100 Yellow Doors

11:26 p.m.

She didn't know what she'd been expecting, but when she turned the key in the lock and stumbled into her first floor apartment, she was alone.

Maybe some part of her had hoped Beck would be waiting, either in the hallway or inside the apartment, his arms folded with impatience and his mouth hard with worry but his brown eyes soft with regret. He'd tell her he was sorry, that he shouldn't have yelled at her, that he was just glad she was okay. He'd hug her and she'd hug him back and just like that, everything would be okay again. Just like that.

Except it wasn't like that.

Iman leaned the door shut with her shoulder. She slid to the ground, her back against the door, her legs folded underneath her. The hardwood was chilly against her bare legs and the living room furniture made strange, gothic shadows in the dark; she tilted her head back and studied the ceiling, a low sigh filtering out of her mouth.

There were no notifications on her phone. Of course.

I should get up, she thought. I should get up and walk to my bedroom and go to sleep.

When I wake up everything will be fine.

When she stood, the airy feeling was back again—like a child blowing bubbles somewhere inside her, and everything that was blood and intestine was now wind and clouds instead. Iman took a step, but staggered. She said, "Wait," but by then she was already gone.

DECEMBER 23RD, 1986, 1:07 A.M.

The world spun back into focus again in a blur of yellow.

The first thing she noticed was the cold—biting like small teeth against her skin, racking shivers through her body. It was the sort of cold that wouldn't be that cold if she were aptly prepared, but she was not. Her coat was on the floor in front of her apartment door, back in DC, back in the present.

She was on Julien's front stoop. She recognized the concrete stairs strewn with the dust of former vines, now dead and gray with winter. A wreath decorated with red and silver ornaments adorned the sun-yellow door in front of her; the street beside her was vacant, quiet save for the faint jingling rhythm of a bell somewhere far away.

Christmas?

Another shudder tore through her. She searched for any indication of the time, the date, but all that accompanied her was a startling darkness.

Iman exhaled, her breath pluming in front of her in a cloud of white, and rung Julien's doorbell. She waited a while, still freezing, before impatience won over her and she knocked three rapt times.

Finally the door swung open. "Come on, kids, isn't it a little late at night to be Christmas caroling—ah. Immy?"

Julien stood in the door frame. He was shirtless, wearing only a pair of navy blue plaid pajama pants and a flour-dusted apron that said, What's cookin', good lookin'? in big white letters. One hand was cloaked in a large oven mitt. To her admitted surprise, he looked almost the same: firm, brown skin, tumbling loose curls of black hair, a smile that could kill millions. She always expected him to look like he'd aged and she was always surprised when he didn't. "Did you—are you—"

Iman nodded. "Yes, genius. Now I know you don't feel cold but it's absolutely freezing out here so can I please come in?"

Julien smirked, turning sideways in the door. "Be my guest. I just made cookies."

Iman rushed past him and into the foyer, finding the heating vent in the floor and standing directly on top of it. Julien shut the door, amused, and turned to face her, flipping his oven mitt off and stuffing it in the pocket of his apron. "When are you coming from, Miss Patel?" he asked. He regarded her spaghetti-strapped mini dress and tilted his head. "Some time when it's warm, I'm guessing?"