Future Threat

30

The front door opens for me with the lightest touch of my hand, probably checking my DNA or fingerprint or something. As soon as I step inside, two dogs rush toward me, tails wagging. One is big and friendly, a golden retriever with a happy smile and a shiny coat. The other is a little terrier mix of some sort with scruffy hair and a crooked grin with one snaggletooth sticking out. I love the little dog instantly, and judging by the way it bounces in front of me, I get the feeling this one is mine and the other is Adam’s. Makes sense. He’s the purebred dog. I’m the mutt.

I gaze past the dogs, taking in the polished wooden floors and thick, soft rugs at the entryway. Damn, I forgot how massive this house is. I slowly move through it and lights turn on overhead, while the dogs bounce around me, tails wagging madly. No one else seems to be home.

Even though this house is the same as the one Adam owned in the other timeline, the decor here is completely different. The giant living room is still there, but instead of the antique furniture that looked like it would break if you sat on it, this one is filled with plush gray couches that seem perfect to curl up on with a book. A wooden coffee table rests in front of them, but there are old scratches on the surface and the telltale ring from when someone forgot to use a coaster. A ratty tennis ball lies in the middle of the room, and the golden retriever grabs it as we walk by.

The other Future-Adam’s house was like a ghost town, as if he only stopped by to change his clothes now and then. This is a home, with memories stored between the walls and in the cracks of the floor and the fibers of the carpets. I can feel its history with every step I take.

I pause in front of a large framed photo on the wall. It’s of me and Adam on the beach, with the sun setting behind us over the waves. I’m wearing a long, white wedding dress and jeweled sandals, while Adam wears a tux and flip-flops. We’re a few years older than we are now, and the photographer has caught me laughing, probably at something Adam said, based on the grin on his face and the amusement in his eyes. It’s a perfect, happy moment between us, one I never imagined we would share. Especially not on a beach, not after what happened the last time I visited one.

I touch the frame to assure myself the photo is real. Proof that Adam and I are really together in this future, and that I was able to move on from the past.

There’s a camera app in my flexi, and I use it to snap a picture to show Adam later. Of course, that would require me confessing to him that I came here. I’m not sure I’m ready to admit that, or to face what this means for us.

I enter the kitchen, where Trent once made us French toast using whatever he could scrape together in Future-Adam’s barren cabinets and fridge. The kitchen in this timeline is not the dark, cold one we visited before; this one is all warm beige, swirling gold, and brown granite countertops. When I open the fridge, there’s tons of food inside. A pop-up in my head tells me we’re out of milk and asks if I want to reorder it, but I ignore it.

I grab an apple off the shelf and pause at the sight of a container of strawberries. Adam is allergic to them, and I can’t stand the taste because when I was a kid, I once ate three entire containers at once and had red vomit all night. Maybe I’ll be over that in the next thirty years and will like them again.

The dogs get excited as I approach one side of the kitchen, jumping and circling me with doggy grins and happy tails. There’s a little plastic container on the counter with dog paws on it and treats inside—they must know this is where their goodies are.

“All right, all right.” I make them sit and then hand them each a treat. The golden retriever darts off to another room with it, but the terrier scarfs it down and then gives me another hopeful look. I bend down and give the dog some love, and then check the collar. “Taco?” I ask, wrinkling my nose. “What was I thinking when I named you that?”

“You didn’t name him,” a female voice says behind me. A voice I recognize, even though it sounds wrong to my ears.

I slowly stand and turn around—and come face-to-face with myself.

03:14

“What are you doing here?” she asks. Not in a friendly way.

“I…” The words die on my tongue. Every answer seems inadequate when faced with the blazing eyes of my future self. All I can do is gape at her, at the familiar way she stands, at the annoyed expression on her face that I’ve never actually seen before but somehow recognize. She’s staring me down, hands on her hips, wearing black slacks with a coral silk shirt that probably cost a fortune. Her face is dusted with fine lines and her hair is shorter than mine, making it curl around her neck.

She’s me…but also not me.

“And what happened to your clothes?” she asks, giving me a long once-over with a frown. From her tone, I can’t help but feel like she’s disappointed with me, like I’ve let her down somehow.

“I got stabbed by someone in the Russian mafia,” I manage to say. She should know what happened without my explanation. She rescued Zahra too, after all.

“You what?” Her eyebrows pinch together, and the frown deepens. “No, that’s not right. That’s not how it happened. I didn’t get injured; Chris did. And I never came here, to this house. What have you done?”

I shift my weight, my cheeks burning. I’m hit with the feeling that my mother is scolding me for doing something wrong, which is ridiculous because this is me. She’s thirty years older, but she’s not my mother—even if she looks a lot like her. “We…we split up.”