I woke up in a hotel room that smelled like expensive flowers.
The ceiling was unfamiliar. The bed was too soft. Someone was knocking on the door with increasing urgency.
"Barry! Barry, you need to get dressed! The photographer is here!"
My mother's voice. Shrill. Anxious.
Then the memories hit.
Not replacing my thoughts, just stacking on top of them, each one showing a different version of the same life.
Fifty-two years in one world. Pharmaceutical sales. Midwest territory. Married. Two kids. A heart attack in an Akron parking lot outside a Holiday Inn.
Something my doctor had warned me about, and I had ignored for too long.
But beneath that—or above it, I couldn't tell which—twenty-eight years as someone else.
Barry Farber. Orthodontist. Upper East Side. Columbia Dental School.
Today's date: Saturday, September 24, 1994.
My wedding day.
To Rachel Green.
Who, according to the memories I shouldn't have, was going to run from this wedding in approximately four hours.
"BARRY!"
I sat up.
The hotel room came into focus. Tuxedo hanging on the door. Boutonniere on the dresser. Schedule card propped against the lamp:
10:30 AM - Photos
11:00 AM - Guests arrive
12:00 PM - Ceremony begins
2:00 PM - Reception
Current time: 9:47 AM.
The knock came again.
"I'm up!" I called. "Give me ten minutes!"
"Eight! The photographer is already setting up!"
I stood. Looked in the mirror.
Twenty-eight-year-old face. No gray hair. No wedding ring yet. The haircut Rachel had insisted on last week—shorter on the sides, professional, something her father would approve of.
I knew what happened next in the original timeline.
Rachel gets cold feet. Runs.
Barry—original Barry—is left at the altar. Humiliated. Eventually rebounds with Mindy, Rachel's maid of honor. Becomes a punchline.
But I wasn't original Barry anymore.
And I had four hours to decide what to do about it.
I splashed water on my face. Both life memories made my head ache—like trying to focus on two photographs overlaid at slightly different angles.
In one life, I'd spent decades chasing quotas. Building someone else's pharmaceutical empire. Long drives between doctors' offices, explaining drug interactions I'd memorized from flashcards. Good at it. Successful, even. But always building equity for shareholders I'd never meet.
In this life, I'd coasted. Taken over a practice. Let it run on autopilot while I focused on proving myself worthy of Rachel Green's last name.
Both versions of me had made the same mistake.
Living for someone else's approval instead of building something real.
The knocking resumed. More insistent.
"Barry David Farber, I swear to God—"
I opened the door.
My mother stood there, makeup perfect, dress pressed, panic barely contained behind a smile that had been practiced in a mirror.
"Finally." She stepped inside, examining me like I was a patient who'd missed an appointment. "You look terrible. Did you sleep at all?"
"Some."
"Well, you can't look exhausted in the photos. Rachel's mother has already commented twice about the bags under your eyes in the engagement pictures." She pulled out a small makeup compact. "Here. Concealer."
"Mom—"
"Don't argue. Today is about presentation."
I took the concealer.
She watched me apply it with the intensity of a quality control inspector.
"There. Better." She adjusted my collar even though it was already straight. "Your father is downstairs with your groomsmen. The photographer wants family photos in twenty minutes."
"Okay."
She paused at the door. "Are you nervous?"
"Should I be?"
"Every groom is nervous. It's natural." Her smile softened. Became almost genuine. "But you and Rachel are perfect together. Everyone says so."
Everyone.
Her parents. My parents. Their friends. The country club set.
Everyone except Rachel and me.
"I'll be down in fifteen minutes," I said.
She kissed my cheek. Left a lipstick mark she immediately wiped away with her thumb.
Then she was gone.
I sat on the bed.
Picked up the phone.
The hotel's wake-up service had left a message light blinking. I ignored it.
Instead, I stared at the rotary dial.
I could call this off right now.
Tell my mother. Tell Rachel. Stop this before it started.
But that would cause chaos. Humiliation for everyone. Financial disaster—the deposits alone were nearly twenty thousand dollars. Money I didn't have in reserve because original Barry had been spending everything trying to look successful.
The comfertable path would be letting it play out. Letting Rachel run. Playing the victim. Accepting sympathy.
The hard path was stopping it myself.
Taking responsibility.
Ending it cleanly.
I picked up the receiver.
Dialed Rachel's room.
It rang four times.
"Hello?" Her voice. Tight. Strained.
"Rachel. It's me."
"Barry! You're not supposed to call! It's bad luck!"
"I need to talk to you."
"Now? We're in the middle of hair and makeup—"
"Rachel." I kept my voice gentle. "Are you okay?"
Silence.
Then, quietly: "Why are you asking me that?"
"Because you sound terrified. And I need to know if you're scared of weddings in general, or scared of marrying me specifically."
The silence stretched longer.
I heard voices in the background. Her mother. The bridesmaids. Someone laughing about champagne.
"I can't have this conversation right now," Rachel whispered.
"Then when?"
"Barry—"
"Before the ceremony. Just you and me. Five minutes."
"I don't—"
"Rachel. Please."
Another pause.
"Okay. Before photos. The terrace outside the bridal suite."
"I'll be there."
I hung up.
My hands were steady. That surprised me.
In my previous life, I'd always avoided confrontation. Let things fester. Assumed problems would resolve themselves if I just waited long enough.
They never did.
The terrace was empty when I arrived. Late September in New York—the air carried that edge that warned winter was coming but hadn't come yet.
Rachel stepped outside two minutes later.
She looked beautiful.
The wedding dress was everything her mother had wanted. Ivory silk. Beaded bodice. Train that cost more than my monthly clinic rent. Her hair was half-done—curls pinned on one side, the other side still in rollers.
"Hi," she said.
"Hi."
We stood three feet apart.
She fidgeted with her engagement ring. Twisted it. The diamond caught the light.
"You wanted to talk," she said.
"I wanted to ask you a question."
"Okay."
"Do you want to marry me?"
END CHAPTER 1 (1)
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