Ten Thousand Skies Above You

Then I realize that the school is one here in New York City, and I laugh out loud in relief.

Encouraged, I search a little more online. He doesn’t have a Twitter account or anything like that, but he doesn’t in my world either. None of the universities list him as a student. He doesn’t seem to participate in any of the rock-climbing or hiking clubs I can find in the area either.

Finally I locate a Facebook page, which is set to private. The one photo I can see shows him from the side, looking away from the camera; it’s like Paul clipped the image from the background of a photo of someone or something else. Bad as the picture is, I’d recognize him anywhere—even here, when he’s wearing a tailored leather jacket that seems entirely unlike anything he’d own. Same gray eyes; same broad shoulders. I look closer, seeking that lost, lonely expression that always touches me—but the shadows in the picture render his face unreadable.

It’s easy for me to imagine this picture as an image of the Paul from the Warverse; something about the lines of the leather jacket reminds me of his military uniform. His stricken face as Theo and I walked away . . . I hurt him so much, giving him hope and then crushing it. Maybe I had no other choice; maybe the situation worked out for the best. Doesn’t make it any easier to think about wounding Paul after Paul, in world after world.

Try not to screw it up this time, I tell myself.

Easier said than done. Without any school or job listed for Paul, I have no way of arranging an accidental meeting. Somehow, I have to get him to reach out to me.

Inspiration strikes, and I open a quick Facebook message to Paul. After chewing on my bottom lip for a moment, I type: Hey, we’ve never met, but we have mutual friends.

Alternate versions of him in other dimensions count as “mutual friends,” right?

Basically, everyone says you and I should meet sometime. So how about this week? We could get together—

Where? I don’t know New York City very well yet. But I know where my parents teach without even having to ask. Growing up surrounded by physics grad students means you’re constantly looking over postdoc applications to the best schools in the world.

—on the Columbia campus and grab a coffee, if you wanted. Hope this is the right Paul Markov. If it’s not, sorry for the mistake!

That works. Even if Paul’s not intrigued by the idea of the blindest blind date of all time, he’ll probably write back, if only to ask which one of his friends is trying to set him up. Then I’ll keep the messages coming, ask a few casual questions that will tell me something about this world’s Paul, and I can use that information to find him.

And who knows? Maybe he’d like the idea of a blind date.

I hug my knees to my chest, but my smile fades as I remind myself of my other reason for being here. Wyatt Conley didn’t send me to this dimension to look Paul up for a latte. Not even to retrieve the next splinter of Paul’s soul.

He sent me here to betray my parents, and this time, I can’t take the risk of faking it. This time, I hurt them for real.

My dark errand weighs heavily on me as the three of us ride down in the elevator, on our way to eat dinner with Josie and the guy in her life. Apparently we’re being treated to someplace fancy, because normally my father would never wear a tie for anything less than a wedding, a funeral, or a pitch meeting for a big research grant.

“We should’ve insisted on picking the restaurant,” Dad says during the taxi ride across Central Park. “The Vietnamese place around the corner, maybe. We’d all be more relaxed, and ten-to-one I’d like the food better.”

“If he’s treating, then logically he should be the one to determine the restaurant.” Mom looks out the car window at the darkening sky above. Day has begun fading into night. “We learn about people by observing their choices, Henry. The more control we surrender in this situation, the more we’ll learn about him.”

I’m wedged between the two of them in the middle of the backseat of the cab, with some obnoxious taxi-only TV channel playing on the same screen my knees are jammed against. “How much farther is it?”

“No idea,” Dad grumbles. “Never bothered going anyplace so ritzy in my life, and my great-uncle was a viscount, you know.”

Mom smiles. “Look at it this way, Henry. Now we know where to take Susannah the next time she visits Manhattan.”

I feel a completely illogical leap of surprise at the news that Aunt Susannah—dead in the Warverse—is alive and well here. And of course they need to take her to the fanciest restaurant in New York. The more pretentious and overpriced something is, the greater chance Aunt Susannah will love it. I manage to hold back a giggle, but barely.

But being with my parents while they’re acting like themselves—dorky and silly and so crazy about each other it’s almost embarrassing—that only makes it more difficult to think of the task ahead.

I hug myself and shrink down farther in the seat.

The restaurant turns out to border Central Park. It’s located in a stately, cream-colored building from the 1910s, one that doesn’t proclaim its status so much as it quietly suggests it. As we walk to the front door, I see someone standing nearby, waiting; when he turns, I recognize Theo.

“Hey,” I call. I’m about to lift my hand to wave when it hits me: What if Theo’s here because he’s Josie’s fiancé?

That’s crazy. They’ve never seemed like more than friends, not ever, even if he is closer to her age than mine. But this is a new dimension, with new rules. Is that why he’s in my phone contacts? Because I’ve made friends with my future brother-in-law?

Then Mom smiles at him. “Theo. So glad you could make it.”

“Glad to be here,” Theo says. I can tell he’s winging it, trying to figure out how well he knows my parents in this dimension.

The answer comes as Dad slaps him on the shoulder. “You needed to take a break from your dissertation—and besides, we’ll need an objective point of view. Nobody we’d trust more than you.”

Theo gets that oh crap I have no idea what they’re talking about look. So I provide an assist, saying, “We can’t let Josie marry just anybody, you know.”

He visibly stifles a laugh, as astonished as I am at the thought of commitment-phobic Josie getting engaged. My parents don’t see; they’re already walking inside. Once again, Theo crooks his arm for me, and I take it. He whispers, “Seen Paul?”

Only on a computer screen. I shake my head. Explaining my plan will have to wait for later.

We enter a hushed space, so carefully lit and perfectly decorated in cream and gold that I’d know it was crazy expensive even if Dad hadn’t told me already. The carpet beneath my shoes feels as plush as if I were walking on clouds. Theo uses his free hand to straighten his mega-ironic ’80s tie with the piano keys on it; this place is fancy enough to make even him self-conscious.

In the corner Josie rises from her seat to greet us. She’s wearing flowing silk pants and a cowl-necked sweater—which, despite their elegance, still look like something my sister would choose to wear. So Josie’s herself here, I think—and then I stop short. Theo sucks in a sharp breath as we see who’s by her side—

—my sister’s fiancé, Wyatt Conley.