The Square Root of Summer(48)

One hand clasps Thomas’s, drawing him close. With the other, I reach up and do what I’ve secretly wanted to do all summer: poke his dimple. And when he laughs, I kiss him.

It’s electricity. It’s light. It’s a shot of liquid silver.

When I said I believe in the Big Bang theory of love, I never thought it could be like this. We fit together like Lego. It’s overwhelming. Thomas’s mouth moves to my neck, and I open my eyes to take in this moment, take in everything—

The kitchen is changing.

A row of spices on the far wall Mexican-waves itself into a new order. Over Thomas’s shoulder, the basil on the sideboard splits and blossoms and flourishes into parsley. The clock spins around; suddenly it’s sunrise. And the roses outside the window, which have always been peach—my whole life they’ve been peach—are now yellow in the pale dawn.

This kiss is changing the universe. I have butterflies, the earthquake-in-Brazil kind, as I pull away.

“Wow,” says Thomas, fake-staggering. Then he pulls me back towards him, pressing our foreheads together, his hands on my face. His glasses squish against my cheek. “Sorry,” he whispers. I don’t know what for. He doesn’t say anything about the spices, the roses, the basil. He doesn’t know anything is different. For him, it’s always been this way.

Every instinct tells me that behind me, on the other side of the kitchen door, is my bedroom. A week from now. The universe’s safety exit.

He trails a finger down my arm, whispering into my mouth. “We should probably go to bed.”

I squeak in surprise.

“Separately, to clarify, you perv,” he laughs. “Before Ned storms out here and murders me.”

“I should…” I turn and gesture to the open kitchen door. I’m right: I can step through it into my bedroom. My ceiling glows with stars, and no storm rattles the window. The books I left scattered on my bed are stacked neatly on my desk, and—oh! Umlaut is there, sleeping on my pillow. I’m going back to a different world than the one I left.

But not necessarily a better one.

On my wall, among the equations, there’s a pool of dark matter. Waiting.

There’s a week to go to the party. And I walked through the worst aspects of the universe to come back here. I don’t believe the Weltschmerzian Exception will let me get away with that.

And I can’t take Thomas with me to hold my hand. If this version of him jumps five days forward, he’ll displace his future self—time will still be twisted. He belongs here. I belong in the future. Only I can go through the wormhole.

These are my choices: Path A. I take this chance to tell Thomas about Jason. I stay in the kitchen, with the truth. And the universe would gradually implode.

Or Path B. I go through the doorway. The universe stays safe but my lie still stands.

Either way, it’s the end of the world.

Quickly, before I can change my mind, I turn around and kiss him. Hard and fast on the mouth, sucking on his bottom lip, clinging on for desperate seconds before I have to let go, before I have to—

I pull away and step backwards, away from him, and then I’m standing in my room. My lungs burst with just those few steps.

Across the doorway, the garden glimmers in the dawn.

“Goodnight,” I say, even though no one is there.





Sunday 10 August

[Minus three hundred and forty-three]

A shaft of sunshine wakes me. My clock says it’s Sunday. My head aches. I swim slowly up through sleep, staring into the window-ivy, which is laced with dark matter, thinking about that universe-changing kiss. It was on my lips a few hours ago, but to Thomas, it never happened.

The past is permanent.

I roll over, struggling with philosophy and the weighed-down duvet.

Thomas is on the bed next to me. Whoa! I go from sleepy to wide awake at warp speed.

He’s still asleep, his breathing warm and heavy and metronome-even, and I watch him, watch the mouth that I’ve kissed. Multiple times now. Thomas Althorpe. Who said he liked me. Who I changed the universe with. Who’s in bed with me. Kind of.

He may have spent the night, but he’s fully dressed on top of the duvet. Even so, I’m alarmed: I stepped through negative energy to come back here. What world have I fast-forwarded us into?

I run my tongue round my mouth and huff a little air at Umlaut to check for morning breath. The kitten is a good sign. How can a universe where he’s back be bad? Then I put my hand on Thomas’s arm and shake him.

“Thomas,” I hiss. “Thomas, wake up.”

He blinks awake, his face half-mushed into my pillow. Seeing him without his glasses it’s like sharing a secret.

“Hey.” Sleepily, he wriggles, closing his eyes again. A heavy arm is draped over me and I’m a bear tucked up for autumn.

“Hi,” I whisper, snuggling myself into his warmth. It’s fine. There’s an entire duvet between us. “Do you, um, do you remember what happened?”

“Mmm, must’ve fallen asleep,” Thomas mumbles into the pillow.

“Yes. But. When.”

“Was up early.” He yawns. “Choux pastry practice. Saw your light on and thought”—rawr, another yawn—“I’d say hello. But you were asleep and then Ned came home and passed out on the grass right outside the kitchen door. Didn’t want to risk climbing over him. Bed looked comfortable.”