Nate turns around to face her. He’s wearing a bulletproof vest. Shoot him again, I want to shout at Hannah, but my own chest is on fire. I can’t breathe. I realize that Hannah is shooting, her finger pressing the trigger, over and over, but the gun must be out of bullets.
Nate grimaces, then brings up his weapon with a wavering arm and takes aim. Hannah stares at him in horror and starts to stagger away from him. He shuffles forwards.
‘Nate!’ I try to yell, though it comes out as a gasp.
He turns. Somehow, I don’t know how, I’ve managed to get to my knees, then to my feet, lungs still on fire, vision clouding.
Nate frowns, obviously confused to see me standing. But it’s too late for him to react. I’ve already pulled the trigger.
The flare bursts so bright I stumble, throwing up my arm to shield my eyes from the phosphorescent glare.
A high-pitched scream pierces the night. I can see Nate, dancing like a drunken marionette – the space where his head should be is a fizzing pinwheel, spraying firefly sparks into the dark sky. He collapses to the ground, writhing.
Hannah runs towards me, tripping over the uneven ground, and throws herself at me. I wince, still bruised from where the bullet smacked into my vest, but my arms come up automatically and I hold her and rock her just like I did when she was a baby, covering her eyes.
‘It’s OK. It’s OK,’ I whisper, over and over, watching the flare fizz and burn. I can’t look away – can’t drag my gaze from the horror – not even after the last spark dies.
Chapter 53
22 YEARS AGO
I count down the days, flipping back through the calendar repeatedly as though if I keep doing it I can find a way to miraculously bend time and alter history, and, more importantly, change the future.
‘Ava, you coming?’ my roommate Rosie asks.
‘Um, in a minute,’ I reply in a daze, shoving the desktop calendar in the drawer alongside my hopes and dreams.
‘We’re going to be late,’ Rosie says.
I turn around and see she’s dressed for a New York fall in a down jacket and scarf.
‘You’re not even dressed,’ she says to me, looking me up and down.
I’m still wearing my bathrobe. I don’t even remember putting it on.
‘What’s the matter? Are you OK?’ Rosie asks, concerned. ‘Stop worrying about the IT geek. Let’s go out and get drunk.’
‘I . . . actually I’m not feeling very well,’ I stammer. ‘I think I’ll stay in.’ The calendar is calling to me from its interment in my drawer.
Rosie cocks her head at me, disappointed, but then shrugs. ‘Suit yourself!’ She moves for the door. ‘See you later.’
She’s gone before I can say bye. I sink down onto my twin bed and start to shake.
Shit.
I get up, open the drawer and retrieve the damn calendar. I recount the days again and again, then after what feels like an hour I look up and take a deep breath that’s like swallowing a swarm of bees.
I could get an abortion. It’s not too late. But my hand automatically flies to my stomach and I feel dread. I don’t think I can do it. I get up and start pacing the small space between the twin beds. I’m nineteen. This is not how my life is meant to go. I wish I could call my mom and tell her, ask her advice, but I know what she’ll say: how could I have been so reckless after everything they’ve given up for me, after everything they’ve sacrificed to send me to college?
I could tell him. I sink down onto the bed, gnawing on my fingernails. What would he say? I can’t guess. I have no idea. Would he tell me to get an abortion? Would he tell me to keep it, that he’d stick by me?
There’s a knock. I get up from the bed and shuffle to the door, opening it a crack. I’m expecting to see one of the other girls from the dorm, but it’s not. It’s Robert.
‘Oh,’ I say, bewildered at the sight of him. He pushes his glasses nervously up his nose.
‘I was just passing,’ he says. ‘And I thought I’d drop by.’ He glances at my bathrobe and then, flushing, stares at his feet. ‘I’m sorry, I should have called first.’
‘It’s OK,’ I say, softening at his awkwardness.
‘I was wondering if you, um, fancied going for a drink, or maybe something to eat?’
He looks at me with a hopefulness that makes my heart skip a beat. He’s the opposite of Nate. He’s serious, bookish, an IT geek, as Rosie joked. He’s also not someone I could label a boy. He’s a man. A real grown-up. I met him two weeks ago. As a post-grad, he led a group of freshmen on an orientation, and I was one of them. We stopped for coffee afterwards and he asked for my number with the excuse that he had free tickets to MOMA. He called me the next day and we ended up taking in an exhibition. It was nice, but I’ve been avoiding his calls ever since. He’s just too old for me; he’s got an ex-wife and a child for goodness’ sake. I don’t want to get into another relationship so soon after breaking up with Nate. That’s what I told Laurie. I want to be single and free in New York. I want to be an artist, like the ones I’ve read about in magazines and books who drink espresso and wear lots of black and watch art house movies and get invited to loft parties. I want to be someone.
Definitely not a mother. At least not yet.
‘It’s a little late probably, isn’t it?’ Robert says, interrupting my thoughts and glancing at his watch. ‘I’ll go.’
He turns to leave. I make a decision without weighing the consequences but knowing already, some place
