Page 154 of Under Story

“Okay,” he said. “How are you?”

Laurel made the same face. She had so much to tell him, but most of it was minutiae, the mundane shifts and dramas that made up the grain of life. It seemed pointless to mention that the dishwasher had broken again, or that Helen had snuck out with Beth’s car and driven straight into a Dumpster. It was also true that Eli was the only person with whom she would have shared these stories.

“Okay,” she said.

He laughed. Their understanding was so effortless that she wanted to grab him, take him back—and she might have done it, had someone else not appeared in the doorway.

“You must be Laurel,” the woman said. “I’m Angela.”

Her hair was dark and glossy. One lithe arm extended forward. Laurel felt as though her insides had been excavated.

“My colleague,” said Eli, who looked distressed; he clearly hadn’t known that she had followed him.

Laurel had no reason to resent Angela. Technically, she and Eli had broken up; if anything, Laurel might seem threatening to Angela. Still, she felt venomous.

“It’s so nice to meet you,” she said. “I should get back to the party.” And then, because of Angela’s mole, which Laurel hated, as it made her even prettier, she added, “I’ll see you on Saturday, Eli?”

All she wanted now was to go back to the hotel. Laurel found Gloria in the living room, wearing a dress she’d made herself: yellow velvet, with wide batwing sleeves. She was drinking something lavender out of a coupe glass.

“Imagine living here,” Gloria said, and Laurel did not tell her that one day, she just might.

—

The conference passed in a parade of papers and poster boards, coffees and cocktail hours, hand-shaking and sad pastries and, every so often, a presentation so intriguing that word of it traveled. Laurel, Tess, and Gloria had been scheduled for the conference’s largest venue, and when they entered, almost every seat was full. Laurel heard gasps as they played footage of the Spark. Their conclusions didn’t go unchallenged, but even the most skeptical observers acknowledged that the data was compelling. Afterward, many rose for a standing ovation.

By Sunday evening, Laurel was haggard, and she decided to leave the parties to people Gloria’s age. From a bus shelter at the top of Lone Mountain, she caught the 1 California to her hotel. The conference had arranged a block of rooms at the St. Francis. Laurel took the famous glass elevator upstairs, watching Union Square grow smaller as she rose.

Laurel unzipped her boots and took a miniature vodka bottle from the minibar. The image of Eli and Angela tormented her. It was one thing to set him free in theory; the reality was wrenching. Tomorrow, Laurel would see him at the beach, and she still didn’t know what she’d say. It was not that she thought they’d made the wrong choice but that the heartache of it kept unfolding. Yet her gut still told her to continue. Laurel thought of the day when she and Eli unconceived Silas—how they met at home, propelled by instinct—and wondered if these were more of the Duoverse’s workings, just as it had pushed her toward Christopher. Was she exercising her own free will? The question made her feel rebellious, and more confused than ever.

She showered and changed into her pajamas. Outside, the moon looked staticky with haze. Laurel sat at the desk to check her email. There was only one new message. It had come from the repair shop where she’d sent the other Laurel’s camera. The technician apologized; Laurel’s order had been buried beneath an avalanche of malfunctioning MacBooks.

She double-clicked the attachment: Salter.mov.

—

Laurel rode the 38 Geary to the western edge of the city, where residential streets gave way to cliffs and water. She was early. Instead of taking the road that curved to the Pacific Ocean, she stopped at Sutro Heights Park. Two lion statues marked the entrance, life-sized, kingly as Aslan. She walked down a wide path fringed by pines the height of redwoods. From there, she passed a cream gazebo and climbed a narrow staircase. A vast disc of meadow, hemmed by a stone parapet, overlooked the ocean. Laurel held on to a metal railing and watched the waves uncurl, thin and layered by the time they reached shore.

She made her way back to the sidewalk, passing the Cliff House on the way to the Great Highway. The medians were filled with sand in which long, green succulents grew; fuchsia flowers nestled in their fingers. Eli sat alone on a graffitied concrete wall. Above him circled gleeful seagulls screaming, Ah! Ah! Ah!

He sensed Laurel and turned.

The seawall stretched along the shoreline for a mile. It was two stories tall, designed to barricade the sand and the ocean. Only the top three feet extended above the sidewalk, which made it a convenient perch. Eli patted the space beside him, and Laurel swung her legs over the side.

They were quiet, almost bashful. Then Eli said:

“You were fantastic the other day. People are calling it the best talk of the conference.”

“You were there?” She couldn’t hide her pleasure. “I didn’t see you.”

“Of course I was,” said Eli.

It was overcast, with velvet clouds, the edges fringed by sun.

“How are you really?” he asked.

“Raw,” she said. “Muddling through.”

Eli nodded. “I keep picking up my phone, to call you.”