Chapter 5: Hello, Jason

"Don't," Ariana told her own hand.

The phone buzzed against the kitchen counter. Jason's name glowed on the screen. Her fingers had already stretched toward it.

She pulled them back and folded her arms.

Three buzzes. Four. Five.

The screen went dark. Missed call: Jason (1). A second later, a voicemail icon blinked on.

Her breath left her in one go.

"Okay," she said to the empty kitchen. "Fine. Let's hear it."

She put the phone on speaker.

"Hey, Ari. It's me." Jason's voice filled the room, soft and a little rough. "I know it's early. I couldn't wait. I've been an idiot. I said some awful things, and I've felt sick about it all week. Call me when you can. Okay? Please. Bye."

The message ended. Ariana stood very still.

This one was new. In the old timeline, she had answered his text so fast he never needed to call.

"Sick about it all week," she said flatly. "Sure, Jason."

She deleted it. Then she carried her notepad to the table and sat in front of the two columns she had drawn.

WHAT I KNOW. WHAT I HAVE.

The right side was nearly empty. She started with the left.

"Thursday," she said, and wrote it down. "Seven in the evening. An emergency weather warning on every channel."

The pen scratched.

"Friday, seven in the morning. The first drop on the glass. By nightfall, every hospital in the city is full. People on the floors. People in the parking lots."

Saturday the Internet dies then the phones next.

"Saturday night. The last thing I saw online was a man on a roof, screaming at the sky."

Sun down. Power out in Crown District first.

"And Sunday." Her pen slowed. "Sunday, Sabrina knocks."

She stared at the word she had just written. She did not underline it. She did not cross it out. She moved to the other column.

Three days of groceries. Rice cooker. Candles. Phone charger.

"That's it," she said. "That's everything I had the first time. Food for one person, and two more mouths on the way." She set the pen down. "Stupid. So stupid."

She did not mean herself, exactly. She meant the girl who had stood in this kitchen on a Tuesday and thought a weather warning was a reason to buy extra milk.

"Is there anything you can tell me about Thursday?" she asked the air.

[Query not supported.]

"About what Jason wants?"

[Query not supported.]

"Anything at all?"

[Stage One begins in 71:04:52.]

"You really love that number."

The corner of her vision stayed quiet. She almost found it restful.

Her calendar buzzed. Inventory Review, 9:00. Bring Riverside numbers.

She had forgotten. A whole life was still waiting for her at a conference table downtown. In three days, none of it would matter. Today it still had a pulse, and if she skipped it without a word, someone might come knocking.

Look normal, she thought.

She opened her laptop, pulled up the Riverside freight sheet, and sent Greg a short email. Food poisoning. Can't make it. Numbers attached. I'm Sorry.

At 8:52, her phone rang. Greg.

She almost let it go. Then she cleared her throat and answered.

"Hi, Greg."

"Ari! Oh man, you sound terrible."

"Thanks." She coughed, and it was not hard to make it sound real. "I think it was the shrimp."

"Rough. Listen, I got your numbers. They look great. You're a lifesaver. Don't worry about the meeting, I'll cover your notes."

"Thank you."

"Anytime. Honestly, Riverside would have been a disaster without you. Ortiz keeps asking who built the sheet."

"Tell him it was me."

"I did. Twice." Greg laughed. "And hey, we're doing the team lunch Thursday. We decided on having Dumplings at the good place. You in?"

Ariana looked at the notepad. Thursday, 7 PM. Warning on every channel.

"I'll try," she said.

"Great. Get some rest. Drink fluids."

"Greg?"

"Yeah?"

She hesitated. She had one rule. Tell no one. But a weather warning was not the System, and he had a daughter. Ariana had seen the photograph on his desk, a girl with a gap-toothed smile.

"How's Lily?" she asked.

"Lily? She is good. Why?"

"Just wondering." She swallowed. "If there's a storm Friday, stay home. Okay? Fill the tub with water. Buy extra food."

He laughed. "You sound like my wife."

"I mean it, Greg."

"Ari, it's a Tuesday, and you've got the shrimp flu. What storm?"

"The kind that closes the roads. Just humor me. Water, canned food, batteries."

"Okay, okay. Message received." His voice softened. "Feel better, Ari."

The line clicked off. She sat there with the phone against her ear for a long time. He had not believed her. Nobody would. She wrote his name on the notepad anyway, in the corner, small.

Then there was only the phone, dark and quiet on the table.

She showered. She was sick again. She stood in the hallway and put the phone down four times. At one point she pressed her palm flat to the wall, and from the other side she heard Mrs. Dale's television, a game show, a man shouting about a washing machine. She stayed there until her pulse slowed.

Then she faced the mirror by the front door.

"Hello, Jason," she said.

It came out high and bright. She winced.

"Hello, Jason." Flat, this time. He would hear the ice in it from across the city.

She tried again. Softer. A little shy. A little tired. A smile she could hear.

"Hello, Jason."

She stopped.

It was perfect. It was exactly how she had sounded for three years.

"That one," she whispered. Her stomach turned. "God. That one."

"He'll say he misses me," she told the mirror. "I say I miss him too."

Her reflection stared back.

"He'll ask for something. Money, probably. Or a place to sleep." She pointed at herself. "I say I'm busy. I don't say no. If I say no, he gets suspicious. I say I'm busy, and I let him pick the next day."

"And if he asks to come over?"

She looked at her reflection for a long moment.

"Then it's Wednesday," she said. "Not today. I need time to think."

She nodded. "That's all. That's all you have to do."

At 9:58, she sat down at the kitchen table, set the phone in front of her, and pressed his name.

It rang once.

"Ari?" Jason sounded breathless and warm. "Ari, hey. I didn't think you'd call back."

She closed her eyes. Her fingers locked around the phone.

"Hello, Jason." Soft. A little shy.

"God, it's good to hear your voice." He let out a long breath. "I thought I'd blown it. I really did."

"I got your message."

"Yeah? And?"

"And I was in the shower," she said. "Sorry. I'm slow today."

"No, no. You never have to apologize." He laughed, relieved. "I'm the one who owes you. What I said, calling you cold. That was a terrible thing to say."

"It was."

"It was. I know." A pause. "I was scared about money, and I took it out on you. You didn't deserve that."

"No," she said. "I didn't."

"I know that. I do." His voice dropped. "Are you okay? You sound tired."

"I'm sick. Food poisoning. I stayed home from work."

"Oh, babe. Did you eat anything today?"

"Not yet."

"You have to eat. You always forget." He said it fondly. For three years, she had loved that he said it fondly. "Do you have soup? I can bring soup."

"I have food."

"You have only rice and one sad egg. I know your fridge."

"I'll manage."

He says it so easily, she thought. He always said it easily.

"Ari? You still there?"

"I'm here."

"I keep thinking about our first night. The noodle place on Fenn Street. Remember the broken sign? It said Happy Noodle, but the H was out."

"Appy Noodle," she said, before she could stop herself.

He laughed. It was a good laugh, warm and real. Her throat closed. The memory was real. The man in it was not.

"Yeah," he said softly. "Appy Noodle. I miss that. I miss you. I haven't slept right since I walked out."

She looked down at the notepad. Sunday, Sabrina knocks. In her mind, a heavy iron bar dropped across a door. It had never happened in this timeline. She heard it anyway.

"I miss you too," she said.

The lie slid out smooth and warm. That frightened her more than the nausea had.

"Yeah?" His voice lifted. "Yeah? Wow. Okay. That's really good to hear."

"Mm."

"I have an interview Thursday, actually. A real one. Warehouse management. I'm turning things around."

"Thursday," she said. "That's great, Jay."

"You think so?"

"I think you'd be good at it."

"That means a lot. It really does." He cleared his throat. "And, uh. Small thing. I hate even bringing it up."

Here it comes, she thought.

"My landlord's on my back. I'm short on rent. Eight hundred, give or take. Just until Friday. I swear I'll pay you back first thing Friday."

Friday.

Ariana pressed her lips together so hard they hurt. If she opened them, laughter would come out, and she would not be able to stop it.

"Friday," she repeated.

"First thing."

"What happens Friday?"

"What?"

"Why Friday?" she asked. "Why not Thursday, after the interview?"

"Oh. Payday. Mostly." He answered too quickly, then laughed at himself. "Why? You making a spreadsheet?"

"Maybe."

"Always the planner. That's what I love about you."

"I'm tied up this week, Jay," she said. Her voice stayed light. "Work's a mess. Let me call you."

"Come on, Ari. It's me." The sweetness crept back into his tone. "At least let me see you. I'll cook. I can be at your place in an hour. I'll let myself in; I still have my key."

"No."

It came out too fast. She heard it land.

"I mean, not today." She made herself laugh. It sounded almost right. "I'm in my pajamas. I look terrible. I haven't eaten. Give me a day."

"You never look terrible."

"Wednesday," she said. "Let's have dinner by 7 pm."

"Wednesday." He sounded delighted. "Seven. I'll bring wine. Don't cook; I'll handle everything."

"Okay."

"Pasta? You like my pasta."

"Pasta's fine."

"Pasta it is. And Ari, I'll bring a bag, if that's okay. In case it gets late. I don't want to leave you alone when you're sick."

A bag. Her skin went cold.

"Don't pack anything," she said. "Just come for dinner."

"Sure. Sure, of course. Just dinner."

"Ari?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you. For giving me another chance."

Her free hand curled into a fist on the table.

"See you Wednesday, Jason," she said.

She ended the call before he could answer.

The phone fell onto the table. The pen rolled off the notepad. Her hands shook so badly she could not pick either one up. She pressed them between her knees and sat there, breathing through her teeth.

Eight hundred dollars. He had asked for eight hundred dollars from the woman he had locked out in an alley.

She stood. The kitchen was too small. She grabbed the phone, slid open the balcony door, and stepped out into the cold morning air.

Nine floors below, the city went about its Tuesday. A bus sighed at the stop. A man in a green apron stood outside the corner shop, and his pyramid of oranges was still perfect.

She gripped the rail with both hands and counted her breaths. One. Two. Three. By eight, her fingers had stopped trembling. By ten, her heart had slowed.

You can do this, she told herself. You just did.

The phone buzzed in her fist.

I'm downstairs!! Coffee??

She read it twice. Then she looked down.

On the sidewalk in front of the building, Sabrina stood in her cream coat with a paper cup in each hand. She tipped her head back and found the ninth-floor balcony at once. She had been up here a hundred times. She knew exactly which one was Ariana's.

She smiled. She lifted one cup high, and she waved.

It was the same smile Ariana had trusted for twelve years.

Her hand began to rise on its own.

She stopped it halfway. Then she finished the wave and smiled back.

Sabrina had known her since they were twelve. She knew every smile Ariana owned.

If this one was wrong, she would see it.