Erica O'Rourke - Dissonance

The corner of his mouth curved up. “For starters.”

I punched him lightly, but didn’t let go. “Was there a basketball game tonight?”

“No idea.” I thought I saw a momentary sadness in his expression—but then it was gone, a trick of the light. “Not my thing these days.”

He shrugged into his coat, the black leather well-worn and supple, his shoulders broad and straight. When his hand found mine, I didn’t pull away.

The rain fell steadily, silver against the streetlights. The cold air felt good after the overwarm room, and I breathed deeply as we walked. Simon said, “You took off pretty fast today.”

“I needed to get home.” I stopped under an awning. “You know, I don’t want coffee.”

“No?” He joined me, the water beading like mercury on his coat and hair.

I shook my head, feeling dizzy—the frequency rippling along my skin, the air damp and clean, Simon stepping close to me, smelling of leather and rain.

“Why did you come back?” he asked.

“You invited me.”

He tugged at the clip holding up my hair, and it tumbled around my shoulders in a rush. “You liked the music, but you left before their set was over. You ordered a drink, but barely touched it. You’ve said yourself it’s not a date, and you don’t want coffee. Did you come out here just to walk around in the rain?”

“You got all of that from ten minutes in a badly lit pizza place?”

Lately, no one noticed me, except to point out what I was doing wrong.

“So,” he pressed. “Why are you here?”

This world wasn’t mine. I could spill out my secrets and leave, and no one would ever know. He might remember me now, but in a few days I’d drift from his mind like smoke. But for the time I was here, I could forget myself.

“I’m grounded, kind of. Starting tomorrow, I’m pretty much under twenty-four-hour surveillance.”

“You figured you’d break out? One last night of freedom?”

“Something like that.”

He touched my chin. “Better make the most of it,” he said, and when I looked up, he was only inches away, the heat of his body chasing away the cold. He pushed my heavy, rain-soaked hair back, his palm brushing my cheekbone. His gaze fixed on my mouth.

I couldn’t look away from his smile, the way it tipped to the side, challenging me. Not a perfect smile—there was the familiar scar at the corner, and his front teeth were the slightest bit crooked. The imperfections kept him from being too pretty, the same way the faint air of recklessness around him kept him from being too nice.

Nice had never been my thing.

It wasn’t like I’d never been kissed. But I’d never had a guy look at me with such single-mindedness, the entirety of his attention on the scant space between us.

He touched his lips to mine, a silent question. His dissonance drifted around me like dust motes, heightening my senses, and I leaned in and answered with another kiss, my fingers clutching his coat. The air seemed warmer, but it wasn’t the air; it was Simon, pulling me closer, and my blood thrilled the way it did when I Walked into a world for the first time, so much mystery and possibility.

Not real, I tried to tell myself, but he felt real—entirely solid and strong and alive as his arms wrapped around me, anchoring me against him as the world started to spin. He tasted like mint and secrets, and I opened my mouth to his, craving more as his fingers traced languid circles down my back. I shivered at the sensation, tried to close the space between us completely. He broke the kiss, and tucked my head under his chin, his breathing ragged. “You’re cold.”

“I’m fine.”

“My car’s over there,” he said, jerking a thumb toward the Jeep. “We could get out of the rain. Go someplace private.”

I rubbed a hand over my mouth, where his lips had been a moment ago, the taste of him still fresh, my pulse unsteady.

“Or not,” he said, dark eyebrows lifting. “Your choice.”

Around us, I could hear the fissures forming, a hundred pivot points created by a single kiss, the universe cracking wide because of this one instant, this one boy.

Time is not static. You can never get a choice—or a moment—back. The best you can do is witness the effects.

I wanted the moment. Every nerve I had was screaming at me to take Simon’s hand, get into the car, and drive.

Not truly Simon, though. This Simon was an Echo, and tomorrow I’d have to sit behind his Original in class and pretend like I didn’t know the feel of his hands or the fit of his mouth. I’d have to watch his eyes pass over me without a hitch, because this never would have happened.

I couldn’t stay.

Already the frequency was ringing in my ears, competing with the thudding of my heart. In two hours I’d have a headache. In three, a migraine. By sunrise I wouldn’t be able to find my way home. I’d Walked too much today.

I drew a piece of paper, dark blue on one side, silver on the other, out of my pocket. It was damp from the rain, the creases soft edged. Simon watched as the star took shape in my hand.

“I’ll take that as a no?”

I finished the last fold and set it on the windowsill. I didn’t need a breadcrumb to find this world again. It was proof of this moment, something that wouldn’t disappear when I did.

“Another time,” I said, only half-believing it, and went up on tiptoe to kiss him again. His hands tightened on my hips, holding me fast as his lips traveled along my jaw.

“You don’t want to leave.”

“Never said I did.” I pushed away, legs and resolve both shaky. “See you around.”

“I’ll drive you,” he said, catching my hand.

I disentangled my fingers from his. “Thanks, but I’ll walk.”

As I rounded the corner, I looked back through the pouring rain. I wanted to see his face one more time, while he remembered I existed.

He’d picked up the star. He stood under the awning, spinning it between his thumb and forefinger, his eyes never leaving me.

While a Walker’s decisions create pivots, our inability to form Echoes means the pivot is unable to sustain itself; almost immediately, the newly formed world is reabsorbed by the parent branch. This phenomenon is called “transposition.”

Transposition may also occur when Originals or Echoes make a choice that does manifest in a significant frequency change.

—Chapter One, “Structure and Formation,”

Principles and Practices of Cleaving, Year Five

“WHERE WERE YOU last night?” Eliot asked as we trudged toward the cafeteria. “Didn’t you get my texts?”

“Sorry. I crashed early.” Guilt nibbled at me. First a secret, now a lie. I hadn’t seen Eliot’s messages until I’d returned from Doughnut World, too late to reply. And he would not be thrilled to hear I’d already violated my probation to make out with Simon’s Echo.

I changed the subject. “What happened after I left last night?”

“Left” wasn’t quite accurate, but it sounded better than “After the Consort guards escorted me to my doom.”

Eliot looked away, and I wondered how much he was holding back to spare my feelings. “Just regular class. Boring without you.”

“What are you working on next? More break analysis?” The answer would only make me feel worse, but I couldn’t help asking.

“For another week or so. Shaw said we’ll start inversions soon.”

I ground my teeth. “It’s so unfair. I’m stuck with Addie for the next six months while you’ll be off having adventures and kicking ass.”

“I’m only the navigator,” he said. “Asskickery is your department.”

I jammed my hands in the pockets of my sweater. “Do you think I can pass the test? I’m going to miss out on all the fieldwork.”