It’s interesting to me that this is the thing she’s hung up on.
“I’m just me,” I tell her. “I always feel at home and I never feel at home. That’s just the way it is.”
“And when you’re kissing someone?”
“Same thing.”
“And during sex?”
“Is Dylan blushing?” I ask. “Right now, is he blushing?”
“Yeah,” Rhiannon says.
“Good. Because I know I am.”
“You’ve never had—?”
“It wouldn’t be fair of me to—”
“Never!”
“I am so glad you find this funny.”
“Sorry.”
“There was this one girl.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Yesterday. When I was in your body. Don’t you remember? I think you might have gotten her pregnant.”
“That’s not funny!” she says. But she’s laughing.
“I only have eyes for you,” I say.
Just six words, and the conversation turns serious again. I can feel it like a shift in the air, like when a cloud moves over the sun. The laughter stops, and we sit there in the moment after it’s faded away.
“A—” she starts. But I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear about Justin or impossibilities or any of the other reasons why we can’t be together.
“Not now,” I say. “Let’s stay on the nice note.”
“Okay,” she says. “I can do that.”
She asks me about more of the things I noticed when I was in her body, and I tell her about the birthmark, about different people I noticed in her classes, about her parents’ concern. I share the Rebecca memory, but don’t tell her my observations about Justin, because she already knows those things, whether or not she admits them to me or herself. And I don’t mention the slight wrinkles around her eyes or her pimples, because I know they would bother her, even when they add something real to her beauty.
Both of us have to be home for dinner, but the only way I’m willing to let her leave is to extract a promise that we’ll share time together soon. Tomorrow. Or if not tomorrow, the next day.
“How can I say no?” she says. “I’m dying to see who you’ll be next.”
I know it’s a joke, but I have to tell her, “I’ll always be A.”
She stands up and kisses me on the forehead.
“I know,” she says. “That’s why I want to see you.”
We leave on a nice note.
Day 6017
I have gone two days without thinking about Nathan, but it’s clear that Nathan hasn’t gone two days without thinking about me.
7:30 p.m., MONDAY
I still want proof.
8:14 p.m., MONDAY
Why aren’t you talking to me?
11:43 p.m., MONDAY
You did this to me. I deserve an explanation.
6:13 a.m., TUESDAY
I can’t sleep anymore. I wonder if you’re going to come back. I wonder what you’ll do to me. Are you mad?
2:30 p.m., TUESDAY
You have to be the devil. Only the devil would leave me like this.
2:12 a.m., WEDNESDAY
Do you have any idea what it’s like for me now?
The burden I feel is the burden of responsibility, which is a tricky one to deal with. It makes me slower, heavier. But at the same time, it prevents me from floating away into meaninglessness.
It is six in the morning; Vanessa Martinez has gotten up early. After reading Nathan’s emails, I think about what Rhiannon said, what Rhiannon feared. Nathan deserves no less of a response from me.
It will never happen again. That is an absolute. I can’t explain much more than that, but this much I know: It only happens once. Then you move on.
He writes me back two minutes later.
Who are you? How am I supposed to believe you?
I know that any response I give runs the risk of being posted on Reverend Poole’s website within seconds. I don’t want to give him my real name. But I feel if I give him a name, it will make it less likely he sees me as the devil, and more likely he will see me for what I am: just a person like him.
My name is Andrew. You need to believe me because I am the only person who truly understands what happened to you.
Not surprisingly, he replies with:
Prove it.
I tell him:
You went to a party. You didn’t drink. You chatted with a girl there. Eventually she asked you if you wanted to go dance in the basement. You did. And for about an hour, you danced. You lost track of time. You lost track of yourself. And it was one of the most fantastic moments of your life. I don’t know if you remember it, but there will probably come a time when you are dancing like that again, and it will feel familiar, you will know you’ve done it before. That will be the day you forgot. That’s how you’ll get that part of it back.
This isn’t enough.
But why was I there?
I try to keep it simple.
You were there to talk to the girl. For just that one day, you wanted to talk to that girl.
He asks:
What is her name?
I can’t get her involved. I can’t explain the whole story. So I choose to evade.
That’s not important. The important thing is that for a short time, it was worth it. You were having so much fun that you lost track of time. That’s why you were at the side of the road. You didn’t drink. You didn’t crash. You just ran out of time.
I’m sure it was scary. I’m positive it’s hard to comprehend. But it will never happen again.
“I’m just me,” I tell her. “I always feel at home and I never feel at home. That’s just the way it is.”
“And when you’re kissing someone?”
“Same thing.”
“And during sex?”
“Is Dylan blushing?” I ask. “Right now, is he blushing?”
“Yeah,” Rhiannon says.
“Good. Because I know I am.”
“You’ve never had—?”
“It wouldn’t be fair of me to—”
“Never!”
“I am so glad you find this funny.”
“Sorry.”
“There was this one girl.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Yesterday. When I was in your body. Don’t you remember? I think you might have gotten her pregnant.”
“That’s not funny!” she says. But she’s laughing.
“I only have eyes for you,” I say.
Just six words, and the conversation turns serious again. I can feel it like a shift in the air, like when a cloud moves over the sun. The laughter stops, and we sit there in the moment after it’s faded away.
“A—” she starts. But I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear about Justin or impossibilities or any of the other reasons why we can’t be together.
“Not now,” I say. “Let’s stay on the nice note.”
“Okay,” she says. “I can do that.”
She asks me about more of the things I noticed when I was in her body, and I tell her about the birthmark, about different people I noticed in her classes, about her parents’ concern. I share the Rebecca memory, but don’t tell her my observations about Justin, because she already knows those things, whether or not she admits them to me or herself. And I don’t mention the slight wrinkles around her eyes or her pimples, because I know they would bother her, even when they add something real to her beauty.
Both of us have to be home for dinner, but the only way I’m willing to let her leave is to extract a promise that we’ll share time together soon. Tomorrow. Or if not tomorrow, the next day.
“How can I say no?” she says. “I’m dying to see who you’ll be next.”
I know it’s a joke, but I have to tell her, “I’ll always be A.”
She stands up and kisses me on the forehead.
“I know,” she says. “That’s why I want to see you.”
We leave on a nice note.
Day 6017
I have gone two days without thinking about Nathan, but it’s clear that Nathan hasn’t gone two days without thinking about me.
7:30 p.m., MONDAY
I still want proof.
8:14 p.m., MONDAY
Why aren’t you talking to me?
11:43 p.m., MONDAY
You did this to me. I deserve an explanation.
6:13 a.m., TUESDAY
I can’t sleep anymore. I wonder if you’re going to come back. I wonder what you’ll do to me. Are you mad?
2:30 p.m., TUESDAY
You have to be the devil. Only the devil would leave me like this.
2:12 a.m., WEDNESDAY
Do you have any idea what it’s like for me now?
The burden I feel is the burden of responsibility, which is a tricky one to deal with. It makes me slower, heavier. But at the same time, it prevents me from floating away into meaninglessness.
It is six in the morning; Vanessa Martinez has gotten up early. After reading Nathan’s emails, I think about what Rhiannon said, what Rhiannon feared. Nathan deserves no less of a response from me.
It will never happen again. That is an absolute. I can’t explain much more than that, but this much I know: It only happens once. Then you move on.
He writes me back two minutes later.
Who are you? How am I supposed to believe you?
I know that any response I give runs the risk of being posted on Reverend Poole’s website within seconds. I don’t want to give him my real name. But I feel if I give him a name, it will make it less likely he sees me as the devil, and more likely he will see me for what I am: just a person like him.
My name is Andrew. You need to believe me because I am the only person who truly understands what happened to you.
Not surprisingly, he replies with:
Prove it.
I tell him:
You went to a party. You didn’t drink. You chatted with a girl there. Eventually she asked you if you wanted to go dance in the basement. You did. And for about an hour, you danced. You lost track of time. You lost track of yourself. And it was one of the most fantastic moments of your life. I don’t know if you remember it, but there will probably come a time when you are dancing like that again, and it will feel familiar, you will know you’ve done it before. That will be the day you forgot. That’s how you’ll get that part of it back.
This isn’t enough.
But why was I there?
I try to keep it simple.
You were there to talk to the girl. For just that one day, you wanted to talk to that girl.
He asks:
What is her name?
I can’t get her involved. I can’t explain the whole story. So I choose to evade.
That’s not important. The important thing is that for a short time, it was worth it. You were having so much fun that you lost track of time. That’s why you were at the side of the road. You didn’t drink. You didn’t crash. You just ran out of time.
I’m sure it was scary. I’m positive it’s hard to comprehend. But it will never happen again.
