Every Day

And then I can’t help it. I add, This is what I can’t have.

“Can I ask you something?” I say to Amelia.

“Sure. What?”

“If I woke up in a different body every day—if you never knew what I was going to look like tomorrow—would you still love me?”

She doesn’t miss a beat, or even act like the question is strange. “Even if you were green and had a beard and a male appendage between your legs. Even if your eyebrows were orange and you had a mole covering your entire cheek and a nose that poked me in the eye every time I kissed you. Even if you weighed seven hundred pounds and had hair the size of a Doberman under your arms. Even then, I would love you.”

“Likewise,” I tell her.

It’s so easy to say, because it never has to be true.

Before we say goodbye, she kisses me with everything she has. And I try to kiss her back with everything I want.

This is the nice note, I can’t help thinking.

But just like a sound, as soon as the note hits the air, it begins to fade.

When I walk inside, Zara’s mother says to her, “You know, you can invite Amelia in.”

I tell her I know. Then I rush to my room, because it’s too much. So much happiness can only make me sad. I close the door and begin to sob. Rhiannon’s right. I know it. I can never have these things.

I don’t even check my email. Either way, I don’t want to know.

Amelia calls to say good night. I have to let it go to voicemail, have to compose myself into the most like Zara I can be, before I answer.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her when I call her back. “I was talking to Mom. She says you need to come by more often.”

“Is she referring to the bedroom window or the front door?”

“The front door.”

“Well, it looks like a little bird called progress is now sitting on our shoulder.”

I yawn, then apologize for it.

“No need to say you’re sorry, sleepyhead. Dream a little dream of me, okay?”

“I will.”

“I love you,” she says.

“I love you,” I say.

And then we hang up, because nothing else needs to be said after that.

I want to give Zara her life back. Even if I feel I deserve something like this, I don’t deserve it at her expense.

She will remember all of it, I decide. Not my discontent. But the contentment that caused it.

Day 6031

I wake up feverish, sore, uncomfortable.

July’s mother comes in to check on her. Says she seemed fine last night.

Is it sickness or is it heartbreak?

I can’t tell.

The thermometer says I’m normal, but clearly I’m not.

Day 6032

An email from Rhiannon. Finally.

I want to see you, but I’m not sure if we should do that. I want to hear about what’s going on, but I’m afraid that will only start everything again. I love you—I do—but I am afraid of making that love too important. Because you’re always going to leave me, A. We can’t deny it. You’re always going to leave.

R

I don’t know how to respond to that. Instead, I try to lose myself in being Howie Middleton. His girlfriend picks a fight with him at lunchtime, over the fact that he never spends time with her anymore. Howie doesn’t have much to say about that. In fact, he stays entirely silent, which only infuriates her further.

I have to go, I think. If there are things I will never have here, there are also things I will never find here. Things I might need to find.

Day 6033

I wake up the next morning as Alexander Lin. His alarm goes off, playing a song I really like. This makes waking up much easier.

I also like his room. Plenty of books on the shelves, some of their spines worn down from rereading. There are three guitars in the corner, one electric, the amp still plugged in from the night before. In another corner, there’s a lime-green couch, and I know immediately this is a place where friends come to crash, this is their home away from home. He has Post-its all over the place with random quotes on them. On top of his computer is something from George Bernard Shaw: Dance is the perpendicular expression of a horizontal desire. Some of the Post-its are in his handwriting, but others have been written by friends. I am the walrus. I’m nobody—who are you? Let all the dreamers wake the nation.

Even before I’ve gotten to know him, Alexander Lin has made me smile.

His parents are happy to see him. I have a sense that they’re always happy to see him.

“Are you sure you’re going to be okay for the weekend?” his mother asks. Then she opens the refrigerator, which looks like it’s been stocked for at least a month. “I think there’s enough here, but if you need anything, just use the money in the envelope.”

I feel something is missing here; there is something I should be doing. I access and discover it’s the Lins’ anniversary tomorrow. They are going on an anniversary trip. And Alexander’s gift for them is up in his room.