november 22nd, 2019, 11:19 a.m.

"Oh, how about these, Immy? Have you thought about peonies, maybe? They're perfect for summer weddings."

Iman turned. Hana was bent over a bouquet of bubblegum pink peonies, her fingers brushing the gentle petals almost affectionately. She was perfectly at home in a place like this: this tiny, sunlit flower shop on Delaware Avenue, brimming with flowers of every color and type. Hana fluttered about from display to display, rambling on about chrysanthemums, tulips, calla lilies—what theme are you going for, again? Oh, you haven't decided? Come on, Immy, how long are you going to let this sit? None of us are getting any younger...

It was all enough to give Iman a slight headache; there was just so much to be done. Booking a venue, finding a priest, picking a caterer; guest lists, invites, seating arrangements; finding a wedding dress, deciding on bridesmaid dresses, selecting a honeymoon spot. Even the engagement party was yet to happen—set for after Thanksgiving. Iman should have been excited, she knew, and she was, but there was something—someone—missing.

A hand sliding over her shoulder. Iman turned, facing her older sister, who was regarding her with a softly risen eyebrow. "Iman?" Hana asked. "Everything okay?"

"Fine," she said, then shook her head. There was no sense in lying. "Okay, no. It's just—planning this doesn't feel right without Julien."

"Julien?" Hana said, her face blank for a brief moment. "Oh. Is that the guy whose house you always end up at when you..."

Iman nodded, saving her the trouble. "I haven't heard from him since—since August, really. Beck and I left town to be with Dad, and I haven't been able to reach him since."

A sigh. "Iman—"

"I mean, do you think he's okay?" Iman gasped. "What if—"

Hana waved her off. A brief ping came from Hana's phone, and she pulled it out without hesitation, tapping away at the screen. "I just don't know," she said, steering Iman towards the door and out onto the street again, "if it's appropriate for you to be daydreaming about another man when you're engaged. How does Beck feel about all this?"

Iman chewed her lip. She thought of the little notes he left on the kitchen counter before he left for work or class—you look great today. pizza for dinner? I'll even let you get mushrooms on it—the silent way he rolled over to cuddle her against him when she woke up in the middle of the night, afraid and out of breath. He knew she was worried, and that she was only growing more so the longer the days dragged on. He knew her, after all. Some things she did not have to say.

How long would it be until she heard from Julien again? Months? Years? Had she done something, said something, wrong?

After all, Julien had been there for practically everything else, swinging open his door, inviting her in with an elegant sweep of his hand: Hey, how are you, I was hoping I'd see you today. It didn't feel right to take this step, to meet Beck on the altar, if Julien wasn't there at her back.

Hana's arm was linked in Iman's as she propelled her towards the car—Hana's, big shiny SUV, waxed and personalized—at the end of the street. "What are your Thanksgiving plans, anyway? Will you be home with us, or—"

Iman shook her head, pressing her hair back behind her ear. "No," she said, watching the light change at the intersection up ahead, the cars dragging themselves forward like the ebb and flow of the sea. "I'm staying with Beck and his family—his dad and his younger sister. They're up in Newark."

"Newark?" Hana straightened. "I don't know why I thought he grew up here."

Iman frowned, glancing down at the ring on her finger. It was square-cut, silver, a perfect fit below her knuckle despite the fact it had belonged to Beck's mother before he gave it to Iman. "Makes sense," she said, sliding her hand into her pocket. "Beck doesn't...talk much about his childhood. I don't know. It's tough for him."

"Oh," said Hana, the car beeping as she unlocked it, headlights flashing twice. "I see—uh, Iman—?"

If she said something else, Iman didn't hear it, because the world washed in black for a moment and when she blinked again the street and the cars and the tiny flower shop were all gone, and she stood in front of a four-paneled door the color of lemon curd.

She was suddenly overdressed, California heat pressing through her peacoat. She tore it away, glancing around self-consciously—only an old woman outside watering her rose bushes, dressed in no particular way that made the year obvious—and draping it over her arm.

Julien

She climbed the stoop, pressing her finger to the doorbell.

Julien—

There was a cacophony of low shuffling, like someone tripping over something, before the door squeaked open.

On its threshold was a middle-aged woman, rollers in her flaxen hair, a robe pulled tight around her. Behind her, as far as Iman could see, were stacks and stacks of cardboard boxes, labeled Fragile, This Side Up. Iman blinked, surprise stealing her words away. Maybe it was one of his friends, surely he was here somewhere, he was always here. Even if she could not find him in the present, he was always here.

"I'm sorry, can I help you?" The woman asked, something in her expression suggesting contempt. She gave Iman a curt once-over, but Iman was too stunned to be offended. "Are you trying to sell something? It's a little early in the morning for this, isn't it?

"I—" Iman stammered. Is it early? What time is it? What year? "Is Julien here?"

The woman let out a ragged sigh, adjusting her robe. "No. There's no Julien here. I haven't the slightest idea who that is—"

"What year is it?" Iman gasped.

"What, now?"

"Please," Iman said, fiddling with her fingers, heart going at the speed of the light. "What year is it?"

"2021," answered the woman. She looked around, confused, before stepping out onto the stoop, leaving the door ajar behind her. "Are you alright?"

"Fine," Iman lied. Forward? She couldn't remember the last time her power had yanked her forward, likely because it had never happened before. Head spinning, turning around, have to get back, have to get back. "I was just—sorry—"

When Iman had turned to go, the woman called out to her: "Wait, who did you say you were looking for, again?"

All the hairs on Iman's neck were standing straight up, and she turned, shivering even in the scorching sun. "Julien?" she repeated. "Morales. Julien Morales."

Recognition flashed across the woman's face—blessing, maybe, or a curse. "That was the landlord here! Right. He was renting this place to me, but he lived somewhere on the East Coast—DC, maybe?"

"Yes," Iman said, her eyebrows furrowing. There was something in the woman's face, something in her voice, that was only worsening Iman's discomfort. "That's the one."

"He used to check in a lot—cared a lot for this old house, didn't he?—anyway, he stopped all of a sudden."

Iman swallowed. The air was clear, the wind was crisp, and yet it was hard to get air into her lungs.

"No one around here has heard from him in two years, at least. I figure...something must have happened?" the woman frowned. "Maybe he got sick and...oh dear, you're shaking. Are you sure you're alright?"

No, Iman was not shaking—the world was shaking, everything swaying underneath her feet, flipping her stomach around inside of her. She sank to the ground, knees gritting against concrete.

Julien—

Vision going dark, time pulling her back—Julien—

Julien, where did you go?