In Aswan, Oona ate some lamb kebabs that gave her a nasty bout of food poisoning. While she was bedridden for two days, Edward remained at her side and put a romantic spin even on her illness: he fed her soda and saltines; read her American newspapers and magazines; placed cool, damp towels over her forehead (“it’s more for headaches and fevers, but my mum did this whenever I got ill, and I always found it comforting”).
Once she recovered, the rest of the trip unfurled like an upbeat movie montage. Edward suppressed his plummeting phobia so they could take a hot-air balloon ride over the temples and farmlands of Luxor. In the Valley of the Kings, they climbed into tombs, humming the Indiana Jones theme song until the colorful, spectacularly preserved hieroglyphs within stunned them into silence. They traveled north to coastal Alexandria, strolling the Corniche waterfront promenade lined with palm trees, enjoying the city’s refreshing salty breezes and relaxed Mediterranean vibe.
After a two-week loop around the country, they ended up back in Cairo, weary from sightseeing all day and having feverish sex throughout the night. Oona wanted to extend their trip, prolong this suspended state of bliss; she worried the magic might begin to dissipate the moment they returned to New York. But it was time to go home.
Their last night in Cairo, they dined in a restaurant with wooden lanterns hanging from the ceiling, votive candles in filigreed brass holders, and gauzy purple curtains woven with gold stars. Edward took Oona’s hand in both of his and kissed her knuckles. “This may sound barmy, but I’ve never connected like this with anyone. I can’t explain it. It’s almost like we’ve met before.”
“That’s exactly what it is.” It was hard not to cry, hard not to let knowledge of the future take away from the present.
“Mind you, I’ve never believed in past lives or destiny or any of that malarkey. But something about this—about you—feels…”
“Meant to be.” Wax dripped down the sides of the candle holder between them, formed a small puddle on the wooden table. Oona poked at the wax, let it coat the tip of her finger and mask her fingerprint. “I wish it could be like this when we get back to New York.”
“Real life will get in the way, to an extent, but whatever this is between us isn’t going to go away, not any time soon. I won’t go away. I’m mad about you.”
They smiled until their faces hurt.
Back in New York, real life did get in the way, to an extent. Edward’s hectic schedule at a Carroll Gardens bistro limited their time together, though not to the degree it would once he ran Clary’s. Even so, Oona found herself with an abundance of free hours. To fill them, she volunteered at a food bank and the local library. She also resumed her guitar lessons, this time with an older, female instructor, and marveled at retaining a skill she hadn’t yet picked up chronologically. As always, she studied the binder. (Boeing was a key position that year. After she bought the stock at $16 a share in 1982, it split four times, taking her from 600 to 4,050 shares; she’d sold off half in 1997 at $57 and would soon buy more shares at $26, letting the position grow to over $400 in years to come.) She also took regular walks in Prospect Park, a habit she’d maintained ever since Kenzie brought her there during her first leap, hoping she’d finally see him again that year.
All this waiting, filling the hours, treading water until the next time she saw Edward as she became more attached to him. Even her music room didn’t provide its usual timeless solace, though it surprised her with two valuable guitars she didn’t own in 2004, one originally belonging to founding Rolling Stones member Brian Jones, the other a 12-string Bowie had played on.
“Why would I get rid of these?” Oona mused to herself. “Charity donations, maybe?”
Each night she waited for a text message from Edward saying he was done with work and then rushed to his Kensington apartment. He smelled of smoke and fried potatoes and whiskey—which lingered even after he showered—but she didn’t mind the pungent combination because it mingled with his own earthy scent, which made her heady. No matter how tired he was after a shift, he was always eager for her body. He might fall asleep right after, wet hair soaking his pillow, but would wake up hungry for her again.
This is what I would’ve missed out on if I tried to change my fate. A year where I finally get to be happy.
One night in early February, Oona got a one A.M. text from Edward saying he was finishing up a poker game with his friends and heading home. She waited at his place for an hour, growing increasingly panicked, until he finally turned up at two-thirty, drunker than usual, disheveled, wild-eyed.
“Edward, what the fuck?”
“Oh, bugger.” He sniffed, wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “I thought I told you I was playing cards.” More sniffing.
She followed him into his apartment. “It looks like you’ve been doing more than that. Why didn’t you answer my texts? I was going nuts wondering what happened.”
“Bloody hell, do you have to be so clingy?”
“Do you have to be such an insensitive prick?”
The argument escalated and their voices rose until the downstairs neighbors banged on the ceiling. This snapped them out of it.
“I’m sorry, love.” Edward kissed her, sloppy and rough.
“I’m still mad at you.” But she went in for another kiss. Our first fight. How oddly romantic.
“Show me how mad,” he murmured.
Their makeup sex was insistent and explosive, tinged with remnants of anger.
Sex became a drug for Oona, a pheromone IV dripping a steady dose into her bloodstream. Her emotional fixation was obviously rooted in chemistry, but wasn’t all love chemical? It was science. And while the inevitability of next year’s divorce should’ve stirred caution in her, the expiration date made her want to experience all the love she could now, store it up for any lonely years that might follow.
There were two things she didn’t tell Edward about: the time travel and her wealth. He must’ve known she had some money (she had no day job and had a penchant for exorbitant tipping), but he might not have realized the extent of her riches. She wore clothes that eschewed trends—well-made and expensive, but simple—and she didn’t wear jewelry other than the watch from Dale or flaunt possessions that belied a grotesque or superficial relationship to money. There was only the house. He hadn’t yet seen her mansion, and apprehension at being treated differently when he did made her put off inviting him over, using home renovations as an excuse (to avoid lying, she had the living room recarpeted).
In March, Edward complained of his apartment’s lease expiring and a subsequent rent hike. With no sign of their passion lessening (that was a 2004 Oona problem), she suggested he move in with her.
“I haven’t even seen your place. Is it big enough for the both of us?”
She laughed and laughed.
“What’s so funny?” he asked.
“You’ll see.”
When he finally crossed the threshold into her foyer—which was the size of his living room—he laughed, too. And if the mansion impressed him, it didn’t come close to his look of stunned adoration the following morning, when she served him kippers on toast for breakfast and fixed his tea just as he liked it.