I’d been using this passage out of my room for years, ever since Monty had shown me how. Even though our house existed in countless Echoes, we weren’t the owners. Sometimes I’d cross through and find it abandoned and in disrepair, but most of the time, someone else had moved in. I’d grown accustomed to seeing rehabbed master suites, dusty storage catchalls, and home offices, though I never got over the sensation of being a burglar in my own house.
This time I crossed into an empty attic, exactly as it looked before I had moved up here in elementary school. I headed downstairs, surprised to see familiar furniture and pictures on the wall. The house was dead silent and covered in a thick layer of dust, but definitely ours.
Weird as it was, I was more interested in finding Doughnut Simon.
By now he’d probably forgotten me. But I could remind him. I could try again. It had to be better than my real life, even if only for a few hours. I let myself outside and crossed the shadowy overgrown lawn.
At the living room window a curtain fluttered, ghostly white, and fell still.
I flattened myself against the trunk of a maple tree, trying to discern any hint of movement. Had my parents come up to check on me and tracked me through the pivot? Was the Consort monitoring me without my knowledge?
Nothing. The curtain hung straight and unmoving as clouds scudded across the sky. The only sounds were the wind in the leaves and Doughnut World’s frequency, even stronger than last time.
I exhaled slowly and set out to find Simon.
I tried Grundy’s first. There was a half-decent jazz combo playing, but no Simon. I knew where his Original lived, but couldn’t quite picture this version hanging out at home on a Saturday night. Why had I thought I’d know him well enough to guess his movements?
In a corner booth I spotted the basketball coaches, boisterous and laughing over a pitcher of beer. Game night. If the coaches were here, the kids were celebrating elsewhere.
Duncan’s party. I might have landed in another universe, but a postgame party was a given. And even if Echo Simon wasn’t on the basketball team, he moved with the innate confidence of someone who knew he’d be welcomed in.
The wind cut through my coat as I headed toward Duncan’s neighborhood. If there was no party, or if Simon wasn’t there, I’d end up with hypothermia for nothing. If he was . . . it would be worth it.
My hunch paid off. I spotted the familiar black Jeep at the same time I heard the bass thumping against the windows of a redbrick colonial. I started for the front steps, then stopped. Simon might not be alone. He could have come to the party with Bree, or another girl. He might want to stay with them. It had been so easy to fall into thinking of him as “my” Simon, but that didn’t make it true.
I blew on my fingertips, checked my watch. Past midnight. I could wait for a little while. There was time to scope out the situation, if I didn’t freeze first.
That’s when the rain began. It was thin and nasty and sharp, finding its way down the back of my neck. I eyed the Jeep, looking cozier by the minute, and sent up a silent thanks that Monty’s lessons in petty crime weren’t limited to pickpocketing.
Pulling out my picks, I set to work, hands aching with cold. A minute later I was inside—half-frozen but out of the wet—and replaying my fight with Eliot.
Two Baroque events in as many days, and he’s at the center of both, he’d said. But Original Simon’s frequency was fine. I’d heard it, loud and clear, when we’d touched at the game. If Baroque events were common during sports, it made sense that the captain of the basketball team would be involved. And there were a million factors that could have triggered the problem with Eliot’s map. He was blaming Simon because he was worried about me.
Tomorrow, after Eliot got back from training, I’d go over to his house. We’d fix his map and then we’d be fixed too.
The sound of the door opening made me bolt upright and shriek—which made Simon jump back and swear, then peer at me in the glow of the dome light.
He could still see me, as if our previous contact had carried over. I held my breath, hoping his memories had too.
“You do know how to make an impression, don’t you?” he said, and climbed inside.
“Rain again,” he added as it pattered against the windows. “Am I only going to see you when it’s raining?”
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I looked for you at school.”
“You did?” The idea was flattering. I wouldn’t have been there, of course. He would have seen an impression of me, like a figure in a dream that you couldn’t quite catch. I allowed myself to imagine a version of Washington where Simon sought me out. “My attendance is . . . spotty.”
“Is that why you’re grounded?”
“Not exactly.”
“Is it because you break into people’s cars in the middle of the night?” He lifted my hands to his mouth and blew gently, warming them. I scooted closer.
So much easier to be bold with this Simon, and nothing was more bold than honesty. “I wanted to see you.”
“You could have come inside,” he said.
“I wanted to see you. Not the rest of the school.”
His gaze settled on me, and I stared back, my heartbeat prestissimo, faster than fast. “Did you break out to see me? Or to piss off your parents? I’m not complaining either way.”
I thought back to the jumble of emotions I’d been swamped by tonight, propelling me out of one reality into another. “It was a crappy night overall.”
“Poor Del,” he said, and brushed the back of his hand over my cheek, the touch whisper soft, and then his fingers slid under my hair, warm and deft. “Bet I can cheer you up.”
I tilted my head to the side, pretended to consider the idea. “Okay.”
“I’m better than okay.” He was close enough now that, even in the darkness, I could see the corner of his mouth curve, irresistibly.
“Prove it.” I grabbed the edges of his coat, the leather soft under my fingertips, bracing myself.
His mouth came down on mine—no hesitation, no uncertainty—and while I felt the potential crackle around us, a thousand worlds coming to life at the touch of his lips, every one underscored that this moment was exactly what he’d wanted.
What I’d wanted too. The recklessness I felt around Simon was different—sharper and hungrier than my usual impulsiveness. I couldn’t stay forever, but he trailed kisses along my throat, his hand sliding up my spine, and I knew I couldn’t stay away, either.
The idea should have worried me, but instead it thrilled me more, made me drink him in as deeply as I could.
He drew back, rested his forehead against mine. “That enough proof?”
The words were a challenge, but the gesture was sweet. Rather than answer, I angled my head and kissed him again, slow and thorough, learning the way his hair threaded through my fingers, and the way his breathing changed at my touch, and the tempo of the pulse in his throat. I learned Simon, and if a small voice warned me that this wasn’t really him, I ignored it. Ignoring things I didn’t want to hear had long been one of my specialties.
“Tell me about the crappy day,” he said, when we finally came up for air.
His words brought it back—and I shook my head, trying to dislodge those thoughts. There was no room in the Jeep for anything except the two of us. “It’s nothing.”
“Not if it made you look so sad.”
I traced the bow of his mouth with my thumb, and he caught it between his teeth. Startled, I laughed. “I’m not sad now.”
“Glad to hear it. We should go somewhere.”