100 Yellow Doors

10:15 p.m.

Iman drove. Beck did not. He sat in the passenger seat, reclined all the way back, with his feet on the dash and lights glinting against his glasses in shades of red, yellow, and green. He blasted the radio—Metallica was playing—until Iman got a headache and lowered the volume a bit. She wondered why the hell she'd even agreed to take Beck. What was the point in it, Julien and him meeting? She had always kept the two of them separate, and now she was beginning to better understand why.

They pulled up to another stoplight. Iman rolled the window down, letting the cool summer breeze sweep her hair back from her face, clear her mind. The air smelled like asphalt and liquor, like secrets waiting to be told.

Beside her, Beck murmured something and unintelligible that ended with the word, "Ringo."

Iman turned her head sharply; green flashed across Beck's glasses, and she hit the gas. "What?"

"I said I didn't think," said Beck, louder but not much clearer, "he'd actually name his cat Ringo."

"Ah," said Iman, grinning to herself. "Well. It's a nice name, don't you think?"

But Beck shook his head with considerably too much force. "That cat will forever be forced to live with the crushing weight of living up to Ringo Starr," he said, and though Iman glanced at him to see if he was joking, his bloodshot eyes were dead serious. Beck watched the road as it whirled past, something in his gaze faraway and thoughtful. "Poor thing, because he never will. He can't even—he can't even speak English. He isn't even a person!"

"Jesus, Beck," said Iman, hanging a left. "How much did you drink?"

Beck burped in response.

"Nevermind. I don't wanna know."

She wondered if the quiet, often over-contemplative Beck she knew on the regular would be ashamed of this rasher, more outspoken version of himself. Probably.

No, she decided. Definitely.

They were parked outside Iman's apartment complex, the oil clinking underneath them as the engine died, when Beck pulled himself upright and pressed a sudden yet gentle kiss to Iman's lips. She chuckled, peering at him in the dark, his brown eyes starry and his face flushed.

Around them, it seemed as though the city stilled, only a few lonely cars rolling by, a few distant shouts from a bar no one remembered the name of. She was struck with a sudden thought: she could stay here forever. Here, in the solace, with Beck. This was her present, her here and now, and she never wanted to leave.

"Iman Patel."

"Beckett Caulfield."

Beck grimaced, but the expression passed. "I need to...to tell you something."

He leaned closer, and closer than that. Iman could practically taste the Vodka on his breath as her heart set to pounding within her chest. The night, alcohol: they were both made for giving you courage. Courage to say things you couldn't when the sun was up.

What was Beck afraid to say?

Moreover, what was she afraid to say?

"I love you, Immy," Beck said, brushing Iman's cheek as she just gaped at him. "Or at least I'm pretty sure I do. You're so smart—I love that little elated sound you make every time you see a book you like—and so...so pretty and, you know, you'd never lie to me and I'd never lie to you so I think that's why we work."

For what felt like eternity to Iman, the two of them just sat there and stared at each other—Beck with confusion, even expectation, and Iman with an overwhelming sense of guilt she badly hoped he couldn't see.

"Yeah," she agreed, pecking him on the nose before turning quickly away. "I guess that's why we work."

FEBRUARY 7TH, 1989 12:22 P.M.

Iman had barely dropped Beck off on the worn living room futon before she was gone.

She took a step towards the hall, hoping to take a brisk shower to wash herself clean of the night—and hit soft, dewy grass instead, pitching forward until she was on her hands and knees. A gasp tore free of her throat, as all the thoughts in her head condensed into one: Not again.

She liked being in control; she liked being anchored where she was. What she did not what like was being tossed through time like a sock in a washing machine.

She sat up, mopping sweat from her forehead with shaky hands. Squinting against the sudden, harsh daylight, she slowly got to her feet. Warmth. Open fields of grass, rimmed by sidewalks. Voices. A city park, somewhere? But where? she thought. When?

When she traveled, it was not always to Julien's. But oh, how much easier it was when that was the case. She didn't have to mull about looking for food or water or shelter, because it was all right there, under the albeit questioning care of a nearly two-hundred-year-old vampire.

This time, however, there was no yellow door to fall back on. Only the sun, the clouds, and a jogger that was giving her a vicious side-eye.

Iman staggered to the edge of the field until she located an empty park bench. She hugged her arms around herself, feeling strangely exposed. Everyone around her was in sweatpants and tracksuits, Walkmans in tow, and here she was in a form-fitting dress and a cardigan with several holes in it. She wanted Beck. She wanted Julien. She wanted to go back home.

Or did she?

Just a moment ago, it had been night. Beck was drunk and too honest for his own good, his mouth sloppy against hers as he kissed her, his hands loosely gripping her waist. You'd never lie to me, he'd said, a goofy half-smile on his face, and I'd never lie to you and I think that's why we work.

Iman sat on her park bench and began to weep silently. She didn't want to lie to him. It was just so much easier that way.

An old woman noticed her tears, and stopped, peering at Iman in concern. "Are you alright, young lady?"

"No," she said.

The old woman paused, looking around, before coming slightly closer. She looked like the sort of woman to buy bread just to feed pigeons on the street, and Iman was sort of comforted by her, even without knowing who she was. "Well," the old woman croaked. "What seems to be the matter?"

"I'm a time traveler," Iman sniffed, "and my boyfriend doesn't know."
The woman had only a second to raise an eyebrow before Iman vanished.