Chapter Twenty-Six

August 31

I don’t wait for the elevator. I slam into the stairwell, pounding down the stairs so fast that my shoes slip multiple times

and I have to grab the railing before I go flying headfirst. I jump the last few steps at the bottom and then I run through

the lobby, out the front door, and down the sidewalk. The warm night air sticks in my lungs and my footfalls vibrate my bones

as I pelt toward the bookstore.

The bell tower’s last chime rings into the air above me.

The streetlights are on all up and down Main Street. Most of the storefronts are dark; Ethel May’s is still open, a few families

sitting at tables outside. Someone is mopping the floor behind the window of Subway. The lights framing the window of Cannova’s

blink garishly into the night.

But all I really care about is In Between Books. And behind the frosted letters on the window, a few fluorescent lights are

still on.

I don’t slow down. Don’t give myself time to think about what I’m doing, what I’m about to do, or even time to think about

what will happen if I can’t get in, because the sign on the door is turned to closed ...

I just run straight to the door and pull .

It opens so fast that I stumble backward, the bell overhead jangling. The comforting musty smell fills my nose as I cross

the threshold, gasping for air, eyes adjusting to the half-light. The magazine stand is here. The handwritten signs. I’m in

the past.

“Darby?” My voice comes out hoarse and cracked.

The floor creaks, and there’s my younger self, just stepping out of the back room, holding a stack of books. Confusion crosses Young Darby’s face. I’m sure it’s partly because the store is closed and I just barged in anyway, but in the back of my mind, I realize I’ve never called this version of me by my name.

“Um.” The books slip and Young Darby quickly slides them onto the counter. The spines glint in the glow from the streetlights

outside the window, all of them a dull, muted red. “Hi. The store’s closed.”

“I know.” I’m out of breath. My throat is dry and my head is pounding. “I’m sorry. But there’s something... I need to tell

you something.”

“I’ll be here tomorrow too,” Young Darby says blankly. “Just for the morning, and then I have to pack—”

“It’s important.” And I don’t know if I’ll be able to find you. And even if I could... “It can’t wait.”

A frown crosses Young Darby’s face. “Okay. But...” Young Darby turns, glancing up at the book clock over the storage room

door. “I have to go in a minute. It’s my birthday party tonight.”

My younger self looks back at me, maybe trying for a smile, but it doesn’t quite materialize. Because it’s not a party I’m

excited about. It’s a party I’m having because I have a birthday party every year, and I couldn’t figure out how to tell my

mom I wasn’t sure if I wanted one this year, and by the time I was sure I definitely didn’t, she’d already invited people,

and it was too late.

And anyway, I didn’t know what I’d say if she asked me why.

The fluorescent light over the counter flickers. My eyes jerk toward it and I think I can see the shadowy shape of a person

behind the counter. Just for a second. And then the shape is gone.

My heart hammers. I’m running out of time.

I have to do this now. I have to say all this now, before I fall into the present again.

I drag in a breath. “There’s something you know about yourself. Something we’ve been talking around. It’s something big and

life-changing and so simple at the same time. You know who you are, even though you probably haven’t said it out loud to yourself

yet. And I know—believe me—how hard it is to look around at this place and feel like there’s room for you to exist. How hard

it is to see any kind of future for yourself.”

The light overhead dims and then brightens. The table of new releases seems to shift a few inches, the stacks of books growing and shrink ing, their spines shifting colors. Almost like I’m looking at everything through only my left eye and then switching quickly to my right.

No, no, no. I need to stay here. Just give me a few more minutes.

“I know you’re about to leave and go to this new school,” I say, and desperation is creeping into my voice. “I know you’re

hoping that will be an escape, but...” I focus as hard as I can on my younger self standing next to the counter, watching

me with wide eyes. “Don’t assume you’ll lose people once they know who you are. Take care of yourself. Protect yourself. But

don’t hurt yourself more by shutting people out.”

Young Darby glances away, shrinking inward. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Oh, kid. “Yeah, you do.”

“You don’t know anything about me.” But it doesn’t sound defiant this time. It sounds afraid, like a phrase held up as a shield.

The fluorescent light above us flickers again, and now I think I can hear music, distantly. Something jazz again, muffled

and muted.

“We’ve been over this,” I say. “You remind me of me, remember?” I almost laugh, but it gets stuck in my throat. “And I know

enough about me.”

Young Darby looks at me. A deep look. So deep that I feel exposed.

And then I see it—a slow hint of recognition. Not that I’m me , not that we’re the same person.

A recognition much deeper than that.

Very quietly, Young Darby says, “If you knew, why didn’t you tell me?”

Because you’d ask how I knew. Because I didn’t know if you’d believe me. “Because nobody else can tell you who you are.”

Young Darby draws a breath, and the music is fading in my ears now, and I hear the breath shudder. “So now what? You’re here

to tell me everything’s going to be okay?”

“No.” I swallow. “I’m here to tell you to trust your friends.”

Something flashes through Young Darby’s eyes. Doubt, or maybe fear. “What’s that mean?”

“It means you don’t need to start over.” Now Young Darby fades in front of me. For a disconcerting second, I can see straight through my younger self to a row of books—like Young Darby has turned into a ghost. I squeeze my eyes shut. “You don’t need to start over, because if you want to be yourself—all of yourself—your friends can come with you.” I open my eyes. Young Darby is solid again. “Don’t assume you’re too much or too weird or too new. I know not everybody is safe, and you need to be safe, but... but sometimes it’s worth taking the risk. You’ll know when it’s worth taking the risk, and then...” I swallow again, because my throat is closing up. “And then you have to, because the only alternative is to be alone, and that’s so much worse.”

Young Darby looks down at the stack of books on the counter. I catch a glimpse of a bird on the cover of the book on top of

the stack. Catching Fire . The bookstore is going to be so crowded tomorrow. Or... as crowded as In Between Books ever got when I worked there.

“I don’t even understand me.” It’s a whisper. Young Darby rubs a thumb over the corner of one of the books. “I don’t know

how anyone else is supposed to.”

“Welcome to the world.” I let my breath out and shrug. “I don’t understand me, either. But honestly, that’s just how it is

for everyone. I mean, some of us have to try harder, but... we can still choose who’s with us while we fumble around.”

Young Darby blinks, but I see a tear slide down one cheek. “How can you be so sure? I mean, maybe that’s how it works for

you, but...”

“I’m not,” I say. Which is the truth, after all. “But I have a feeling.”

Young Darby looks up at me, almost accusing. “A feeling?”

I nod.

My younger self wavers. Looks down at the books again. And then says, “The only friend I have is... I mean... it’s Michael.”

I nod again.

“He’s going to be at my birthday party tonight.” Young Darby swipes quickly at one cheek. Maybe hoping I won’t notice. “What

if you’re wrong?”

I open my mouth and hesitate. Because even though I want to say I’m not wrong, even though I want to promise that I know the

outcome of this and everything will be fine...

The truth is, I don’t know. I only have a feeling. The Michael I know is the one I just left on the roof deck—and he’s not

the same as he was thirteen years ago, just like I’m not the same. I can’t pretend I know someone who no longer exists.

Which means that finally, Young Darby and I are in exactly the same position—neither of us have a fucking clue what’s coming.

“You keep going anyway,” I say. “And you find people who understand. They’re out there.” And that, at least, I know to be

true.

I see my younger self’s shoulders rise and fall, and rise again. Young Darby hesitates, and then... “Okay. Maybe I’ll tell

Michael.”

Whatever’s holding me together shatters. My knees go weak and my breath rushes out of my lungs.

The muffled music is back in my ears—closer this time. Behind Young Darby, I see the storage room door close by itself. The

table of new releases is shifting again. A shadowy shape moves behind the counter. I could almost swear it’s Ann, Hank’s daughter.

“You’ll be okay,” I say to Young Darby, but I’m starting to feel like my younger self is very far away. I look up at the book

clock over the storage room door. The burgundy cover of Sherlock Holmes saturates and then fades.

8:15.

I look back at Young Darby. The whole store around me seems to be shifting now, shadows flitting across the floor, darkness

creeping in and out of the corners, books flickering on the shelves, the music growing louder. Only Young Darby stays the

same in front of me, the light never changing on my younger self’s face.

I take a step forward, and before I can second-guess myself, before I can think better of it, I reach out and pull my younger

self into a hug.

The music cuts out, like someone’s switched off the stereo. The light above us flicks on and off, sharply, like someone’s

playing with the switch. The stack of red books on the counter vanishes. A faint flowery smell fills the air.

Young Darby’s arms wrap around me tightly.

I’m out of time.

I’m falling. I can feel it.

I let go of my younger self, stepping back, breaking Young Darby’s grasp.

“Good luck,” I say.

“Wait,” Young Darby says.

But I don’t wait. I can’t wait. “You’ll be okay,” I say again, and then I turn and head for the door.

It occurs to me, in the few seconds before I reach it, that I should have texted Olivia before barging in here and killing

my phone’s battery. Olivia—or the group chat. At least say, Nice to have known you.

Because I have no idea what’s going to happen now. Whether I fall out of the past or whether I make it through this door...

If Young Darby trusts Michael—if my younger self goes to that birthday party and things go differently—maybe that’ll change

my past. And if that happens, maybe I’ll just cease to exist. Maybe I’ll disappear.

If Young Darby changes everything about his future, what happens to me?

I reach out and grasp the doorknob. Push the door open. The bell jingles. And I step outside.