Page 122 of Time After Time

We’ve synced our calendars. We have shared our locations so we can see where we are. I’m mostly in the hospital or at home. She’s mostly in her lab or her apartment.

My life has narrowed to work, home, and talking to Ember.

“I can only do a few days…I have a poster presentation in May.”

“That’s the Paris conference?”

“Yes.” She sounds tremendously unhappy when she says that.

I glance at her. “What?”

“I wish you could come.”

I can’t. May is already packed, and I’m on call for most of the weekends.

This isn’t easy.

“Hey, imagine how hard it must’ve been back when there was no FaceTime,” I joke. “Now I can see your tits during phone sex.”

She rolls her eyes.

“And you like seeing my?—”

“Stop!” She laughs. “After this weekend, phone sex is going to feel like even thinner brew.”

I squeeze her hand. “I know. But I’ll see you in a couple of months. I’ll come to Boston. We can go to Martha’s Vineyard and spend a weekend on the beach…naked.”

“I’d like to spend a weekend naked with you, Ransom, but not that time of year at a beach on the East Coast.”

“Fair!”

CHAPTER 33

Ember

It’s been six months since Chamonix.

Six months of three-hour time zone lags, missed messages, glitchy FaceTime calls, and yearning so strong it’s become part of my bone structure.

We saw each other a month ago when he came to Boston.

We had the most amazing weekend in a bed and breakfast up the coast, with a view of the Atlantic.

We went for walks. We made love. We went to restaurants. We drank good wine. We read in bed. We made love—desperately—again and again, because we knew it would be a while before we could do it again.

We’ve managed to see each other for just a few days in the New Year.That’s all. And it isn’t enough, because not being together is actually becoming increasingly painful.

I love my lab. I do. But I hate how often I glance at the clock and subtract three hours to calculate his time zone.

I look at the clock now. It’s one in the afternoon in Palo Alto. He’s probably having lunch. I know he doesn’t have surgery today.

I text him. Tell him I love him, then sigh and get back to analyzing exoplanet atmospheric spectra—trying to isolate biosignature gases from a noisy data set.

When I hear the lab door open. I don’t bother looking up. It’s probably Jordan or Priya, my lab mates.

“I’m looking for Dr. Rousseau,” a deep voice says behind me.

My heart flatlines. Then jumps.