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“How many times have you told this story?”
“None. I swear. You’re the first.”
This should make her feel special—it’s meant to make her feel special—but instead it seems to worry her.
“You have to have parents, don’t you? I mean, we all have parents.”
I shrug. “I have no idea. I would think so. But it’s not like there’s anyone I can ask. I’ve never met anyone else like me. Not that I would necessarily know.”
It’s clear from her expression that she thinks this is a sad story I’m telling her—a very sad story. I don’t know how to convey to her that it hasn’t all been sad.
“I’ve glimpsed things,” I say. Then I stop. I don’t know what’s next.
“Go on,” she tells me.
“It’s just—I know it sounds like an awful way to live, but I’ve seen so many things. It’s so hard when you’re in one body to get a sense of what life is really like. You’re so grounded in who you are. But when who you are changes every day—you get to touch the universal more. Even the most mundane details. You see how cherries taste different to different people. Blue looks different. You see all the strange rituals boys have to show affection without admitting it. You learn that if a parent reads to you at the end of the day, it’s a good sign that it’s a good parent, because you’ve seen so many other parents who don’t make the time. You learn how much a day is truly worth, because they’re all so different. If you ask most people what the difference was between Monday and Tuesday, they might tell you what they had for dinner each night. Not me. By seeing the world from so many angles, I get more of a sense of its dimensionality.”
“But you never get to see things over time, do you?” Rhiannon asks. “I don’t mean to cancel out what you just said. I think I understand that. But you’ve never had a friend that you’ve known day in and day out for ten years. You’ve never watched a pet grow older. You’ve never seen how messed up a parent’s love can be over time. And you’ve never been in a relationship for more than a day, not to mention for more than a year.”
I should have known it would come back to that. “But I’ve seen things,” I tell her. “I’ve observed. I know how it works.”
“From the outside? I don’t think you can know from the outside.”
“I think you underestimate how predictable some things can be in a relationship.”
“I love him,” she says. “I know you don’t understand, but I do.”
“You shouldn’t. I’ve seen him from the inside. I know.”
“For a day. You saw him for a day.”
“And for a day, you saw who he could be. You fell more in love with him when he was me.”
I reach out again for her hand, but this time she says, “No. Don’t.”
I freeze.
“I have a boyfriend,” she says. “I know you don’t like him, and I’m sure there are moments when I don’t like him, either. But that’s the reality. Now, I’ll admit, you have me actually thinking that you are, in fact, the same person who I’ve now met in five different bodies. All this means is that I’m probably as insane as you are. I know you say you love me, but you don’t really know me. You’ve known me a week. And I need a little more than that.”
“But didn’t you feel it that day? On the beach? Didn’t everything seem right?”
There it is again—the pull of the ocean, the song of the universe. A better liar would deny it. But some of us don’t want to live our lives as liars. She bites her lip and nods.
“Yes. But I don’t know who I was feeling that for. Even if I believe it was you, you have to understand that my history with Justin plays into it. I wouldn’t have felt that way with a stranger. It wouldn’t have been so perfect.”
“How do you know?”
“That’s my point. I don’t.”
She looks at her phone, and whether or not she truly needs to leave, I know this is the sign that she’s going to.
“I have to make it back for dinner,” she says.
“Thanks for driving all this way,” I tell her.
It’s awkward. So awkward.
“Will I see you again?” I ask.
