Chapters (41)
I know it’s small-picture thinking to focus on Yusuf breaking up with me with all we’ve done—surfing across universes and messing up timelines. And I know it doesn’t sound self-determination-y to say, but he is what makes me feel the most myself. He makes me know that this me is not a random jumble of molecules or events or whatever. Maybe my life is less my own and more an expression of how I love him. That’s why I’m supposed to be here.
He bickers with me a lot on the meants and the shoulds and the supposed tos—anything that sounds remotely like a bearded, white director set this whole universe up for us and we are just bit players hitting beats in the script. He’s all, in a multiverse where literally every possible version of every possible event exists simultaneously, nothing is meant to happen, and nothing is important, and… Which is usually when I have to anchor him with a tug on his hand and a joke. Like, jesus, lighten up. I just asked if we should get dinner.
I’m aching, like the thread between us is tied to one of my ribs. And this thread pulls tighter with every breath, now that we’re drifting farther apart.
* * *
This flash-forward teaser is running a little long, but give me a break because with all my universe road-tripping and Envisioner scrying, my sense of time is fucked. Maybe I’m also stalling because I’m not really looking forward to getting into how all of this was my fault.
I pull Junior, my hand-held camera, from the supply stash by the air mattress and plod over to the shade of the fern forest. I rest Junior on a rock, point her lens at me, and flick her little video screen around so that I can see my face during my seaside confessional. I tap the red “record” button and settle on another rock across from the camera.
I look too thin. Sunburned, with green shadows under my eyes. My therapist ex, Narek, told me once that my docs and films are all vanity because everything I make is about me. But he’s wrong—also an asshole—because I already exhaust myself with my constant thoughts so I don’t need to make whole films devoted to myself. My filmmaking is more about record-keeping and storytelling, as proof that these people existed or these things mattered. A middle finger to entropy.
This isn’t about me, I guess is what I’m trying to say. It’s a warning. Or something.
“Welcome to Hayes’s Disaster Drive-In Theater,” I say to the camera. “You already missed the coming attractions, but that’s okay. Sit back and I hope you enjoy the show.”
I suck in a deep breath, close my eyes, and trace the threads back to the start.