Page 52 of I Know How This Ends

Jelly Babies and shouting to ’70s rock.

My stomach twists and I feel abruptly sick.

My rings. Where the hell are my rings?

“Margot?”

Slowly, I turn around.

Henry is so much older too: completely silver-haired, his eyes more crinkly and the lines around his mouth more pronounced. He’s wearing a big coat too—green, I don’t recognize this either—and is possibly even more gorgeous: like he’s been dipped in silver.

“Henry,” I say, then my breath stops.

Out of the shop next to us has walked a young woman: beautiful, tall, with long brown hair tied back in a messy bun. For a

second, I don’t recognize her, can’t place her, as if she’s my dentist and I’ve just run into her at a local supermarket.

Those hazel eyes, though. That little chin. Those slightly sticking-out ears...

Then my chest suddenly hurts: it’s Winter.

“Meg!” Winnie bounds toward me and wraps me up in a tight hug: she’s taller than I am now. “What are you doing here? Oh my

God, did I get the date wrong? I thought we were meeting tomorrow? Have you heard from Gus? The little bugger won’t answer

my texts. I’m probably not cool enough to talk to anymore. I just saw Posy for coffee. How’s Aunty Eve? Jules? Lil? Did you

do that thing in the end? Or decide against it? I’m so busy with uni, I’ve barely had time to catch up with anyone. I’ve become

so boring.”

She’s at uni, so that makes her—what?—nineteen? Twenty?

That puts me and Henry... in our fifties.

Then she starts laughing and pulls back so she can kiss my cheek. “Sorry, too many questions. We can talk about it tomorrow

in full .”

Blinking, I stare at her perfect face.

What’s she studying? What thing ? And of course Gus won’t answer her texts: he’s two years old. Except he’s not, is he? That tiny, curly-haired boy is now

a gangly, spotty teenager, playing video games in a basement and driving Eve up the wall.

Winter frowns. “Meg? What’s wrong?”

Licking my lips, I turn back to Henry again. It requires every bit of energy I have, because I know what it is I’m looking

for and I don’t think I can see it; I don’t think I’m physically strong enough.

Heart in my mouth, I look down at his hands.

He’s not wearing his rings either.

And the pain is so unbearable, I have to stop myself from crouching on the pavement with my arms wrapped around my stomach

and screaming.

“Hi,” Henry says softly. “How are you?”

It’s not a How are you? from someone I see regularly, it’s a How are you? from someone I don’t see at all, and my throat clamps shut. This is Other Margot’s pain too, I can feel it. Both of us are

heartbroken.

Please , I can almost hear future me saying. Please don’t ruin this for me.

With every bit of control I can find, I manage to nod and smile. I will not be the ex-wife, screeching hysterically in the

street. I won’t do that to either of us.

“Yeah. I’m OK. You?”

“Yeah. Good. Surgery’s a bit manic, but you know how it is.”

He’s a surgeon now—he did it—but I don’t know “how it is,” I don’t know how it is because we’re not together anymore; we were

supposed to be together, we were supposed to die in each other’s arms, and this is not right , this is not fair , this isn’t the way it was meant to—

“Yeah.” I nod. “I know how it is.”

Henry’s quietly watching me with that careful, clear-eyed expression—the one I love so much—and I can feel the love inside me: Other Margot still loves him too. She misses him, horribly. She’s in pain. What has happened? Why aren’t

we together anymore? Does he just stop loving me? Do I do something wrong? When do we break up? It has to be quite far into the future because Winter and I are still close, so we must have built a bond

over many years.

But I can’t ask him what happened.

If we’re divorced—which we clearly are—asking him why we’re divorced at random outside a shopping center is going to make

me look absolutely crazy, and I do not think Other Margot will appreciate it.

“It’s nice to see you,” I say as my eyes fill with tears and I quickly brush them away. “Sorry. It’s... just cold.”

Henry nods, but his eyes are full of tears too. He still cares about me: that’s something, I suppose. It’s not acrimonious,

and we don’t hate each other. But we’re not a couple anymore, and I don’t know what to do with this pain.

“It’s nice to see you too, Margot.”

Not Meg . Not Megalodon . Just Margot.

Winter shifts from side to side—uncomfortable, her eyes desperately sad—and I realize she still has the same tiny movements

she had as a child. But I’ve lost her too. I’ve lost it all. All of it—my future, my life, my love—has gone.

My chin crumples and I feel Winnie wrap her arms around me.

“It’s you, isn’t it,” she whispers.

I blink as she pulls away and puts a hand on either side of my face.

“It is.” She studies me. “It’s you. You’re Other Margot.”

I can’t speak—can’t find a single word—so she pulls me toward her again.

“ Thank you ,” she murmurs so Henry can’t hear it. “For literally everything . I’m so sorry I’m going to be such a brat as a teenager. Hold on tight, Meg. I love you and I don’t mean any of it.”

I’ve told her. Somehow, at some point, I have told Winter about my visions.

She knows that I’m me, that for these few seconds I’m not my future version anymore: I’m Past Margot, the Margot of years

ago, scared and confused and unsure where I am or what I’m doing. She sees me, and she wants me to know it’ll be OK. That when she’s screaming at me, or yelling at me, it doesn’t mean anything: she

just feels comfortable enough to push me away, knowing I’ll always come back. She feels secure and loved enough to fight.

With a lump in my throat, I nod: Yes. I’m Other Margot.

Then I look back at Henry, because I don’t know how long this vision is going to last—how much more I can find out—and I need to ask, to see what I can do, what kind of changes I can make, how I can avoid whatever forces us apart, but I can feel myself slipping, fading, leaving him behind without knowing why.

“This is it,” Henry states quietly. “Isn’t it.”

The end, is what he means.

And it’s not a question, because this is the end, and I can feel it: of us, of everything, the final chapter to our story,

and I wasn’t supposed to see it, shouldn’t be here, it’s all in the wrong order and it’s ruined everything.

I open my mouth to ask him to stay, to try again, but it’s too late.

I’ve gone and so has he.

“La la la la,” Henry croons. “La la la la.”

Then he turns briefly to me with a tiny frown.

“Why aren’t you la-la-la-la-ing, Meg? The reaper demands our la’s as payment for his cowbell.”

With a deep sob, I bend in half and clutch my stomach.

“Meg?” Henry slows the car and turns to me properly. “Oh my God, what is it? Are you in pain? What’s happening?”

“Stop the car,” I bleat. “Please. Stop the car.”

Panicked, Henry pulls into the next dip in a hedge and slams on the brakes.

“You’re scaring me. Do I need to call a hospital? Is it your appendix? Have you had your appendix out? Where’s the pain? Is

it in the lower-right-hand side of your abdomen? Show me. Show me where the pain is.”

But I can’t show him, because the pain is everywhere .

“I need to...” I can’t breathe, I can’t swallow, I can’t unfold myself: I am cut in half. “I need to get out.”

With immense effort, I push the door open and tumble into the road.

Desperately, I look around me.

It’s nothing but countryside. I need quiet, I need space, I need time to think , but Henry’s getting out too and I don’t know what to do and I need him to tell me it’s going to be OK, but I can’t because

he can’t, so—with the saddest sound I’ve ever heard—I curl up in a ball and start crying.