Page 32 of Every Day (Every Day 1)

“Look,” I say, “what if we met here again tomorrow at the same time? I won’t be in the same body, but I’ll be the same person. Would that make it easier to understand?”

She’s skeptical. “But couldn’t you just tell someone else to come here?”

“Yes, but why would I? This isn’t a prank. This isn’t a joke. It’s my life.”

“You’re insane.”

“You’re just saying that. You know I’m not. You can sense that much.”

Now it’s her turn to look me in the eye. Judge me. See what connection she can find.

“What’s your name?” she asks.

“Today I’m Megan Powell.”

“No. I mean your real name.”

My breath catches. Nobody has ever asked me this before. And I’ve certainly never offered it.

“A,” I say.

“Just A?”

“Just A. I came up with it when I was a little kid. It was a way of keeping myself whole, even as I went from body to body, life to life. I needed something pure. So I went with the letter A.”

“What do you think about my name?”

“I told you the other night. I think it’s beautiful, even if you once found it hard to spell.”

She stands up from her chair. I stand up, too.

She holds there. I can tell there are lots of thoughts she’s considering, but I have no idea what they are. Falling in love with someone doesn’t mean you know any better how they feel. It only means you know how you feel.

“Rhiannon,” I say.

She holds up her hand for me to stop.

“No more,” she tells me. “Not now. Tomorrow. I’ll give you tomorrow. Because that’s one way to know, isn’t it? If what you say is happening is really happening—I mean, I need more than a day.”

“Thank you,” I tell her.

“Don’t thank me until I show up,” she says. “This is all really confusing.”

“I know.”

She puts on her jacket and starts heading for the door. Then she turns around to me one last time.

“The thing is,” she says, “I didn’t really feel it was him that day. Not completely. And ever since then, it’s like he wasn’t there. He has no memory of it. There are a million possible explanations for that, but there it is.”

“There it is,” I agree.

She shakes her head.

“Tomorrow,” I say.

“Tomorrow,” she says, a little less than a promise, and a little more than a chance.

Day 6003