Chapter 11: June 1, 2006

The next two weeks—as Megan settled into the house and made it her own—Rory noticed a number of changes happening. Every room—and the hallway—ended up with a calendar and a clock, all of them atomic clocks that always stayed synced up. The kitchen wall ended up with a large paper calendar that he realized she used to keep notes on schedules and appointments—especially for the baby.

“Even in the future, I use this, and not my phone,” she explained when he asked—he was not surprised that phones would be used for calendar things. “But I’m basically out of luck when it comes to a cell phone. Future ones won’t work on the current network, and current ones won’t work in the future. Technology changes too much.”

Their kitchen utensils seemed to multiply overnight, with multiple different options for each one. And he noticed that their composition would change: spoons would appear, then disappear, or go untouched. When he asked her about it, she noted that she sometimes would have a utensil in her hand when she got unstuck, and then not have it in her hand when she popped back, and just trust her not to create an ontological paradox, okay?

Every major appliance got a magnet on it that indicated its status—she yelled at him a couple of times when he’d forgotten to update it—so she could always know if the dishes were clean or dirty; or where laundry was in the cycle.

It was bizarre. Everywhere in the house, everything constantly indicated its state. But Megan would have no functionally working memory, slipping through time as she did. She had to show up in a new time and carry on as though she had been there the entire time.

But he slowly got used to their life together. She would pop in and out, and everything would continue fine, even the time she didn’t return for three days. She didn’t always rely on him to help with getting back to her own time, but she did frequently enough that he was happy in bed. Happier than he had ever been.

He arrived home from work on a Thursday, humming happily to himself as he exited the car. Tyrone’s car wasn’t out front, but that wasn’t a surprise, since he had found a nearby apartment he’d move into while he looked for a house; it still felt weird to Rory.

Without delay, he walked in the front door, and was immediately greeted by a call from the kitchen. “Welcome home!” The voice sounded different. Older.

He peeked inside the kitchen, and an older Megan was in there, stirring away at a pot. Red shirt, white and blue skirt, wedding ring. She gave him a smile, and glanced back at the recipe. Every recipe she had was laminated, and whenever she cooked—even the most basic of dishes—it was hung by magnet on a metal recipe stand by the sink, with a series of magnets of various colors and shapes that she used to track where she was in the recipe. Just in case. He didn’t completely understand the system, but she seemed to be very comfortable with it.

“Oh uh, hey,” he said with a wave. “June 2006.” Of course there was a calendar sitting on the wall proclaiming the same, but habits were good to keep.

“April 2010,” she replied automatically. “And I popped in I think about three minutes after real-time me got unstuck.” She stepped over and gave him a peck on the lips. “Dinner in about twenty minutes, so don’t take too long.”

He knew better than to question the mischief in her smile—too long on what?—and turned to head back into their room. The door was closed—that was unusual—and he opened it carefully.

Inside peeking out from under the covers of the bed was a younger Megan, from when she got the too-short haircut in college. “Hey there,” she said.

“Oh uh ... hi again,” he said, a little taken aback.

“Again? There’s an older me out there right now, isn’t there?”

“Yeah.” He stepped in and started getting his things out of his pockets before sitting on the edge of the bed.

“I figured, which is why I’ve stayed holed up in here. This is after I move in with you, if I remember correctly.”

“Correct, though it’s only been a couple of weeks. June 2006,” Rory said, wanting to complete that ritual before continuing the conversation. She probably knew it anyway, given the prominent date on the calendar still on his desk.

“January 2005,” she said with a giggle, wiggling under the sheets. He had a feeling she wanted him to join her—was that what the older Megan was referring to?

Actually, he had a question. “Wait a moment—how did you get in the house? That’s definitely from before you started living here.”

“Tyrone let me in this afternoon,” she explained. “He dropped by to pick something up and I was out front. He checked inside to make sure I wouldn’t run into myself.”

Right, he still had a key. “So you’ve been lying here in wait for ... how long?”

“Since then. Like I said, I didn’t want to run the risk of running into a future self,” she explained. “Though I’ve only been naked under here for oh ... ten minutes or so.”

“Naked? Why didn’t you say so earlier?” he said with a laugh, most of his worries allayed. And it was okay if the older Megan heard them, because it was her past—and it made sense, the sooner he helped this Megan pop back to her time, the sooner he could help that Megan get back and wait for real-time Megan to return.

It made his head spin, and to deal with it, he was very shortly under the covers with a very naked and very handsy Megan. His own hand found her wet furrow and he slid a digit into her.

“Mmm,” he noted as he nibbled on one of her ears, her hand stroking him. “I am pre-vasectomy.”

“I know,” she replied, pulling a condom out of ... somewhere. “But thank you for reminding me.” She tore the package open with her teeth, then let go of him long enough to slide it on him.

Following her future self’s advice, as soon as the condom was on—Megan quite ready for him—he mounted her and slid into her, pushing slowly with each beckoning moan. “Ohhh,” he groaned as he sank all the way in. “You’re so tight.”

That got him a small chuckle. “So you’re saying I get loose when I get older.” Despite her commentary, her body began moving under him, her hands wrapped around him.

“Just different,” he replied, not wanting to ruin the mood with another careless word. His tongue found her ear again, and he got the reaction he wanted as he licked her, thrusting in time.

“Goddess yes!” she moaned—and he had no doubt her older self could hear them—and pulled him closer, obviously wanting a nice, quick fuck. He was okay with that.

Perfectly willing to make it faster, he began thrusting into her hard and fast, and he figured she’d been using her fingers on herself in anticipation, with how quickly her noises ratcheted from low moans to loud screams of pleasure. “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

His purpose singular, Rory didn’t respond with anything but thrusts, their bodies twined and coupling.