Page 26 of I Know How This Ends

“Tricky to heat is what everyone says about me.” Henry smiles and takes a step toward me. This time, there’s no hesitation.

“I like you, Margot. You’re scary but kind of impressive.”

“Like a box jellyfish.”

“No.” He grins and puts his hands on either side of my face. “Like a shark. Ha—I think I shall call you Meg the Megalodon.”

My stomach glows. That’s exactly what he called me in my vision, and I can literally feel the future fitting into place like a perfect jigsaw. It’s just another piece of evidence that I can’t have imagined: it’s

all coming true.

“Aren’t they extinct?”

“Well, I just found one. With a bite that could crush a car.”

“Just kiss me,” I grin with an eye roll. “And stop talking about fish.”

As Henry kisses me, the fire leaps from my stomach through my chest and into my arms until they wrap around him like two magnets. I feel fifteen again: as if this is my first kiss, my last kiss, and everything in between.

“Should I call you a cab?” We separate reluctantly. “To get you safely back to Bristol?”

I study Henry’s face, wondering how I ever found it anything other than beautiful. It is a perfect face: a face I want to

swipe right on, as many times as I possibly can.

“No,” I say firmly. “I’m coming in.”

It’s amazing how quickly I’ve adjusted to the extraordinary.

In less than two weeks, I have gone from bewildered by my visions to taking them in my stride. As Henry shows me with sweet

pride around a flat I’ve already seen before, I note with bizarre complacency the dark green velvet couch covered in a thick

mustard blanket: the very one I will (possibly?) be sweating and shivering under at some point in the future. I note the same

ornate Victorian fireplace—candles unlit this time—the oil painting of a ship and the dark gray walls still the color of a

pavement in the rain.

With a sense of slight bemusement—something is off—I frown and study the room, suddenly realizing that the large indoor tree

is in a different place. I feel a lurch of my stomach: what if the tree stays there? If that one thing changes, does the future

peel away like cheap wallpaper? And if so, how do I stick it back up?

“Oh,” Henry says, following my gaze. “Hang on.”

Without another word, he walks over and lugs it to the exact spot in the window alcove where I saw it in my vision.

“Henry.” I stare at him. “Why did you do that?”

Time feels flickering and delicate, like a candle about to blow out.

“Oh.” Henry scratches his beard. “That’s where it normally lives. I only moved it because Winnie was doing some kind of dance

routine in front of the window yesterday.”

With a bewildered nod, I gaze around the room, taking in details I was too sick to notice last time.

Henry’s flat is full of character, just like him.

Trinkets collected and books with broken spines; paintings, plants and lights.

I nod in appreciation: this is what a home should feel like.

It just begs the question of why we move into mine, not his. Surely it would make sense the

other way round?

There’s a collection of framed photos organized on the mantelpiece, and I pause to study them. One is clearly of Amy—laughing

with a baby Winter in her arms—and my chest hurts: I cannot conceive of that great a loss. Poor, poor Henry. Poor, poor Winnie.

My stomach suddenly drops. “Who is this?”

It’s a large black-and-white photograph of a beautiful lady dressed in a flapper costume with arched eyebrows and a wry smile.

More significantly, it’s the unknown portrait in the gold frame that I saw on the wall in my vision of my flat.

“That’s my grandmother,” Henry says with warmth. “She died when I was little, but I still miss her. You’re so lucky to still

have your grandfather.”

“I am.” I smile: another piece of the puzzle slots into place.

“So...” Henry puts his arms around me and I feel myself soften into the solidity of him. “What do you think? Are my crumbling

original features a deal-breaker?”

“Well,” I laugh. “Actually, I think they’re something I could—”

A familiar chill runs down my spine: time is shivering through me like sand in an hourglass, moving me from one place to another.

We’re on a windswept beach, and Henry’s arms are still around me. I’m swaddled in a woolly hat and scarf. I feel myself immediately

relax in Henry’s arms: whenever or wherever I am now, he’s still here. It’s no longer frightening because I’m now certain

that all my visions will have him in them; I will never have to be here on my own.

“You’ve gone again,” he says in a low voice.

“Oh.” I blink, then stare at the sea in an attempt to ground myself: choppy, gray, it looks like winter. “Yes. Sorry. Where

are we?”

Somehow, this version of me has managed to infiltrate Future Margot in order to ask a basic geographical question; I think

I’m slowly gaining a tiny bit of control over her. Even if it makes us both sound stupid.

“Weston-super-Mare.” Henry takes my question in his stride—I’m clearly forgetful in the future—and kisses the side of my suddenly

cold, runny nose. “I treat you to all the most exotic locations.”

“You certainly do.”

Instinctively, I lift my hand to wipe the dribble from my nose and feel something sharp catch the side of my nostril. With

a pulse of shock, I pull my hand away and stare at it. There’s a gold band on my ring finger: small, dainty, with the world’s

tiniest diamond.

“Holy fuck,” I say out loud.

“Yes, it’s pretty impressive.” Henry grins and squeezes me tightly. “Thanks for the sweary validation.”

I stare at the ring in amazement. Bloody hell.

This relationship just went from first proper date to engaged in literally thirty seconds: it’s the fastest courtship known

to man. Apparently I don’t just move in with Henry, I’m going to marry him, or at least agree to. For a second, I feel a twist of fear—not another bloody wedding—and then it abruptly disappears.

Henry is not Aaron. Our wedding will not be that not-wedding. Even this ring feels exactly as it should: comfortable, small,

sweet. It fits my hand in a way the other one never did. More importantly, I can feel my contentment, or—more specifically—Other Margot’s contentment: a sense that everything is right .

She’s happy. So incredibly, unfeasibly happy, and I’m suddenly grateful to her for letting me share a few moments of it.

“I love it,” I say quietly. “It’s perfect.”

“ I think it should have been amethyst,” a little voice behind me says breathlessly. “When I get married, it’s going to be a bright purple amethyst or I’m saying no thank you very much, I’ll marry someone with better

taste.”

Henry chuckles, and as I spin round, Winter zooms off again toward the ocean and my breath catches. She’s taller, lankier.

Her hair is darker and much longer, knotted by the wind. She must be about nine years old.

Three years. We get engaged in three years.

“Henry,” I feel myself say quietly, “I want you to know that—”

And I’m back.

Except... what did I want him to know? It suddenly feels like it was Future Margot slipping in again and taking back the

reins. Trying to tell him something important from the future; I just don’t know what it was .

“Hey.” Henry frowns and pulls away slightly, studying my face. “You OK?”

We’re back in the living room: my clothes are different, my nose is no longer running. I look down briefly. My ring finger

is empty again. A thread of happiness tugs through me, like a bright gold string: not at the ring’s absence, but at its potential

arrival.

“I’m good.” I nod. “Sorry, I just... got lost for a second there.”

Because when I’m there, in the future, I can feel exactly what Other Margot feels: her emotions momentarily become mine. Which

makes logical sense to me. If it is the future, then I am all the Margots. I am the Margot to come and the Margot of now, but I’m also the Margot that remembers the vision when she gets

there, so I simultaneously become the Margot of the past too.

For those few, confusing seconds, I am all the different versions of me in one place.

And all I feel when I’m there is... love.

Not just for Henry—that’s pretty clear by now—but for Winter too.

As I watched this little girl I’ve yet to meet run to the edges of the waves, squeaking at the cold and hopping up and down, I felt an almost painful kind of love: one I’ve never experienced before.

It’s fierce, almost feral, as if I would fight the entire ocean if it tried to even touch her feet.

It’s a lot to adjust to, in three seconds: that much brand-new love, in one go.

“So...” Henry smiles. “What do you want to do now?”

The love is still there. Not in the same intensity—I haven’t got to it yet—but I can feel the spark of the beginning, glowing

in my chest.

“I want to stay the night,” I state simply. “With you. If that’s OK.”

Henry laughs so loudly I flinch slightly, moderately concerned he may have burst one of my eardrums.

“So direct,” he says with a chuckle. “I think I’ll allow it.”