Page 6 of Time After Time

I’ve just finished my PhD, and I’m in the thick of my postdoc at MIT, working under one of the biggest names in theoretical astrophysics. Our lab is collaborating with a private aerospace company on a project so confidential that I have to log into a biometric server just to check my own simulation results. It’s demanding, obsessive work. Long hours, deep focus, no small talk. Exactly my kind of rhythm.

“I don’t ever want you to feel you’re not great as you are,” Aksel breaks the quiet, his voice low.

“You’re all way more successful than me,” I say before I can stop myself.

“We’re older,” he retorts.

I amthebaby, an accidental pregnancy, which means I’m eight years younger than Freja and nearly eleven younger than Aksel.

“I doubt, in a decade, I’ll be world famous like you,” I joke. “Or our guests.”

Ransom speaks at conferences and is regarded as one of the top neurosurgeons in the United States. Calypso is an ex-model and a fashion editor, and Heidi and Giselle are prominent in their own right.

“You’re the youngest byyears, Ember.” He leans his head back, eyes on the snow. “Speaking of guests, what the fuck is Ransom doing withthatwoman? She’s all pretense from her LASIK eyes down to her Botoxed chin.”

I almost say, “She’s the right age for Ransom, plus she’s beautiful.” But I don’t. That will give me away. No one thinks we know each other well.

“The way she looks, Aksel, he’s probably banging her…a lot.”

Hiding, again, behind humor, Ember? Hell yeah. Wouldn’t you if the love of your life wasbanginganother woman?

“She’s the kind of woman who needs a man. There’s a tinge of desperation about her. You know? Likeanyman would do.” Aksel rubs a hand over his chin. “It’s not Ransom she’s interested in…justwhathe is, doctor, rich, handsome…notwhohe is…emotionally stunted and a crap chess player.”

“Not all women want to snag a man, okay? Maybe she’s just enjoying…him.”

“Maybe.”

“And not all women give two damns about being single—some of us like it.”

His eyes light up with amusement. “Mama and Aunt Tanya are worried aboutyoursingle status.”

I exhale wearily. “It’ll happen when it’ll happen.” That’s my standard line.

“I believe that.” He takes my hand in his. “I never expected to fall in love with Latika…I’m still in awe that I did.”

Latika Panday, Aksel’s wife, works with Aksel at the World Bank. She’s with their kids in London to see her family, but will be coming to Chamonix with my favorite (and only) niece and nephew in time for Christmas.

“Latika is all things cool.”

I love my sister-in-law. She’s fun and smart. She’s the kind of person who will go along to get along unless you cross moral lines, and then she’ll be at your throat. Latika is a big believer in choosing carefully the hills you want to die on. She lives by the motto, “You don’t have to go to every fight you’re invited to.”

“She is, and I’m damn lucky.” He grins at me. “I hope you’ll find love like that one day. You deserve it.”

I blink hard, surprised by the lump forming in my throat. I don’t tell him that it probably won't be possible. I trust with great difficulty, so when it’s broken…I’m not the kind who bounces back. I collapse inward, like a dying star—dense, invisible, still holding the heat of what once was.

“We’ll see.”

Aksel squeezes my hand gently, the way he didwhen we were kids and I’d crawl into his bed during storms.

Outside the orangerie, the snow has thickened to a steady fall, blanketing the trees and softening the edges of the world. The glass walls glow with the reflections of the overhead lights, and it feels like we’re in a snow globe—sealed off, still, suspended in time.

We sit in silence for a while longer, watching the world turn white.

Eventually, Aksel stands and stretches. “I better go help pick out the wine so Freja doesn’t, once again, try to serve some low-quality California red with the lamb.”

I laugh softly. “God forbid.”

Aksel and Freja are on two very different sides of the wine debate. He’s all about the old country, thinks French and Italian, while Freja believes that no one does wine better than the Californians.