Dark Matter(81)

The thread tied around his ring finger is identical to mine.

We drink.

“When did you get—?”

“When did you get—?”

We can’t help but smile.

I say, “This afternoon. You?”

“Yesterday.”

“I have a feeling it’s going to be kind of hard—”

“—not finishing each other’s sentences?”

“You know what I’m thinking right now?”

“I can’t read your mind.”

It’s strange—I’m talking to myself, but his voice doesn’t sound like what I think I sound like.

I say, “I’m wondering how far back you and I branched. Did you see the world of falling ash?”

“Yes. And then the ice. I barely escaped that one.”

“What about Amanda?” I ask.

“We were separated in the storm.”

I feel a pang of loss like a small detonation in my gut.

I say, “We stayed together in mine. Took shelter in a house.”

“The one that was buried to the dormer windows?”

“Exactly.”

“I found that house too. With the dead family inside.”

“So then where—?”

“So then where—?”

“You go,” he says.

As he sips his beer, I ask, “Where did you go after the ice world?”

“I walked out of the box into this guy’s basement. He freaked out. He had a gun, tied me up. Probably would have killed me except he took one of the ampoules and decided to have a look at the corridor for himself.”

“So he went in and never came out.”

“Exactly.”

“And then?”

His eyes go distant for a moment.

He takes another long pull from his beer.

“Then I saw some bad ones. Really bad. Dark worlds. Evil places. What about you?”

I share my story, and though it feels good to unload, it’s undeniably strange to unload on him.

This man and I were the same person up until a month ago. Which means ninety-nine-point-nine percent of our history is shared.

We’ve said the same things. Made identical choices. Experienced the same fears.

The same love.

As he buys our second round of beers, I can’t take my eyes off him.

I’m sitting next to me.

There’s something about him that doesn’t seem quite real.

Perhaps because I’m watching from an impossible vantage point—looking at myself from outside of myself.

He looks strong, but also tired, damaged, and afraid.

It’s like talking to a friend who knows everything about you, but there’s an added layer of excruciating familiarity. Aside from the last month, there are no secrets between us. He knows every bad thing I’ve done. Every thought I’ve entertained. My weaknesses. My secret fears.

“We call him Jason2,” I say, “which implies that we think of ourselves as Jason1. As the original. But we can’t both be Jason1. And there are others out there who think they’re the original.”

“None of us are.”

“No. We’re pieces of a composite.”

“Facets,” he says. “Some very close to being the same man, like I assume you and I are. Some worlds apart.”

I say, “It makes you think about yourself in a different light, doesn’t it?”

“Makes me wonder, who is the ideal Jason? Does he even exist?”

“All you can do is live the best version of yourself, right?”

“Took the words.”

The bartender announces last call.

I say, “Not many people can say they’ve done this.”

“What? Share a beer with themselves?”

“Yeah.”

He finishes his beer.

I finish mine.

Sliding off his stool, he says, “I’ll leave first.”

“Which way are you heading?”

He hesitates. “North.”

“I’m not going to follow you. Can I expect the same?”

“Yes.”

“We can’t both have them.”

He says, “Who deserves them is the question, and there may be no answer. But if it comes down to you and me, I won’t let you stop me from being with Daniela and Charlie. I won’t like it, but I’ll kill you if it comes to that.”

“Thanks for the beer, Jason.”

I watch him go.

Wait five minutes.

I’m the last one to leave.

It’s still snowing.

There’s a half foot of fresh powder on the streets, and the snowplows are out.

Stepping down onto the sidewalk, I take a moment to absorb my surroundings.

Several customers from the bar are staggering away, but I see no one else out on the streets.

I don’t know where to go.

I have nowhere to go.

Two valid hotel keycards in my pocket, but it wouldn’t be safe to use either of them. Other Jasons could have easily obtained copies. They could be inside my room at this moment, waiting for me to return.

It dawns on me—my last ampoule is back at that second hotel.

Gone now.