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“I just came from July 2029.”
He smiles, gleefully goofy. “And were you wondering whatever happened to that guy? or were you wishing I’d take out the garbage?”
“That is for me to know and you to find out.”
“Too bad I can’t zip ahead to the future. Hey, have you ever dated another time traveler?”
I didn’t see that coming. “Yes,” I admit, “but it was complicated.”
“I guess it would be,” Zach says.
I divert him from that line of conversation by asking him about his own dating history (which of course I already know: a high school sweetheart named Josephine; a girl named Susan whom he met in a Blake seminar, dated for a few months and who then stalked him for a year before transferring to another school; various anarchists who will be annoyed with him for marrying me). Soon we’re pulling up in front of Mama’s house. In this present, I still live there.
“Wait here, I’ll be right back.”
“Oh,” Zach says, sounding disappointed. “Okay.”
“You can’t come in, because I remember the first time you came over and this isn’t it.”
He nods, unconvinced. I sprint across icy sidewalk in my bare feet to the back door and let myself in using the touch pad. The house is chilly; no one is home. In my room everything’s a mess: bed unmade, dirty clothes strewn over the chair and rug. There’s a neat pile of clean, folded laundry sitting at the foot of the bed, obviously placed there by Mama. I am mortified by my deeply depressed younger self’s slovenly habits. I pick through the pile for underwear, tights, jeans and a sweater, and for once I don’t worry about taking favorites; I’ll be with friends and these things will be returned to my younger self tomorrow. I brush my hair and put on some lipstick while I’m at it, why not. I put on an ancient pair of Docs, saved for an occasion like this (the current pair must be on Other Alba’s feet) and filch one of Mama’s vintage winter coats from the front closet. I’m trying to compensate for looking feral earlier by glamming up a bit. Nadia would be pleased. Oh god, Nadia.
Back in the car, Zach says, “Where to?”
“The Gomolinskis’. I hope they’re home.” Zach hands me his phone and I text Rosa, then her mom, Charisse. No replies. “Let’s just go over there. There’s almost always somebody around.” I give Zach the address. It’ll be nice to visit Gomez and Charisse at their old house, the one I halfway grew up in, we were over there so much. After my dad died, Mama and I were adrift for a while; the Gomolinskis saved us. Zach turns onto Western Avenue and we cruise along at a sedate pace, magically making every light. “Western is such a speed trap,” Zach says. “Do you want to stop and get some lunch?”
“Is it lunchtime? I haven’t had breakfast yet. No, let’s not stop. I don’t feel confident about staying in this time, and I want to get you to Gomez and Charisse’s place asap.”
“All the Gomolinskis I’ve met so far make me nervous.” Zach seems perfectly calm as he says this, but he’s not kidding.
“Well, you are living in your car and it’s winter, and I happen to know that they will happily take you in.”
“Take me in? Seriously? Alba, I am not a stray dog. And I am not living in my car.”
I laugh, I can’t help it. “Of course you are—even if I didn’t know that for a fact, I could deduce it from the sleeping bag in your back seat and the shaving kit next to my feet.”
Zach is mortified. “At least tell me I don’t look like I’m homeless.”
He’s rumpled and smells like he could use a shower, but hey, we are married and I am used to a rather relaxed version of Zach; actually I prefer him that way. “You look quite presentable. I think you are just fishing for compliments.”
“Well, let me stop at that Starbucks on the corner and at least change my shirt so I don’t look like some random guy you picked up off the street.”
“All right. Make it quick.”
While Zach is in the café I idly search his glove compartment. I’m not looking for anything in particular, so I am startled to discover four cans of tuna fish, a spork, ten protein bars, his vehicle registration and an insurance card, a dog-eared paperback copy of To the Lighthouse, a motley collection of face masks and a package of antibacterial wipes, three power banks, a tangle of phone chargers, adapters and random cords, and a five-year-old letter from Oklahoma Human Services addressed to his original name declaring Zach an emancipated minor. I did not know this; he’s never spoken of it. I cram everything back in and shut the glove compartment. A few minutes later Zach returns, removes his mask and douses his hands with sanitizer. He’s shaved, wet-combed his hair, changed into a clean, collared shirt and smells like apricots.
“Hey, gorgeous,” I say. “Are you wearing cologne?”
“No, that’s the soap from the soap dispenser in there. I’m running low on supplies.”
“You should have said, I could have given you soap and whatever from our stash at home.”
I expect Zach to start the car but he does not. “Yeah, look, Alba. I know you have a longer perspective on our—acquaintance? Relationship? I mean, you seem very confident—”
“—too confident?”
“Well, how am I supposed to know?” He’s annoyed. “But couldn’t you let me have a few delusions? Let me imagine that you don’t know that I’m broke, that I’ve been couch surfing for the last six months, that I’m not eating my vegetables or calling my mother. I don’t want a handout from someone I’d like to date; I’m also not keen on showing up at the Gomolinskis’ and demanding to crash with them.”
“Sorry,” I say meekly. Zach doesn’t push back at me very often; I secretly find it very attractive when he does.
