see yourself in five years?

			I inhale, and then give him my airtight answer. Not just because I’ve practiced, which I have. But because it’s true. I know. I always have.

			I’ll be working here, at Wachtell, as a senior associate. I’ll be the most requested in my year on M&A cases. I’m incredibly thorough and incredibly efficient; I’m like an X-ACTO knife. I’ll be up for junior partner.

			And outside of work?

			I’ll be married to David. We’ll be living in Gramercy Park, on the Park. We’ll have a kitchen we love and enough table space for two computers. We’ll go to the Hamptons every summer; the Berkshires, occasionally, on weekends. When I’m not in the office, of course.

			Aldridge is satisfied. I’ve cinched it, I can tell. We shake hands, and the receptionist is back, ushering me through the offices and to the elevators that deliver me once again to the land of the mortals. The third glass was just to throw me off. Good shot.

			After the interview I go downtown, to Reformation, one of my favorite clothing stores in SoHo. I took the day off from work and it’s only lunchtime. Now that the interview is over, I can turn my attention to tonight, to what is coming.

			When David told me he had made a reservation at the Rainbow Room, I immediately knew what it meant. We had talked about getting engaged. I knew it would be this year, but I had thought it would have happened this past summer. The holidays are crazy, and the winter is David’s busy time at work. But he knows how much I love the city in lights, so it’s happening tonight.

			“Welcome to Reformation,” the salesgirl says. She’s wearing black, wide-legged pants and a tight white turtleneck. “What can I help you with?”

			“I’m getting engaged tonight,” I say. “And I need something to wear.”

			She looks confused for half a second, and then her face brightens. “How exciting!” she says. “Let’s look around. What are you thinking?”

			I take barrels into the dressing room. Skirts and low-backed dresses and a pair of red crepe pants with a matching loose camisole. I put the red outfit on first, and when I do, it’s perfect. Dramatic but still classy. Serious but with a little edge.

			I look at myself in the mirror. I hold out my hand.

			Today, I think. Tonight.





Chapter Two


			The Rainbow Room is located on the sixty-fifth floor of 30 Rockefeller Plaza. It boasts one of the highest restaurant views in Manhattan, and from its magnificent windows and terraces you can see the Chrysler Building and the Empire State Building floating amongst the city skyline. David knows I’m a sucker for a view. On one of our first dates, he took me to an event at the top of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. They were showing some Richard Serra pieces on the roof, and the sunlight made the giant bronze sculptures look like they were on fire. That was two and a half years ago now, and he never forgot how much I loved it.

			The Rainbow Room is usually closed for private events only, but they open their dining room during the week to select clientele. Because Tishman Speyer, where David works, owns and manages the Rainbow Room and the underlying real estate, these reservations are first made available to employees. Usually they’re impossible to get, but for a proposal . . .

			David greets me at Bar SixtyFive, a cocktail lounge adjacent to the restaurant. The terraces are now covered, so even though it’s reaching frigid temperatures outside, people can still take advantage of the superb view.

			Under the guise of David “coming from the office,” we decided to meet there. He wasn’t home when I came back to change, and I can only assume he was running last minute errands, or taking a walk to ward off nerves.

			David is wearing a suit, navy, with a white shirt and a pink-and-blue tie. The Rainbow Room is, of course, jacket required.

			“You look very handsome,” I say.

			I take off my coat and hand it to him, revealing my fire-engine red ensemble. Bold, for me, in color. He whistles.

			“And you look very incredible,” he says. He hands my coat to a passing porter. “Would you like a drink?”

			He fidgets with his tie, and I understand, of course, that he is nervous. It’s endearing. Additionally, he seems to be sweating at his hairline. He definitely walked here.

			“Sure,” I say.

			We sidle up to the bar. We order two glasses of champagne. We toast. David just stares at me, wide-eyed. “To the future,” I say.

			David downs half a glass. “I can’t believe I didn’t ask!” he says. He brushes the back of his hand against his lips. “How did it go?”

			“I nailed it.” I set my glass down, triumphantly. “It was honestly butter. It couldn’t have gone better. Aldridge was the one who interviewed me.”

			“No shit. What’s their time frame?”

			“He said they’d let me know by Tuesday. If I get the job, I’d start after the holidays.”

			David takes another sip. He puts his hand on my waist and squeezes. “I’m so proud of you. One step closer.”

			That five-year plan I expressed to Aldridge isn’t just mine, it’s ours. We came up with it six months into dating, when it was obvious this thing between us was serious. David will transition out of investment banking and begin working at a hedge fund—more opportunity for big money, less corporate bureaucracy. We didn’t even argue about where we want to live—it’s always been Gramercy for both of us. The rest was a fluid negotiation. We never came to an impasse.

			“Indeed.”

			“Mr. Rosen, your table is ready.”

			There is a man in white tails at our backs, ushering us out of the bar, down the hallway, and into the ballroom.

			I’ve only ever seen the Rainbow Room in movies, but it’s magnificent, truly the perfect place to get engaged. Round tables sit gracefully in tiers around a circular dance floor, where a dazzling chandelier hangs overhead. Rumors are the dance floor rotates, a spinning circle in the center of the room. Ornate floral arrangements, reminiscent of a wedding, pepper the dining room. There is a festive, old-world holiday air. Women in fur. Gloves. Diamonds. The smell of good leather.

			“It’s beautiful,” I breathe.

			David squeezes me to his side and kisses my cheek. “We’re celebrating,” he says.

			A server holds a chair back for me. I sit. A white napkin is produced in a flourish and eased onto my lap.

			The slow, smooth styles of Frank Sinatra float over the dining room. A singer croons in the corner.

			“This is too much,” I say. What I mean is that it’s perfect. It’s exactly right. He knows this. That’s why he’s him.

			I wouldn’t say I’m a romantic, exactly. But I believe in romance, which is to say, I believe in calling to inquire about a date instead of texting, and flowers after sex, and Frank Sinatra at an engagement. And New York City in December.

			We order champagne again, this time a bottle. Momentarily, my chest ticks at what tonight will cost.

			“Don’t think about it,” David says, reading me. I love that about him. That he always knows what I’m thinking, because we’re always on the same page.

			The bubbles arrive. Cool and sweet and crisp. Our second glasses go down easy.

			“Should we dance?” David asks me.

			On the floor, I see two couples swaying to “All the Way.”

			Through the good or lean years, and for all the in-between years . . .

			Suddenly, I think that David may grab the mic. He may make this public. He is not a showy person, by nature, but he is confident, and unafraid of public displays. I am unnerved at this possibility. Of the ring arriving in my chocolate soufflé and his getting down on one knee for all the world to see.

			“You want to dance?” I ask him.

			David hates dancing. I have to drag him at weddings. He thinks he has no rhythm, and he’s right, but so few guys have rhythm that it really doesn’t matter. There are no wrong moves to “P.Y.T.” except sitting down.

			“Why not?” he says. “We’re here.”

			He offers me his hand, and I take it. As we make our way down the steps to the rotunda, the song switches. “It Had to Be You.”

			David takes me in his arms. The two other couples—older—smile in approval.

			“You know,” David says. “I love you.”

			“I do,” I say. “I mean, you’d better.”

			Is this it? Is this when he drops?

			But he keeps just moving me, slowly around the rotating rotunda. The song ends. A few people clap. We go back to our seats. I feel, suddenly, disappointed. Could I be wrong?

			We order. A simple salad. The lobster. Wine. The ring is neither perched on lobster’s claw nor drowning in a glass of Bordeaux.

			We both move our food around on our plates with lovely, silver forks, barely eating. David, usually chatty, has a hard time focusing. More than once he knocks and rights his water glass. Just do it, I want to tell him. I’ll say yes. Perhaps I should spell it out with cherry tomatoes.

			Finally, dessert arrives. Chocolate soufflé, crème brûlée, pavlova. He’s ordered one of everything, but there is no ring affixed to any of their powdered tops. When I look up, David is gone. Because he is holding the box in his hands, right by my seat, where he kneels.

			“David.”

			He shakes his head. “For once don’t talk, okay? Just let me get through this.”

			People around us murmur and quiet. Some of the surrounding tables have phones aimed at us. Even the music lowers.

			“David, there are people watching.” But I’m smiling. Finally.

			“Dannie, I love you. I know neither one of us is a particularly sentimental person and I don’t tell you this stuff a lot, but I want you to know that our relationship isn’t just part of some plan for me. I think you’re extraordinary, and I want to build this life with you. Not because we’re the same but because we fit, and because the more time that goes on the more I cannot imagine my life taking place without you.”

			“Yes,” I say.

			He smiles. “I think maybe you should let me ask the question.”

			Someone close breaks out in laughter.

			“I’m sorry,” I say. “Please ask.”

			“Danielle Ashley Kohan, will you marry me?”

			He opens the box and inside is a cushion-cut diamond flanked by two triangular stones set in a simple platinum band. It’s modern, clean, elegant. It’s exactly me.

			“You can answer now,” he tells me.

			“Yes,” I say. “Absolutely. Yes.”

			He reaches up and kisses me, and the dining room breaks out in applause. I hear the snaps of lenses, the oohs and ahhs of generous goodwill from surrounding patrons.

			David takes the ring out of the box and slides it onto my finger. It takes a second to waddle over my knuckle—my hands are swollen from the champagne—but when it does, it sits there like it has always been there.

			A waiter appears out of thin air with a bottle of something. “Compliments of the chef,” he says. “Congratulations!”

			David sits back down. He holds my hand across the table. I marvel at the ring, turning my palm back and forth in the candlelight.

			“David,” I say. “It’s gorgeous.”

			He smiles. “It looks so good on you.”

			“Did you pick this out?”

			“Bella helped,” he says. “I was worried she was going to ruin the surprise. You know her, she’s terrible at keeping anything from you.”

			I smile. I squeeze his hand. He’s right about that, but I don’t need to tell him. That is the thing about relationships: it’s not necessary to say everything. “I had no idea,” I say.

			“I’m sorry it was so public,” he says, gesturing around us. “I couldn’t resist. This place is practically begging for it.”

			“David,” I say. I look at him. My future husband. “I want you to know I’d suffer through ten more public proposals if it meant I got to marry you.”

			“No you wouldn’t,” he says. “But you can convince me of anything, and it’s one of the things I love about you.”



			Two hours later we’re home. Hungry and buzzing off champagne and wine, we crouch around the computer, ordering Thai food from Spice online. This is us. Spend seven hundred dollars on dinner, come home to eat eight-dollar fried rice. I never want that to change.

			I want to put on sweatpants, per usual, but something tells me not to—not tonight, not yet. If I were different, someone else—Bella, for example—I’d have lingerie to wear. I’d have bought some this week. I’d put on a matching bra and underwear and hover by the door. Fuck the Pad Thai. But then I probably wouldn’t be engaged to David right now.

			We’re not big drinkers, and the champagne and wine have gotten to both of us. I edge myself farther onto the couch. I put my feet in David’s lap. He squeezes the arch of my foot, kneading the tender place my heels are unkind to. I feel the buzzing in my stomach move upward to my head, until my eyes are being pulled closed like blinds. I yawn. Within a minute, I’m asleep.





Chapter Three


			I wake up slowly. How long have I been asleep? I roll over and look at the clock on the nightstand: 10:59 p.m. I stretch my legs. Did David move me to bed? The sheets feel crisp and cool around me, and I weigh just closing my eyes again and drifting back to sleep—but then I’d miss this, our engagement night, and I force them open. We still have more champagne to drink, and we need to have sex. That’s a thing you should do on the night you get engaged. I yawn, blinking, and then sit up, my breath exiting my body in a rush. Because I’m not in our bed. I’m not even in our apartment. I’m wearing a formal dress, red, beaded around the neckline. And I’m somewhere I’ve never been before.

			I could tell you I think I’m dreaming, but I don’t, not really. I can feel my legs and arms and the frenetic beating of my own uneasy heart. Was I kidnapped?

			I take in my surroundings. On further glance, I realize I’m in a loft apartment. The bed I’m in is flush up against floor-to-ceiling windows that appear to orient me in . . . Long Island City? I look out, desperate for some anchoring image. And then I spot the Empire State Building, rising out of the water in the distance. I’m in Brooklyn, but where? I can see the New York City skyline across the river, and to the right, the Manhattan Bridge. Which means I’m in Dumbo; I must be. Did David take me to a hotel? I see a redbrick building across the street with a brown barn door. There’s a party happening inside. I can see camera flashes and lots of flowers. A wedding, maybe.

			The apartment isn’t giant, but it gives the illusion of space. Two blue velvet chairs sit necking in front of a glass-and-steel coffee table. An orange dresser perches at the foot of the bed, and colorful Persian rugs make the open space feel cozy, if not a little cluttered. There are exposed pipes and wood beams and a print on the wall. It’s an eye chart that reads: I WAS YOUNG I NEEDED THE MONEY.

			Where the hell am I?

			I hear him before I see him. He calls: “Are you awake?”

			I freeze. Should I hide? Make a run for it? I see a large steel door, across the apartment, in the direction of where the voice is coming from. If I bolt, I might be able to get it open before—

			He rounds the corner from what must be the kitchen. He’s dressed in black dress pants and a blue-and-black-striped shirt, unbuttoned at the top.

			My eyes go wide. I want to scream; I might.

			The well-dressed stranger comes over to me, and I leap onto the other side of the bed, by the windows.

			“Hey,” he says. “Are you okay?”

			“No!” I say. “No, I’m not.”

			He sighs. He does not seem surprised by my response. “You fell asleep.” He runs his hand back and forth across his forehead. I notice he has a scar, crooked, over his left eye.

			“What are you doing here?” I’ve backed myself so far into a corner I’m practically pushed up against the windows.

			“C’mon,” he says.

			“Do you know me?”

			He bends one knee onto the bed. “Dannie,” he says. “Are you really asking me that?”

			He knows my name. And there’s something about the way he says it that makes me pause, take a breath. He says it like he’s said it before.

			“I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t know where I am.”

			“It was a good night,” he says. “Wasn’t it?”

			I look down at my dress. I realize, for the first time, it’s one I already own. My mom and I bought it with Bella on a shopping trip three years ago. Bella has the same one in white.

			“Yeah,” I say, without even thinking. As if I know. As if I were there. What is happening?

			And that’s when I catch the TV. It has been on this whole time, the volume low. It’s hanging on the wall opposite the bed and it’s playing the news. On the screen is a small graphic with the date and time: December 15, 2025. A man in a blue suit is prattling on about the weather, a snow cloud swaying behind him. I try to breathe.

			“What?” he says. “Do you want me to turn it off?”

			I shake my head. The response is automatic, and I watch him as he walks to the coffee table and grabs the remote. As he goes, he untucks his shirt.

			“Weather warning for the East Coast as a blizzard heads toward us. Possibility of six inches overnight, with continued accumulation into Sunday.”

			2025. It’s not possible; of course it’s not. Five years . . .

			This must be some kind of prank. Bella. When we were younger, she used to pull shit like this all the time. Once, for my eleventh birthday, she figured out how to get a pony into my backyard without my parents knowing. We woke up to it playing chicken with the swing set.

			But even Bella couldn’t get a fake date and time on national television. Could she? And who is this guy? Oh my god, David.

			The man in the apartment turns around. “Hey,” he says. “Are you hungry?”

			At his question, my stomach rumbles. I barely ate at dinner and wherever I am, in whatever parallel universe with David, the Pad Thai has most certainly not yet arrived.

			“No,” I say.

			He cocks his head to the side. “Kind of sounds like you are.”

			“I’m not,” I insist. “I just. I need . . .”

			“Some food,” he says. He smiles. I wonder how wide the windows open.

			I slowly come around the bed.

			“Do you want to change first?” he asks me.

			“I don’t . . .” I start, but I don’t know how to finish the sentence because I don’t know where we are. Where I would even find clothes.

			I follow him into a closet. It’s a walk-in, right off the bedroom alcove. There are rows of bags and shoes and clothes hanging, organized by color. I know right away. This is my closet. Which means this is my apartment. I live here.

			“I moved to Dumbo,” I say, out loud.

			The man laughs. And then he opens a drawer near the center of the closet and pulls out a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt and my heart stops. They’re his. He lives here, too. We’re . . . together.

			David.

			I reel back and run for the bathroom. I find it to the left of the living room. I close the door and bolt it. I splash some cold water on my face. “Think, Dannie, think.”

			Inside the bathroom are all the products I love. Abba body cream and Tea Tree Oil shampoo. I dab some MyChelle serum on my face, comforted by the smell, the familiarity.

			On the back of the door hangs a bathrobe with my initials, one I’ve had forever. Also, there are a pair of drawstring black pajama pants and an old Columbia sweatshirt. I take off the dress. I put them both on.

			I run some rose hip oil over my lips and unlock the door.

			“We have pasta or . . . pasta!” the man calls from the kitchen.

			First things first, I need to find out this guy’s name.

			His wallet.

			David and I have a sixty-forty split when it comes to our finances, based on the income discrepancy between us. We decided this after we moved in together and haven’t changed it since. I have never once looked inside his wallet except for one unfortunate incident involving a new knife and his insurance card.

			“Pasta sounds good,” I say.

			I go back near the bed, to where his pants hang half off a chair, trailing to the floor. I glance toward the kitchen and check the pockets. I pull out his wallet. Old leather, indistinguishable brand. I riffle through it.

			He doesn’t look up from filling a pot with water.

			I pull out two business cards. One to a dry cleaner. The other a Stumptown punch card.

			Then I find his license. Aaron Gregory, thirty-three years old. His license is New York State, and he’s six-foot and has green eyes.

			I put everything back where I found it.

			“Do you want red sauce or pesto?” he asks from the kitchen.

			“Aaron?” I try.

			He smiles. “Yes?”

			“Pesto,” I say.

			I walk toward the kitchen. It’s 2025, a man I’ve never met is my boyfriend, and I live in Brooklyn.

			“Pesto is what I wanted, too.”

			I sit down at the counter. There are cherrywood stools with wire-framed backs I don’t recognize and don’t particularly like.

			I take him in. He’s blonde, with green eyes and a jaw that makes him look like one of the superhero Chrises. He’s hot. Too hot for me, to be totally honest with you, and evidently, based on his looks and his name, not Jewish. I feel my stomach twist. This is what becomes of me in five years? I’m dating a golden Adonis in an artist’s loft? Oh god, does my mother know?

			The water boils, and he pours the pasta into the pot. Steam rises up and he steps back, wiping his forehead.

			“Am I still a lawyer?” I ask suddenly.

			Aaron looks at me and laughs. “Of course,” he says. “Wine?”

			I nod, exhaling a sigh of relief. So some things have gotten off track, but not all. I can work with this. I just have to find David, figure out what happened there, and we’ll be back in business. Still a lawyer. Halleluiah.

			When the noodles are cooked, he drains them and tosses them back into the pot with the pesto and Parmesan, and all of a sudden I’m dizzy with hunger. All I can think about right now is the food.

			Aaron takes two wineglasses down from a cabinet, moving expertly around the kitchen. My kitchen. Our kitchen.

			He pours me a glass of red and hands it over the counter. It’s big and bold. A Brunello, maybe. Not something I’d usually buy.

			“Dinner is served.”

			Aaron hands me a giant steaming bowl of spaghetti and pesto, and before he even comes back around the counter, I’m shoveling a forkful into my mouth. It occurs to me, mid-bite, that this could all be some kind of government science play and he could be poisoning me, but I’m too hungry to stop or care.

			The pasta is delicious—warm and salty—and I don’t look up for another five minutes. When I do, he’s staring at me.

			I wipe my mouth with my napkin. “Sorry,” I say. “I feel like I haven’t eaten in years.”

			He nods and pushes back his plate. “So now we have two choices. We can just get drunk, or we can get drunk and play Scattergories.”

			I love board games, which, of course, he would know. David is more of a card guy. He taught me how to play Bridge and Rummy. He thinks board games are childish, and that if we’re playing something we should be strengthening our brain pathways, which both Bridge and Rummy do.

			“Get drunk,” I say.

			Aaron gives my arm an affectionate squeeze. I feel like his hand is still there when he lets go. There is something strange here. Some strange pull. Some emotion that begins to expand in the room, fill up the corners.

			Aaron tops off our wineglasses. We leave our plates where they sit on the counter. Now what? And then I realize he’s going to want to get into bed. This boyfriend of mine, he’s going to want to touch me. I can just feel it.

			I make a beeline for one of the blue velvet chairs and take a seat. He looks at me sideways. Huh.

			All at once something occurs to me. I look down at my hand, panicked. There, on my finger, is an engagement ring. It’s a solitaire canary diamond with tiny stones around it. It’s vintage and whimsical. Not the ring David gave me tonight. It’s not anything I’d ever pick out. Yet here it is, on my finger.

			Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

			I bolt up from the chair. I pace the apartment. Should I leave? Where would I go? To my old place? Maybe David is still there. But what are the odds? He’s probably living in Gramercy with some non-insane wife. Maybe if I tell him what’s going on he’ll know how to fix it. He’ll forgive me for whatever I did to get us here—me in this apartment with a stranger and him on the other side of the bridge. He’s the best problem solver. He’ll figure it out.

			I get up and head toward the door. I need to get out of here. To escape whatever feeling is flooding this room. Where do I keep my coats?

			“Hey,” Aaron says. “Where are you going?”

			Think fast. “Just the deli,” I say.

			“The deli?”

			Aaron gets up and comes over to me. Then he puts his hands on my face. Right up against either cheek. His hands are cool, and for a moment the temperature change and motion shocks me and I make a move to reel back, but he holds me in place.

			“Stay. Please don’t leave right now.”

			He looks at me and his eyes are liquid, open. So this is what this guy has on me. This feeling. It’s . . . it’s new and familiar all at once. It’s heavy, weighted. It sits all around us. And despite myself, I want to . . . I want to stay.

			“Okay,” I whisper. Because his skin is still on mine and his eyes are still looking at me, and while I don’t understand why I’ve committed to spend my life with this man, I do know that the bed we share gets a lot of action, because . . . this is big. I feel its resonance in my body, the reverberations of some kind of seismic tidal wave. Outside, the sky turns.

			He heads toward the bed, holding my hand, and I follow. The wine has started to make me feel languid. I want to stretch out.

			I perch on the edge of the bed.

			“Five years,” I mutter.

			Aaron just looks at me. He sits back against the pillows. “Hey,” he says. “Can you come here?”

			But it’s not a question, not really, not insofar as it only has one, rhetorical, answer.

			He holds his arms open and out, and I ease onto the bed. I can feel it, this tug on my limbs, like I’m a marionette being pulled unevenly forward, toward him.

			God help me, I let him hold me. He pulls me to him, and I feel his breath warm near my cheek.

			His face hovers close. Here we go, he’s going to kiss me. Am I going to let him? I think about it, about David, and about this Aaron’s muscled arms. But before I can weigh the pros and cons and come to a solid conclusion, his lips are on mine.

			They land gently and he holds them there, delicately—as if he knows, as if he’s letting me get used to him. And then he uses his tongue to open my mouth slowly.

			Oh my god.

			I’m melting. I’ve never felt anything like this. Not with David, not with Ben, the only other guy I dated seriously, not even with Anthony, the study abroad fling I had in Florence. This is something else entirely. He kisses and touches like he’s inside my brain. I mean, I’m in the future, maybe he is.

			“You sure you’re okay?” he asks me, and I respond by pulling him closer.

			He threads his hands under my sweatshirt and then it’s off before I even realize, the cool air hitting my bare skin. Am I not wearing a bra? I am not wearing a bra. He bends and takes one of my nipples into his mouth.

			This is insane. I’m insane. I’ve lost my mind.

			It feels so good.

			The rest of the clothes come off. From somewhere—a different stratosphere—I hear a car horn honk, a train rumble, the city carry on.

			He kisses me harder. We get horizontal quickly. Everything feels incredible. His hands tracing the curves of my stomach, his mouth on my neck. I’ve never had a one-night stand up until this point—but this has to count, right? We met barely an hour ago and now we’re about to have sex.

			I can’t wait to tell Bella about this. She’ll love it. She’ll . . . but what if I never make it back? What if this guy is just my fiancé now and not a stranger and I can’t even share the details of this wild and . . .

			He presses his thumb down into the crease of my hip, and all thoughts of time and space escape through the slightly cracked window.

			“Aaron,” I say.

			“Yes.”

			He rolls on top of me, and then my hands are finding the muscles in his back, the crevices of his bones, like terrain—knotted and wooden and peaceful. I arch against him, this man who is a stranger but somehow something else entirely. His hands cup my face, they run down my neck, they wrap around my rib cage. His mouth is urgent and seeking against mine. My fingers grip his shoulders. Slowly, and then all at once, I forget where I am. All I’m aware of are Aaron’s arms wrapped tightly around me.





Chapter Four


			I wake up with a jolt, grasping at my chest.

			“Hey, hey,” a familiar voice says. “You’re awake.”

			I look up to see David standing over me, a bowl of popcorn in one hand. He’s also holding a bottle of water—not exactly the wine I was just drinking. Just drinking? I look down at my body, still fully clothed in my red Reformation ensemble. What the hell just happened?

			I scramble up to sitting. I’m back on the couch. David is now in his chess team tournament sweatshirt and black sweatpants. We’re in our apartment.

			“I thought you might be down for the count,” David says. “And miss our big night. I knew that second bottle would do us in. I already took two Advil, do you want some?” He sets the popcorn and water down and leans over to kiss me. “Should we call our parents now or tomorrow? You know they’re all losing it. I told everyone beforehand.”

			I parse through what he’s saying. I’m frozen. It must have been a dream, but it . . . how could it be? I was, just three minutes ago, in bed with someone named Aaron. We were kissing, and his hands were on me, and we were having the most intense sex of my life. Dream me slept with a stranger. I feel the need to touch my body, to confirm my physical reality. I put my hands on each elbow and hold my arms to my chest.

			“You okay?” David asks. He’s pulled himself out of the jovial moment and is looking at me intently.

			“How long was I out for?” I ask him.

			“About an hour,” he says. Something dawns on him. He leans closer to me. The proximity of his body feels like an intrusion. “Hey, listen, you’re going to get that job. I can tell you’re stressed about it and maybe this was too much to have happen in one day, but there’s no way they don’t hire you. You’re the perfect candidate, Dannie.”

			I feel like asking him what job?

			“The food came,” he says, sitting back. “I stuck it in the fridge. I’ll get plates.”

			I shake my head. “I’m not hungry.”

			David looks at me with shock and awe. “How is that possible? You told me you were weak with hunger, like an hour ago.” He stands up and goes into the kitchen, ignoring me. He opens the refrigerator and starts pulling out containers. Pad Thai. Chicken curry. Fried rice. “All your favorites,” he says. “Hot or cold?”

			“Cold,” I say. I pull the blanket closer around me.

			David comes back balancing the containers on plates. He starts taking off tops, and I smell the sweet and sour and tangy spices.

			“I had the craziest dream,” I tell him. Maybe if I talk about it it’ll make sense. Maybe if I lay it all out here, outside of my brain. “I just . . . I can’t shake it. Was I talking in my sleep?”

			David piles some noodles onto a plate and grabs a fork. “Nope. Don’t think so. I showered for a little, so maybe?” He jams a giant bite of Pad Thai into his mouth and chews. Some stray noodles migrate to the floor. “Was it a nightmare?”

			I think about Aaron. “No,” I say. “I mean, not exactly.”

			David swallows. “Good. Your mom called twice. I’m not sure how long we can hold her off.” David puts his fork down and threads his arm around me. “But I had some plans for us alone tonight.”

			My eyes dart to my hand. The ring, the right one, is back on my finger. I exhale.

			My phone starts buzzing.

			“Bella again,” David says, somewhat wearily.

			I’m already off the couch, snatching the phone and taking it with me into the bedroom.

			“I’m gonna flip on the news,” David calls after me.

			I close the door behind me and pick up the call. “Bells.”

			“I waited up!” It’s loud where she is, the sound of people fills the phone—she’s out partying. She laughs, her voice a cascade of music. “You’re engaged! Congratulations! Do you like the ring? Tell me everything!”

			“Are you still in Paris?” I ask her.

			“Yes!” she says.

			“When are you coming home?”

			“I’m not sure,” she says. “Jacques wants to go to Sardinia for a few days.”

			Ah, Jacques. Jacques is back. If Bella woke up five years in the future in a different apartment, she probably wouldn’t even blink.

			“In December?”

			“It’s supposed to be quiet and romantic.”

			“I thought you were going to the Riviera with Renaldo.”

			“Well he bailed, and then Jacques texted that he was in town and voilà. New plans!”

			I sit down on my bed. I look around. The tufted gray chairs I bought with my first paycheck at Clarknell, the oak dresser that was a hand-me-down from my parents’ place. The Bakelite lamps David brought with him from his Turtle Bay bachelor pad.

			I see the expanse of that loft in Dumbo. The blue velvet chairs.

			“Hey,” I say. “I have to tell you something kind of crazy.”

			“Tell me everything!” she hollers through the phone, and I imagine her spinning out in the middle of a dance floor, on the roof of some Parisian hotel, Jacques tugging at her waist.

			“I’m not sure how to explain it. I fell asleep, and . . . I wasn’t dreaming. I swear I was in this apartment and this guy was there. It was so real. Like I really went there. Has anything like that ever happened to you?”

			“No, darling, we’re going to the Marais!”

			“What?”

			“Sorry, everyone in the crowd is absolutely starving, and it’s practically light out. We’ve been partying for decades. So wait, it was like a dream? Did he do it on the terrace or in the restaurant?” I hear an explosion of sound and then a door shut, a retreat to silence.

			“Oh, the restaurant,” I say. “I’ll tell you everything when you’re back.”

			“I’m here, I’m here!” she says.

			“You’re not,” I say, smiling. “Be safe, okay?”

			I can see her rolling her eyes. “Do you know that the French don’t even have a word for safety?”

			“That is not even remotely true,” I say. “Beaucoup.” It’s pretty much one of the only French words I know.

			“Even so,” she says. “I wish you had more fun.”

			“I have fun,” I say.

			“Let me guess. David is now watching CNN Live and you’re wearing a face mask. You just got engaged!”

			I touch my fingers to my cheek. “Only dry skin here.”

			“How was the job interview?” she asks. “I didn’t forget, I just temporarily forgot.”

			“It was great, honestly. I think I got it.”

			“Of course you got it. You not getting it would require a rip in the universe that I’m not sure is scientifically possible.”

			I feel my stomach tighten.

			“Boozy brunch when I’m back,” she says. The door opens again and sound rushes back in through the phone. I hear her kiss someone twice.

			“You know I hate brunch,” I say.

			“But you love me.”

			She hangs up, in a whirlwind of noise.

			David comes into the bedroom, his hair rumpled. He takes off his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose.

			“You tired?” he asks me.

			“Not really,” I say.

			“Yeah, me neither.” He climbs into bed. He reaches for me. But I can’t. Not right now.

			“I’m just going to get some water,” I say. “Too much champagne. Do you want some water, too?”

			“Sure.” He yawns. “Do me a favor and get the light?”

			I get up and flip the light switch. I walk back into the living room. But instead of pouring a glass of water, I go to the windows. The TV is off and it’s dark, but the streets are flooded with light. I look down. Third Avenue is busy even now, well past midnight. There are people out—laughing and screaming. Heading to the bars of our youth: Joshua Tree, Mercury Bar. They’ll dance to nineties music they’re too young to really know, well into the morning. I stand there for a long time. Hours seem to pass. The streets quiet down to a New York whisper. By the time I go back into the bedroom, David is fast asleep.





Chapter Five


			I get the job; of course I do. They call me a week later and offer it, a fraction below my current salary. I argue them up, and by January 8 I’m giving my two weeks’ notice. David and I move to Gramercy. It happens a year later, almost down to the day. We find a great unfurnished sublet in the building we’ve always admired. “We’ll stay until something opens to buy,” David tells me. A year later something opens to buy, and we buy it.

			David begins working at a hedge fund started by his ex-boss at Tishman. I get promoted to senior associate.

			Four and a half years pass. Winters and falls and summers. Everything goes according to plan. Everything. Except that David and I don’t get married. We never set a date. We say we’re busy, which we are. We say we don’t need to until we want kids. We say we want to travel. We say we’ll do it when the time is right—and it never is. His dad has heart trouble one year, we move the next. There are always reasons, and good ones, too, but none of them are why. The truth is that every time we get close, I think about that night, that hour, that dream, that man. And the memory of it stops me before I’ve started.

			After that night, I went to therapy. I couldn’t stop thinking about that hour. The memory was real, like I had, in fact, lived it. I felt like I was going crazy and because of that, I didn’t want to talk to anyone, not even Bella. What would I say? I woke up in the future? Where I had sex with a stranger? The worst thing is, Bella would probably believe me.

			I know that therapists are supposed to help you figure out whatever insanity is lingering in your brain, and then help you get rid of it. So the following week I went to someone on the Upper West Side. Highly recommended. In New York, all the best shrinks are on the Upper West Side.

			Her office was bright and friendly, if not a little sterile. There was one giant plant. I couldn’t figure out if it was fake or not. I never touched it. It was on the other side of the sofa, behind her chair, and it would have been impossible to get to.

			Dr. Christine. One of those professionals who uses their first name with their title to seem more relatable. She didn’t. She wore swaths of Eileen Fisher—linens and silks and cottons spun so excessively I had no idea what her shape even was. She was sixty, maybe.

			“What brings you in today?” she asked me.

			I had been in therapy once, after my brother died. A fatal drunk driving accident fifteen years ago that had the police show up at our house at 1:37 in the morning. He wasn’t the one at the wheel. He was in the passenger seat. What I heard first were my mother’s screams.

			My therapist had me talk about him, our relationship, and then draw what I thought the accident might have looked like, which seemed condescending for a twelve year old. I went for a month, maybe more. I don’t remember much, except that afterward my mom and I would stop for ice cream, like I was seven and not nearly thirteen. I often didn’t want any, but I always got two scoops of mint chocolate chip. It felt important to play along then, and for a long time after.

			“I had a strange dream,” I said. “I mean, something strange happened to me.”

			She nodded. Some of the silk slipped. “Would you like to tell me about it?”

			I did. I expressed to her that David and I had gotten engaged, that I’d had too much champagne, that I’d fallen asleep, and that I’d woken up in 2025 in a strange apartment with a man I’d never met before. I left out that I slept with him.

			She looked at me for a long time once I stopped talking. It made me uncomfortable.

			“Tell me more about your fiancé.”

			I was immediately relieved. I knew where she was headed with this. I was unsure about David, and therefore my subconscious was projecting a kind of alternative reality where I was not subject to the burdens of what I had just committed to in getting engaged.

			“He’s great,” I said. “We’ve been together for over two years. He’s very driven and kind. He’s a good match.”

			She smiled then, Dr. Christine. “That’s wonderful,” she said. “What do you think he’d say about this experience you’re ­describing?”

			I didn’t tell David. I couldn’t, obviously. What would I possibly say? He’d think I was crazy, and he’d be right.

			“He’d probably say it was a dream and that I’m stressed out about work?”

			“Would that be true?”

			“I don’t know,” I said. “That’s why I’m here.”

			“It seems to me,” she said. “That you’re unwilling to say this was just a dream, but you’re not sure what it would mean if it wasn’t.”

			“What else could it possibly be?” I genuinely wanted to know where she was going with this.

			She sat back in her chair. “A premonition, maybe. A psychosomatic trip.”

			“Those are just other words for dreams.”

			She laughed. She had a nice one. The silk slipped again. “Sometimes unexplainable things happen.”

			“Like what?”

			She looked at me. Our time was up.

			After our session, I felt strangely better. Like in going in there I could see the whole thing for what it was: crazy. I could give the whole weird dream to her. It was her problem now. Not mine. She could file it with all her divorces, sexual incompatibilities, and mother issues. And for four and a half years, I left it there.





Chapter Six


			It’s a Saturday in June, and I’m going to meet Bella for brunch. We haven’t seen each other in almost two months, which is the longest we’ve ever gone, including her London sojourn of 2015, when she “moved” to Notting Hill for six weeks to paint. I’ve been buried in work. The job is great, and impossible. Not hard, impossible. There is a week’s worth of work in every day. I’m always behind. I see David for five minutes, maybe, every day when one of us wakes up sleepily to great the other. At least we’re on the same schedule. We’re both working toward a life we want, and will have. Thank god we understand each other.

			Today it’s raining. It’s been a wet spring, this one of 2025, so this is not out of the ordinary, but I ordered some new dresses and I was hoping to wear one. Bella is always calling my style “conservative,” because ninety percent of the time I’m in a suit, and I thought I’d surprise her with something unexpected today. No luck. Instead, I tug on jeans, a white Madewell T-shirt, and my Burberry trench and ankle rain boots. Temperature says sixty-five degrees. Enough to sweat with a top layer but be freezing without one.

			We’re meeting at Buvette, a tiny French café in the West Village we’ve been going to for years. They have the best eggs and croque monsieur on the planet—and their coffee is strong and rich. Right now, I need a quart.

			Also, it’s one of Bella’s favorite spots. She knows all the waiters. When we were in our twenties, she’d go there to sketch.

			I end up taking a cab because I don’t want to be late, even though I know Bella will be running fifteen minutes behind. Bella is chronically fifteen to twenty minutes late everywhere she goes.

			But when I arrive she’s already there, seated in the window at the two-top.

			She’s dressed in a long, flowing floral dress that’s wet at the edges—at five-foot-three she’s not tall enough for it—and a crimson velvet blazer. Her hair is down and falls around her in tufts, like spools of wool. She’s beautiful. Every time I see her I’m reminded just how much.

			“This cannot possibly be happening,” I say. “You beat me here?”

			She shrugs, her gold hoops bouncing against her neck. “I couldn’t wait to see you.” She gets out of her chair and pulls me into a tight hug. She smells like her. Tea tree and lavender, a hint of cinnamon.

			“I’m wet,” I yelp, but I don’t let go. It feels good. “I missed you, too.”

			I tuck my umbrella under my chair and loop my raincoat over the back. Inside it’s chillier than I thought it would be. I rub my hands together.

			“You look older,” she says.

			“Gee, thanks.”

			“That’s not what I mean. Coffee?”

			I nod.

			She holds her cup up to the waiter. She comes here far more often than I do. Her place is three blocks away on the corner of Bleecker and Charles, a floor-through level of a brownstone her dad bought for her two years ago. It’s three bedrooms, impeccably decorated in her colorful, bohemian, I-didn’t-even-think-about-this-but-it-looks-gorgeous perfect style.

			“What’s darling Dave up to this morning?” she asks.

			“He went to the gym,” I say, opening my napkin.

			“The gym?”

			I shrug. “That’s what he said.”

			Bella opens her mouth to say something, but closes it again. She likes David. Or at least, I think she does. I suspect she’d like me to be with someone more adventurous, someone who maybe pushed me outside my comfort zone a little bit more. But what she doesn’t realize, or what she conveniently forgets, is that she and I are not the same person. David is right for me, and the things I want for my life.

			“So,” I say. “Tell me everything. How is work coming at the gallery? How was Europe?”

			Five years ago, Bella did a show of her artwork at a small gallery in Chelsea named Oliander. The show sold out, and she did another. Then two years ago, Oliander, the owner, wanted to sell the place and came to her. She used her trust fund to buy it. She paints less than she used to, but I like that she has some stability in her life. The gallery has meant that she can’t disappear ­anymore—­at least not for weeks at a time.

			“We nearly sold out the Depreche show,” she says. “I’m so bummed you missed it. It was spectacular. My favorite by far.” Bella says that about every single artist she shows. It’s always the best, the greatest, the most fun she’s ever had. Life is an upward escalator. “Business is so good I’m thinking about hiring another Chloe.”

			Chloe has been her assistant for the last three years, and runs the logistics at Oliander. She’s kissed Bella twice, which has not seemed to complicate their business relationship.

			“You should do it.”

			“Might give me time to actually sculpt or paint again. It has been months.”

			“Sometimes you have to sacrifice to achieve your dreams.”

			She smiles sideways at me. The coffee comes. I pour some creamer into it, and take a slow, heady sip.

			When I look up, she’s still smiling at me. “What?” I ask.

			“Nothing. You’re just so . . . ‘sacrifice to achieve your dreams.’ Who talks like that?”

			“Business leaders. Heads of companies. CEOs.”

			Bella rolls her eyes. “When did you get like this?”

			“Do you ever remember my being any different?”

			Bella puts her hand to her chin. She looks straight at me. “I don’t know,” she says.

			I know what she means, what I never really want to talk about it. Was I different as a child? Before my brother died? Was I spontaneous, carefree? Did I begin to plan my life so that no one would ever show up at my door and throw the whole thing off a cliff? Probably. But there isn’t much to be done about it now. I am who I am.

			The waiter circles back to us, and Bella raises her eyebrows at me as if to ask you ready?

			“You order,” I say.

			She speaks to him entirely in French, pointing out items on the menu and discussing. I love watching her speak French. She’s so natural, so vibrant. She tried to teach me once in our early twenties, but it just didn’t stick. They say that languages come better to people who are right-brained, but I’m not so sure. I think you need a certain looseness, a certain fluidity, to speak another language. To take all the words in your brain and turn them over, one by one, like stones—and find something else scrolled on the underside.

			We spent four days together in Paris once. We were twenty-four. Bella was there for the summer, taking an art course and falling in love with a waiter in the Fourteenth. I came to visit. We stayed at her parents’ flat, right on Rue de Rivoli. Bella hated it. “Tourist location,” she told me, although the whole city seemed for the French, and the French alone.

			We spent the entire four days on the outskirts. Eating dinner at cafés on the fringes of Montmartre. During the day we wandered in and out of galleries in the Marais. It was a magical trip, made all the more so by the fact that the only time I’d been out of the country was a trip to London with my parents and David and my annual pilgrimage to Turks and Caicos with his parents. This was something else. Foreign, ancient, a different world. And Bella fit right in.

			Maybe I should have felt disconnected from her. Here was this girl, my best friend, who fit this faraway place like a hand to a glove. I didn’t, and yet she still she took me with her. She was always taking me with her, wanting me to be a part of her wide, open life. How could I feel anything but lucky?

			“To get back to the prior discussion,” Bella says when the waiter is gone. “I think sacrifice is in direct opposition to manifestation. If you want your dreams you should look for abundance, not scarcity.”

			I take a sip of coffee. Bella lives in a world I do not understand, populated by phrases and philosophies that apply only to people like her. People, maybe, who do not yet know tragedy. No one who has lost a sibling at twelve can say with a straight face: everything happens for a reason.

			“Let’s agree to disagree,” I tell her. “It has been too long since I’ve seen you. I want to be bored senseless hearing all about Jacques.”

			She smiles. It sneaks up her cheeks until it’s practically at her ears.

			“What?”

			“I have something to tell you,” she says. She reaches across the table and takes my hand.

			Instantly, I’m flooded with a familiar sensation of pulling, like there’s a tiny string inside of me that only she can find and thread. She’s going to tell me she met someone. She’s falling in love. I know the drill so well I wish we could go through all the steps right here at this table, with our coffee. Intrigue. Obsession. Distaste. Desperation. Apathy.

			“What’s his name?” I ask.

			She rolls her eyes. “Come on,” she says. “Am I that trans­parent?”

			“Only to me.”

			She takes a sip of her sparkling water. “His name is Greg.” She lands hard on the one syllable. “He’s an architect. We met on Bumble.”

			I nearly drop my coffee. “You have Bumble?”

			“Yes. I know you think I can meet someone buying milk at the deli, but, I don’t know, lately I’ve been wanting something different and nothing has been that interesting in a while.”

			I think about Bella’s love life over the last few months. There was the photographer, Steven Mills, but that was last summer, almost a year ago.

			“Except Annabelle and Mario,” I say. The collectors she had a brief fling with. A couple.

			She bats her eyes at me. “Naturally,” she says.

			“So what’s the deal?” I ask.

			“It has been like three weeks,” she says. “But Dannie, he’s wonderful. Really wonderful. He’s really nice and smart and—I think you’re really going to like him.”

			“Nice and smart,” I repeat. “Greg?”

			She nods, and just then our food appears in a cloud of smoke. There are eggs and caviar on crispy French bread, avocado toast, and a plate of delicate crepes dusted with powdered sugar. My mouth waters.

			“More coffee?” Our waiter asks.

			I nod.

			“Yum,” I say. “This is perfect.” I immediately cut into the avocado toast. The poached egg on top oozes out yolk, and I scoop a segment onto my plate. I make a vaguely pornographic noise through a mouthful.

			Bella watches me and laughs. “You’re so deprived,” she says.

			I throw her a disgruntled look as I make my way to the crepes. “I have a job.”

			“Yes, how is that going?” She tilts her head to the side.

			“It’s great,” I say. I want to add some of us have to work for a living, but I don’t. I learned a long time ago there is a difference with Bella, and our relationship, between judgmental and unkind. I try not to stray over the line. “I think it’s going to be another year, and then partner.”

			Bella does a little shimmy in her chair. Her sweater slips from where it sits on her shoulders and I’m met with a slice of collarbone. Bella has always had a zaftig figure, glorious in its curvature, but she looks slimmer to me today. Once, during the month of Isaac, she lost twelve pounds.

			Greg. I already have a bad feeling.

			“I think we should all go to dinner,” Bella says.

			“Who?”

			She gives me a look. “Greg,” she says. She sucks her bottom lip in, lets it pop back out. Her blue eyes find mine. “Dannie, I’m telling you, you don’t have to believe me, but this one is different. It feels different.”

			“They always do.”

			She narrows her eyes at me and I can tell I’ve crossed it. I sigh. I can never quite say no to her. “Okay,” I say. “Dinner. Pick any Saturday two weeks from now and it’s yours.”

			I watch Bella as she loads up her plate—first eggs, then a crepe—and feel my stomach start to relax as she eats with gusto. The sky changes from rain to clouds to sunshine. When we leave the streets are almost entirely dry.





Chapter Seven


			“What happened to the blue shirt?”

			David comes out of our bedroom in a black button-down and dark jeans. We’re already running late. We’re supposed to be at Rubirosa in SoHo in ten minutes and it will take us at least twenty to get downtown. Bella may always be late, but I still like beating her places. It’s how we’ve always done things. Brunch was enough change for one week.

			“You don’t like this?” David hunches down and surveys himself in the mirror above the sofa.

			“It’s fine. I just thought you were wearing the blue one.”

			He heads back into the bedroom, and I check my lipstick in the same mirror. I’m wearing a black sleeveless turtleneck and a blue silk skirt with heels. The weather says sixty-seven degrees, low of sixty-three, and I’m trying to decide whether to bring a jacket.

			He comes back in, buttoning the blue one. “Happy?”

			“Very,” I say. “Will you call a car?”

			David busies himself with his phone, and I check to make sure I have our keys, my cell phone, and Bella’s gold-beaded bracelet. I borrowed it six months ago and never gave it back.

			“Two minutes.”

			When we get to the restaurant, Bella is standing outside. My first instinct is confusion—she beat me, again. My second is that it’s already over with Greg and we’re going to be having dinner alone. This has happened twice before (Gallery Daniel and, I think, Bartender Daniel). I feel a wave of irritation, followed by one of sympathy and inevitability. Here we go again. Always the same thing.

			I get out of the car first. “I’m sorry,” I start, just as the restaurant door opens and out onto the pavement walks Greg. Except he’s not Greg. He’s Aaron.

			Aaron.

			Aaron, whose face and name have been running in my head, on a loop, for the last four and a half years. The center of so many questions and daydreams and forced replays made manifest on the sidewalk now.

			It wasn’t a dream. Of course it wasn’t. He’s standing here now, and there is no one else he could be. Not a man I’ve spotted at the movies, not an associate I once traded work jabs with. Not someone I shared a plane ride seated next to. He is only the man from the apartment.

			I reel back. I do not know whether to scream or run. Instead, I’m cemented. My feet have merged with the pavement. The answer: my best friend’s boyfriend.

			“Babe, this is my best friend, Dannie. Dannie, this is Greg!” She snuggles into him, her arms looping around his shoulder.

			“Hey,” he says. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

			He picks up my hand to shake it. I search his face for any sign of recognition, but, of course, I come up empty. Whatever has happened between us . . . hasn’t yet.

			David extends his hand. I’m just standing there, my mouth hanging open, neglecting to introduce him.

			“This is David,” I sputter. David in the blue shirt shakes Aaron in the white shirt’s hand. Bella smiles. I feel as if all the air on the sidewalk has been sucked back into the sky. We’re going to suffocate out here.

			“Shall we?”

			I follow Greg/Aaron up the steps and into the crowded restaurant. “Aaron Gregory,” he says to the hostess. Aaron Gregory. I flash on his license in my hand. Of course.

			“Aaron?”

			“Oh, yeah. My last name is Gregory. Greg just kind of stuck.” He gives me a small smile. It feels too familiar. I don’t like it.

			I feel like I’m sinking. Like I’m falling through the floor, or maybe the floor is falling, too, except no one else is moving. It’s just me, catapulting through space.

			Time.

			“Aaron.”

			He looks at me. Dead on. I hear David behind us laugh at something Bella has said. I smell her perfume—French rose. The kind you can only buy at the drugstores in Paris. “I’m not one of the bad ones,” he tells me. “Just because I know you think I am.”

			I exhale. I feel dizzy. “I do?”

			“You do,” he says. We start following the hostess. We snake around the bar, in between the two-top tables with couples bent together over pizza and deep glasses of red. “I can tell by the way you’re looking at me. And what Bella has said.”

			“What has she said?”

			We pass through an archway and Aaron hangs back, holding his arm out to let me pass. My shoulder brushes his hand. This isn’t happening.

			“That she has dated some guys who maybe didn’t treat her right, and that you’re an amazing friend, and you’re always there to pick up the pieces. And that I should be warned you’ll probably hate me at first.”

			We’ve arrived at the table. It’s in the back room, pushed up against the left-hand wall. David and Bella are upon us.

			“I’ll slide in the corner,” Bella says. She shoves herself in first and pulls me down next to her. David and Aaron sit across from us.

			“What’s good here?” Aaron asks. He gives Bella a wide smile and reaches across the table for her hand. He strokes her knuckles.

			I don’t need to look at the menu, but I do anyway. The arugula pizza and Rubirosa salad are what we always get.

			“Everything,” Bella says. She squeezes and releases his hand and shimmies her torso. She’s wearing a short black ruffled dress with roses on it that I bought with her on a shopping trip to The Kooples. She has neon green suede heels tucked under her, and dangly green plastic earrings clank against her cheeks.

			I need to avoid Aaron’s face. His entire person—him—seated twelve inches across the table from me.

			“Bella tells us you’re an architect,” David says, and my heart squeezes with affection for him. He always knows the things you’re supposed to ask—how you’re supposed to behave. He always remembers the protocol.

			“Indeed,” Aaron says.

			“I thought architects didn’t really exist,” I say. I’m keeping my eyes on the menu.

			Aaron laughs. I glance up at him. He points to his chest. “Real. Pretty sure.”

			“She’s talking about this article Mindy Kaling wrote like a million years ago. She says that architects only exist in romantic comedies.” Bella rolls her eyes at me.

			“She does?” Aaron points to me.

			“No, Mindy,” Bella says. “Mindy says that.”

			I think it was in the Times. Titled something like: “Types of Women In Romantic Comedies Who Are Not Real.” The architect thing was anecdotal. Incidentally, Mindy also said that a workaholic and an ethereal dream girl were not believable stereotypes, either, yet here we are.

			“No handsome architects,” I say. “To clarify.”

			Bella laughs. She leans across the table and touches Aaron’s hand. “That’s about as close to a compliment as you’re going to get, so enjoy it.”

			“Well then, thank you.”

			“My dad is an architect,” David says, but no one responds. We’re now busying ourselves with the menu.

			“Do you guys want red or white?” Bella asks.

			“Red,” David and I say at the same time. We never drink white. Rose, occasionally, in the summer, which it isn’t yet.

			When the waiter comes over, Bella orders a Barolo. When we were in high school, we all took shots of Smirnoff while Bella poured Cabernet into a decanter.

			I’ve never been a big drinker. In school it affected my ability to get up early and study or run before class, and now it does the same for work—only worse. Since I turned thirty, even a glass of wine makes me groggy. And after the accident no one was allowed a drink in our house, not even a thimbleful of wine. Completely dry. My parents still are, to this day.

			“I’m in the mood for some meat,” David says. We’ve never ordered anything other than the arugula or classic pizza here. Meat?

			“I’d split a sausage with you,” Aaron says.

			David smiles and looks at me. “I never get sausage. I like this guy.”

			I’ve been preoccupied, possessed, since I saw him on the sidewalk. For the first time, I consider the reality that this man is Bella’s boyfriend. Not the guy from the premonition—but the one sitting across from her now. For one thing, he seems good and solid. Funny and accommodating. It’s usually like pulling teeth to get one of her boyfriend’s to make eye contact.

			If he were anyone else, I might be thrilled for her. But he isn’t.

			“Where do you live?” I ask Aaron.

			I see flashes of the apartment. Those big, open walls. The bed that overlooked the city skyline.

			“Midtown,” he says.

			“Midtown?”

			He shrugs. “It’s close to my office.”

			“Excuse me,” I say.

			I get up from the table and wind my way to the bathroom, which exits off a little hallway.

			“What’s going on?” It’s David on my heels. “That was weird. Are you okay?”

			I shake my head. “I don’t feel well.”

			“What happened?”

			I look at him. His face is studying me with concern and . . . something else. Surprise? It’s close cousins with annoyance. But this is unusual behavior for me, and so I’m not sure.

			“Yeah, it just hit me. Can we go?”

			He glances back into the restaurant, as if his gaze will reach the table where Bella and Aaron sit, no doubt just as baffled.

			“Are you going to throw up?”

			“Maybe.”

			This does it. He springs into action, placing a hand on my lower back. “I’ll let them know. Meet me outside; I’ll call a car.”

			I nod. I head outside. The temperature has dropped markedly since we arrived. I should have brought a jacket.

			David comes out with my bag, and Bella.

			“You hate him,” she says. She crosses her arms in front of her chest.

			“What? No. I don’t feel well.”

			“It was pretty spontaneous. I know you. You once muscled through the full-blown flu to fly to Tokyo.”

			“That was work,” I say. I’m clutching my stomach. I’m actually going to vomit. It’s all going to come out on her green suede shoes.

			“I like him,” David says. He looks to me. “Dannie does, too. She had a fever earlier. We just didn’t want to cancel.”

			I feel a wave of affection for him, for this lie.

			“I’ll call you tomorrow,” I tell her. “Go enjoy your dinner.”

			Bella doesn’t budge from her place on the sidewalk, but our car comes and David holds the door open for me. I dive inside. He walks around and then we’re off down Mulberry, Bella disappearing behind us.

			“Do you think it’s food poisoning? What did you eat?” David asks.

			“Yeah, maybe.” I lean my head against the window, and David squeezes my shoulder before taking out his phone. When we get home, I change into sweats and crawl into bed.

			He comes and perches on the edge. “Can I do anything?” he asks me. He smoothes down the comforter, and I grab his hand before he lifts it off.

			“Lay down with me,” I say.

			“You’re probably contagious,” he says. He puts the back of his hand on my cheek. “I’m going to make you some tea.”

			I look at him. His brown eyes. The slight tufts of his hair. He never uses product, no matter how many times I tell him everyone needs it.

			“Go to sleep,” he says. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”

			He’s wrong, I think. I won’t. But I fall asleep anyway. When I dream, I’m back in that apartment. The one with the windows and the blue chairs. Aaron isn’t there. Instead, it’s Bella. She finds his sweatpants in the top drawer of the dresser. She holds them up and shakes them at me. What are these doing here? she wants to know. I don’t have an answer. But she keeps demanding one. She walks closer and closer to me. What are these doing here? Tell me, Dannie. Tell me the truth. When I go to speak, I realize the entire apartment is filled with water and I’m choking on everything I cannot say.





Chapter Eight


			“It’s nice to see you again,” Dr. Christine says.

			The plant is still there. I assume, now, that it’s fake. Too much time has passed.

			“Yes, well,” I say. “I don’t really know who else to tell.”

			“Tell what?”

			The truth of what I have learned. That what I saw in that apartment is from the future. It will occur in exactly five months and nineteen days, on December 15. I graduated as valedictorian of Harriton High, magna cum laude from Yale, and top of my law class at Columbia. I’m not gullible, nor am I a fool. What happened wasn’t a dream; it was a premonition—a prophecy sketched to life— and now I need to know how and why it happened, so I can make sure it never does.

			“I met the man,” I tell her. “From the dream.”

			She swallows. It could be my imagination, but it seems like it’s taking some effort. I want to skip this part, the part where we have to determine what it is and how it happened, the process. The part where she thinks I’m maybe a little bit crazy. Hallucinating, possibly. Working out past trauma, etc. I’m only interested in prevention, now.

			“How do you know it was him?”

			I give her a look. “I didn’t tell you we slept together.”

			“Oh.” She leans forward in her brown leather chair. Unlike the plant, it’s new. “That seems an important part. Why do you think you left it out?”

			“Because I’m engaged,” I tell her. “Obviously.”

			She leans forward. “Not to me.”

			“I don’t know,” I say. “I just didn’t. But I know it’s him, and he’s now dating my best friend.”

			Dr. Christine looks at her notes. “Bella.”

			I nod, although I don’t remember talking about her. I must have.

			“She’s very important to you.”

			“Yes.”

			“And you feel guilty now.”

			“Well, technically, I haven’t done anything wrong.”

			She squints at me. I put a fist to my forehead and hold it there.

			“You mentioned you’re engaged,” she says. “To the same man you were with when we last spoke?”

			“Yes.”

			“It has been over four years since I saw you. Do you have plans to get married?”

			“Some couples decide not to.”

			She nods. “Is that what you and David have decided?”

			“Look,” I say. “I just want to make sure this doesn’t happen again, or happen at all. That’s why I’m here.”

			Dr. Christine sits back as if creating more space between us. A pathway to the door, maybe.

			“Dannie,” she says. “I think something is going on that you don’t understand, and that is frightening to you, as someone whose actual job it is to discover and prove causality.”

			“Causality,” I repeat.

			“If I do this, I’ll get this result.” She holds out her hands like a weighted Grecian scale. “This experience does not fit in your life, you have not taken any steps to have it, and yet here it is.”

			“Well, right,” I say. “That’s why I need it to not be.”

			“And how do you propose you do that?”

			“I don’t know,” I say. “That’s kind of why I’m here.”

			Predictably, our time is up.



			I decide I need to go in search of the apartment. I need something concrete, some form of evidence.

			Sunday, David heads into the office and I tell him I’m going for a run. I used to run all the time in my twenties. Long ones. Down the West Side Highway and through the Financial District, between the tall buildings and across the cobblestones. I’ve run the loop in Central Park, around the reservoir, watching the leaves change from green to yellow to amber, the water reflecting the seasons. I’ve run two marathons and half a dozen halfs. Running does all the things for me it does for everyone else—clears my head, gives me time to think, makes my body feel good and loose. But it also has the added benefit of taking me places. When I first moved to the city I could only afford to live in Hell’s Kitchen, but I wanted to be everywhere. So I ran.

			In the early days of our relationship I used to try and get David to come with me, but he’d want to stop after a few blocks and get bagels so I started leaving him at home. Running is better alone anyway. More space to think.

			It’s 9 a.m. by the time I cross the Brooklyn Bridge, but it’s Sunday, early, so there aren’t that many tourists out yet. Just bikers and other joggers. I keep my head high, shoulders back, focusing on my core pulling forward. My breathing is ragged. It has been too long since I’ve been on a long run, and I feel my lungs rebelling against the exertion.

			I never saw the outside of the building. But from the view I’d have to place it somewhere close to the water, maybe near Plymouth. I get over the bridge and slow to a walk as I make my way down Washington Street toward the river. The sun has started to burn off the haze of the morning, and the water reflects in sparkles. I take off my sweatshirt and tie it around my waist.

			Dumbo, short for Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass, used to be a ferry landing and still has an industrial feel. Large warehouse buildings mix with overpriced grocer markets and all-glass apartment buildings. As my breathing slows, I realize I should have done a search before I came down. Apartment views, open listings. I could have make a spreadsheet and gone through it—why didn’t I think of that?

			I stop in front of Brooklyn Bridge Park, in front of a brick-and-glass building that takes up the entire block. Not it.

			I pull out my phone. Did I (do I?) buy this apartment? I make good money, more than most of my peers, but a two-million-­dollar one-bedroom loft seems out of my price range. At least in the next six months. And it doesn’t make any logistical sense. We have our dream place in Gramercy, big enough to put a kid in, someday. Why would I want to be here?

			My stomach starts to rumble, and I walk west to see if I can find somewhere to grab an apple or a bagel, and think. I turn up Bridge Street and after a few blocks I find a deli with a black awning—Bridge Coffee Shop. It’s a tiny place, with a counter deli and a board menu. There’s a police officer there; that’s how you know it’s good. A woman with a wide smile stands behind the counter and converses in Spanish with a young mother with a sleeping baby. When they spot me, they wave goodbye to each other and the woman wheels her baby out. I hold the door open for her.

			I order a bagel with whitefish salad, my usual. The woman behind the counter nods in solidarity with my order.

			A man comes in and pays for a coffee. Two teenagers get bagels with cream cheese. Everyone here is a regular. Everyone says hello.

			My sandwich comes up for pickup. I take the white paper bag, thank the woman, and make my way back down toward the water. Brooklyn Bridge Park is less a park and more a stretch of grass. The benches are full, and I pop down on a rock, right by the water’s edge. I open up my sandwich and take a bite. It’s good, really good. Surprisingly close to Sarge’s.

			I look out over the water—I’ve always loved the water. I’ve had little of it over the course of my life, but when I was younger, we used to spend July Fourth week at the Jersey Shore in Margate, a beach town that is practically an extended suburb of Philadelphia if you go by population. My parents would rent a condo, and for seven blissful days we’d eat shave ice and run the crowded shores with hundreds of other kids, our parents happily situated in their beach chairs, watching from the sand. There was the night in Ocean City, on the rides, spinning on the Sizzler or riding the bumper cars. The dinner at Mack & Manco Pizza and cheese hoagies from Sack O’ Subs, dripping in oil and red wine vinegar, opened in paper at the beach.

			Michael, my brother, gave me my first cigarette there, smoked under the boardwalk, nothing but the taste of freedom between us and our fingertips.

			We stopped going after we lost him. I’m not sure why, except that everything that felt familial, that seemed to tie us together, was intolerable. Like our joy or unity was a betrayal of him, his life.

			“Dannie?”

			I close my eyes and open them again. When I look up, I see him standing above me in a bike helmet, half on his seat. Aaron. You’ve got to be kidding me.





Chapter Nine


			“Hi. Wow.” I scramble to my feet, shoving my sandwich back into the bag. “What are you doing down here?”

			He’s wearing a blue T-shirt and khaki pants, a brown leather messenger bag slung over his chest.

			“It’s my weekend bike route.” He gestures to his bag, shakes his head. “No, Bella actually sent me on an errand this morning.”

			“Oh yeah?”

			Aaron unclips his helmet. The line of his hair is wet and matted down with sweat. “You seem to be feeling better.”

			I put my hands on my hips. “I am.”

			He smiles. “Good. You want to come?”

			“Where?”

			He scoots himself closer. “I’m looking at an apartment.”

			Of course he is. I didn’t need a Google search. I just needed Aaron to show up, right now, and lead me there.

			“Let me guess,” I say. “Plymouth Street?”

			“Close,” he says. “Bridge.”

			This is insane. This is not happening. “Yes,” I say. “I’ll come.”

			“Great.”

			He loops his helmet over his handlebars and we start walking.

			“You’re a runner?” he asks me.

			“I used to be,” I say. I can feel the sting in my left knee and hip as we walk, a product of not enough stretching, and no squats before taking off.

			“I know. I don’t get on my bike as much as I’d like anymore, either.”

			“Why isn’t Bella here?” I ask.

			“She had to go into the gallery,” he says. “She asked me to check it out. You’ll get it when you see it, I think. Hang on.” We’re at a crosswalk and he holds his hand back as two bikers speed by. “Try not to die on my watch, huh?”

			I blink back at him in the sunlight. I should have worn sunglasses.

			“Okay, now we can go.”

			We cross the street and then we’re making our way up Plymouth until we get right to where it meets Bridge, running perpendicular. Just where I came from. And then I see it. I missed it on my walk just now, blinded by my search for a sandwich. It’s the redbrick event space with the barn door. I recognize it now. But not just from that night. I was at a wedding here three years ago. David’s friends Brianne and Andrea from Wharton Business School. It’s the old Galapagos Art Space, and it’s what I saw out the window that night, four and a half years ago. And behind me, across the street, at 37 Bridge, is the building Aaron is about to lead me into.

			“Watch your step,” he says, as we cross the street and make our way to the door. Sure enough, I’m right. It’s a brick-and-concrete building, less industrial than some surrounding it.

			There’s no lobby, just a buzzer and a padlock, and Aaron takes a ring of keys from his messenger bag and begins trying them. The first two don’t work, and then on the third the lock swings open, the chain coming undone in his hands. The steel door swings open to reveal the side of a freight elevator. Aaron uses a second key to call it down for us—this time on the first try.

			“They’re expecting you?” I ask.

			Aaron nods. “A buddy of mine is a broker and gave me the keys. Said we could check it out today.”

			We. Bella.

			The elevator lumbers down. Aaron holds the door open and I step inside, then he wheels his bike in after us. He hits floor four and we’re making our way upward, the mechanics of the freight heaving and sputtering as we go.

			“This building doesn’t seem up to code,” I say, crossing my arms. Aaron smiles.

			“I like that you and Bella are best friends. It’s fun.”

			“What?” I cough twice into my closed first. “What do you mean?”

			“You’re so different.”

			But I don’t have time to respond because the doors are opening, delivering us straight into the apartment from four and a half years ago. I know immediately, without having to take a step inside, that it’s the one. Of course it is. Where else did I think this morning would deposit me?

			But the apartment isn’t at all what it was—or will be. It’s a construction site. Old wood beams sit piled in a corner. Plumbing and wires hang unfinished from outlets. There’s a wall where I do not remember one being. No appliances. No running water. The space is raw—open, honest—not a stitch of makeup on.

			“Job for an architect,” I say. “I get it now.”

			But Aaron hasn’t heard me. He’s busy leaning his bike up against a wall—where I remember the kitchen being—and stepping back to survey the place. I watch him cross the apartment, walk over to the windows. He turns around, taking in the long view.

			“Bella wants to live here?” I ask. Her apartment is perfect, an actual dream. She bought it before it even came to market, fully renovated. She has three bedrooms, floor-to-ceiling windows, and a galley kitchen. I can’t understand her wanting to move. She decorated that place for two full years. She still claims to not be done.

			But Bella has always been one for a project. She loves potential, possibility, an unknown terrain such as this one. The only trouble is she rarely, if ever, sees anything through. I’ve seen her spend obscene amounts of money on projects and renovations that never ultimately come together. There was the Paris apartment, the LA loft, the jewelry line, the Thai silk scarf company, the shared artists space in Greenpoint. The list is long.

			“She does,” Aaron says. “Or at least see if she can.” He’s speaking quietly. His attention isn’t on his words but instead on his surroundings. I can see him sketching, drawing, molding this place to life in his head.

			They’ve only been together two months. Eight weeks. Granted that’s two weeks longer than Bella’s longest relationship, but still—David didn’t even know my middle name at the end of two months. The fact that Aaron is here—looking at a place for Bella to live? That he’s tapping the walls and stomping the ­floorboards—it gives me pause. Whatever level they’re at, this quickly, isn’t good.

			“Seems like a big project,” I say.

			“Not too big,” he says. “There are good bones here. “And Bella tells me she likes a project.”

			“I know that,” I say.

			At this, he looks at me. He turns his entire attention toward me—my lone figure, standing in this swampy, sweaty space, clad in black running pants and an old camp T--shirt, while the potential of the future hangs around us like storm clouds.

			“I know you do,” he says. It’s softer than I imagined whatever he’d say would be. “I’m sorry if I misspoke.” He takes a step closer to me. I inhale. “The truth is I saw you go into the deli. I circled around and followed you back to the water.” He rubs a hand over his forehead. “I wasn’t sure if I should say hi, but I really—I really do want you to like me. I feel like we got off on the wrong foot and I’m wondering if there’s anything I can do to change that.”

			I back away. “No,” I say. “It’s not—”

			“No, no, it’s okay.” He gives me another lopsided smile, but this one looks hesitant, almost embarrassed. “Look, I don’t need to be loved by everyone. But it would be nice if my girlfriend’s best friend could stand to be in the same room as me, you know?”

			This room. This apartment. This unfulfilled space.

			I nod. “Yeah,” I say. “I know.”

			He brightens at this. “We can take things slow. No meals for a while. Maybe just start with some sparking water? Work our way up to a coffee?”