Darcy felt a smile settling on her face. She had plenty of details to share. The way Imogen’s hands carved the air when she talked about writing. The way she collected scandalous gossip about artists, even ones who’d been dead two hundred years. How she never interrupted, no matter how long Darcy took to finish a sentence. The rings she wore on different days.
The conversation lasted all afternoon, and in the end there was only one thing that Darcy left out, because Aunt Lalana really wouldn’t understand the fact that Darcy didn’t know her girlfriend’s real name.
* * *
Sometimes Imogen went out all night without Darcy.
Not that Imogen wanted to leave her behind—it was Darcy’s idea. As much as she liked Imogen’s friends, she worried that her fake Pennsylvania driver’s license wouldn’t stand up to scrutiny at a serious nightclub. And it was awkward, always being the youngest. There was still so much that Darcy didn’t know, nuances of politics and gender and language that a certain kind of person learned about at college and talked about in bars. Darcy always found herself a step behind. Besides, she mostly wanted to talk about books and writing when she went out drinking, but Imogen’s friends came from all corners of the city, not just publishing, thanks to the jobs in art galleries and small websites she’d worked at over the past fourteen months.
Also, Nisha’s budget always came along and sat there in the corner of the bar like a noisy ghost, sometimes laughing at her, sometimes shrieking and rattling its chains.
So when Imogen headed out with her posse, Darcy usually stayed home. As their lives became more mixed and intermingled, she often found herself left behind not in apartment 4E, but at Imogen’s, where she was free to snoop all she wanted. This was sometimes a bad thing.
Imogen, it turned out, collected matchbooks.
She collected lots of free and found objects—transit timetables, paint samples, discarded polaroids—but the matchbooks were her great obsession. Darcy had seen Imogen taking them from restaurants and coffee shops, and had heard Gen’s laments about being too young for the glory days before smoking bans, when every sort of business had given matchbooks away as advertising. But until poking around in her girlfriend’s closet, Darcy hadn’t realized how deep the compulsion went.
Imogen kept her collection in clear plastic boxes. Each box was packed tight, carefully arranged so the commercial logos and phone numbers could be read from the outside, the interiors stuffed with duplicates and generics. There was a stack of these boxes in the closet, enough matches to burn down the whole city. Not that Imogen would ever light them, any more than a comic collector would cut up the pages of old issues.
As Darcy browsed the plastic boxes, she wondered what the story was behind this or that matchbook. When had Imogen eaten at a café out in Brighton Beach? Why had she visited a carwash in Queens? Why on earth would a dance academy have promotional matches?
Then, while snooping one night in late August, she found something even more intriguing at the bottom of the pile: a school yearbook from 2008.
Like any yearbook, it was full of thumbprint-size photos of the senior class, each with a name beneath it. Darcy did a quick calculation—2008 was Imogen’s final year in high school.
Darcy slammed the book shut, breathing hard. Under one of those photos would be Imogen’s real name. This wasn’t just innocent snooping anymore.
For a moment, Darcy thought she was about to put the yearbook back into its spot beneath the pile of matches. She even felt a surge of virtuousness flow through her, the contented rush of having done the right thing. But then she opened up the book again and began to examine the student photos from the beginning, page by careful page.
The school was mostly white kids, the boys dressed in collared shirts for senior picture day, the girls wearing a little too much makeup. None of them looked like Imogen’s younger self, or even like people who could be her friends and classmates. They seemed to be from a different universe than Imogen Gray. And there were no signatures on the photos, no inside jokes or inspirational sayings scrawled in the margins by friends.
Maybe this yearbook was simply a discarded object kept for research purposes, a source of character names and bad Midwestern haircuts. Or maybe it had been left here as a trap to torment a certain nosy girlfriend.
But Darcy kept reading, noting the names beneath the blank spaces labeled “No Photograph Available.” It would be just like Imogen to skip senior picture day.
And then, on the very last page of photos, a familiar combination of letters arrested Darcy’s eye—Imogen.
Imogen White.
“No way,” Darcy whispered, staring at the picture.
The girl had a wide smile and big eyes, chunky glasses and black hair. Her face was too round to be Imogen’s, her nose too small. It was a coincidence, nothing more. Imogen wasn’t that rare a name.
But White and Gray . . .
Darcy kept searching, past the senior portraits and into the photos of activities and clubs and sports teams, looking for anyone who looked like her Imogen. Surely no one was friendless enough to escape the relentless cameras of a high school yearbook team.
Long minutes later she found the photo. It was in the Theatrical Arts section, a shot of a crowded stage with Imogen White and Imogen Gray next to each other in old-fashioned dresses. Beside the photo was the yearbook’s only handwritten note:
Sorry to say it, babe, but you suck at accents and look stupid in a dress.
Love forever,
—Firecat
Darcy blinked, remembering something her Imogen had said the first night they’d met. My first girlfriend was a pyro.
It was like being punched, and at first Darcy didn’t even know why.
Of course Imogen had had girlfriends before Darcy. This girl in high school and a whole blogging career’s worth in college. That fact had never bothered Darcy at all.
But this was something more. Imogen White was the original pyromancer, the spark of a whole trilogy, and when Gen had re-created herself as a novelist, she’d taken Firecat’s first name. The jealousy she felt wasn’t about sex or love, Darcy realized. It was about writing.
She lay back on the bed, suddenly exhausted.
If she were in a detective novel, Darcy knew, she would now go through the yearbook again, scribbling down all the names beneath “No Photo Available,” then google them one by one with the appropriate search terms to find the answer.
But Imogen’s old name didn’t matter anymore. It was her new name—her real name, she always insisted—that told the story.
Darcy looked again at the picture of Imogen’s girlfriend, muse, and namesake.
Where was she now? Was her love really forever? Had all those matchbooks been collected for her?
Darcy knew she should be wondering something else entirely, like how she had become such a seething bag of jealousy. This relationship was less than two months old, and already she’d managed to make herself envious of someone who’d been Imogen’s girlfriend when Darcy was twelve years old.
She groaned aloud. Her body ached, as if her emotions were wired straight into her muscles. It hurt to breathe, to move, to think. How had everything gotten so intense?
She pulled herself from Imogen’s bed and took a shower, hoping to wash away her jealousy. But the streams of water felt like ice-hot needles.
The thought of publishing—of the whole world reading Afterworlds—had always made Darcy feel naked and exposed, but loving had left her skinless.
* * *
Imogen got home, ruffled and drunken, an hour before the sun came up.
“You’re awake,” she said, her smile lighting the dark.
Darcy had been awake all night, thrashing and suffering, and by now was tangled in the sheets like a dreaming toddler. She’d put the yearbook back into the closet hours ago, beneath carefully restacked boxes of matchbooks.
“Couldn’t sleep,” she said. “Couldn’t write either. I’m useless when you’re not her
e.”
“You’re sweet.” Imogen’s voice was alluringly raw, as always after hours of fierce conversation over loud music. She smelled like the world outside, sweat and smoke, spilled drinks and dancing. She always smelled beautiful.
“Did you have a good time, babe?” Darcy asked.
Imogen hesitated, drunkenly wary for a moment. That last word had slipped out of Darcy, who’d never called anyone “babe” in her life. It had come from Firecat’s note, of course. But this still wasn’t some detective novel, in which a single clue revealed everything.
Imogen only nodded and sat down heavily on the bed. She leaned over Darcy for a kiss, which tasted of coffee and chocolate. On late drinking nights, she and her friends usually had dessert in an all-night diner before going home.
As Imogen pulled off her shirt, Darcy knew she had to speak up now, or she never would. She had to trust her girlfriend to understand.
“Um, I have a confession. I was snooping tonight.”
The wary look again. “Snooping on who?”
“Who do you think?”
Imogen’s eyes went to her laptop, which sat closed on her desk. “Tell me you didn’t read my diary, Darcy.”
“Don’t be silly. I’d never do that!” A pause. “You keep a diary?”
Imogen groaned and flopped back on the bed, her legs flung across Darcy’s. “Just the notes on my phone. They back up onto my computer, and they’re very private.”
“Of course.” Even in her worst depths of snooping, it had never occurred to Darcy to pry open Imogen’s laptop. “I wouldn’t spy on your writing, Gen. You know that, right?”
Imogen tiredly turned her head, raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”
“Of course,” Darcy said. “I was just looking at your match collection.”
A laugh bubbled, low and sleepy, as Imogen turned to face the ceiling again, her eyes half closing. “That’s your confession? You really need to get out more.”
“Your old yearbook was in the closet.”
A sigh left Imogen, and she pulled herself back up to sitting. “Okay, that is snooping. What’d you find out?”
“There was a picture of Imogen White.”
“Oh.” Imogen Gray rubbed one side of her face with an open palm.
“And one of you two onstage together. She wrote a note saying you look stupid in dresses, but I don’t think that’s true.”
A half smile. “Me neither. But I think she meant frilly ones. We were in that ridiculous play.”
“You both looked beautiful.”
“So you must have figured out my real name.”
Darcy shook her head. “You didn’t have a picture, and Imogen’s was the only note in the whole book.” It was so strange, saying that name to mean someone else. “Didn’t you have other friends?”
“Lots, but I wasn’t there the week they handed out yearbooks. I skipped the last month of school, pretty much. Early admission to an Ivy, so I was untouchable.”
Darcy breathed relief. For the last few hours, she’d kept imagining Gen spending her high school years friendless and downtrodden. But instead she’d been untouchable.
“Firecat brought that yearbook home for me. I didn’t find what she’d written till a long time later. . . .” Imogen’s voice faded, then she cleared her throat and said, “So that’s what you needed to know? Whether I had friends in high school?”
“Why did you take her name?”
Imogen turned away and stared at the closet door. “Because she inspired my protagonist. She liked to light fires. I told you that.”
“Sure. But that’s different from naming yourself after her. Isn’t ‘Imogen Gray’ your whole new identity? The one you’re protecting by not telling me who you really are? Are you trying to become her, Gen?”
“No.” Her voice had gone soft again. “Just to remember her.”
For a long moment, Darcy listened to the sound of Imogen breathing. It was heavy with weariness and alcohol, and something else.
“Holy crap. Did she die?”
Imogen nodded, still staring at the open closet. “Suicide. We think.”
“Shit.” Darcy sat up. “I’m so sorry.”
“It feels like a long time ago.”
“It still totally sucks.” Darcy wrapped her arms around Imogen.
“I was away at college and couldn’t afford to fly back, which made it a lot worse. I kept forgetting, somehow. In the morning, I’d go five minutes before remembering she was gone.”
“I didn’t mean to bring all this up, I swear.”
Imogen shook her head. “I don’t mind you knowing. I wasn’t hiding her, really. And I kind of love it that you want to know everything.”
They drew each other closer and the room was silent for while, except for the rumble of traffic starting up below. The light was shifting as morning approached. Darcy felt her body shifting as well, fitting itself against Imogen’s. The bite of alcohol and smoke softened into more familiar scents.
When they parted, Darcy said, “On a scale of one to ten, with ten being the most insecure, how shitty a girlfriend am I?”
“You’re not a shitty girlfriend. You’re hard work sometimes, is all.”
Darcy looked away. “When I saw her picture, I was jealous. Not because you were in love with her. Because she made you want to write books.”
“Lots of things make me want to write books. But yeah, she did.” The hint of a smile crept into Imogen’s expression. “And that made you jealous?”
“Of course.”
Imogen keeled slowly backward onto the bed, like a drunken tree falling. Her laugh was throaty and raw. “Like that night with Kiralee, when you were jealous about my Phobomancer idea. You’re hilarious.”
“No, I’m not. I’m horrible!”
“Yeah, right. I just got home from six hours of drinking, dancing, and talking mostly about sex with a half-dozen beautiful, dauntless, smart-as-shit women. And what are you jealous about? Where I got my nom de plume!” At the sound of her own French accent, Imogen bubbled over with raspy laughter again. “And because you didn’t get to hear my pitch before anyone else. That’s just hilarious.”
Darcy stared down at her girlfriend, wondering if she should have waited for sobriety to have this conversation. But when Imogen’s laughter finally subsided and her eyes opened again, they held a look of absolute clarity.
She reached up to tuck a stray lock of hair behind Darcy’s ear. “You’re amazing.”
“I’m a mess, Gen. I don’t know how to stop being this way.”
“At least you care about the right stuff.” Imogen gave her a slow, catlike blink. “Do you really need to know my real name?”
“Do you want to tell me?”
“It won’t kill me, I guess.”
Darcy held Imogen’s gaze for a moment. Was this the sort of thing that normal people argued about? Names and noms de plume and novel pitches? Surely not. “Keep it secret. You’re Imogen to me.”
The resulting smile was beautiful. “Okay, but just for now. Do you want to come on tour with me?”
Darcy only stared at first, because the words didn’t parse. They were too far from this conversation to make sense. But then their meaning fell into place, and she smiled back. “That would be nice. Maybe someday we’ll have a book out at the same time.”
“I don’t mean someday. I mean next month.”
Darcy blinked.
“Hotel rooms don’t cost more for two people,” Imogen went on. “And Paradox is paying for them, and for the cars that pick us up and stuff like that. And food’s cheaper outside of New York, so we’d save money there. All you’d have to pay for is your plane tickets, which I could help you with.”
“Wait. You mean go on tour with you . . . and Standerson?”
“Right—we should ask him first, to be polite. But he likes you, and I already talked to Nan about it. She said that prepub tours are great, especially when they don’t cost Paradox any money.”
 
; Darcy nodded, her mind focusing at last. She’d been unmoored since finding the picture of Imogen White, but solid ground had suddenly appeared beneath her feet. Imogen was talking about publishing, a subject that always cleared Darcy’s head.
“A prepub tour? Is that a real thing?”
“Sure. You travel around meeting booksellers and librarians, and charm them so they’re all excited when your book comes out.” Imogen’s smile grew. “And we’ll be with Standerson, so his rock-star glow will rub off on us.”
“And Nan really said it was okay?”
“She loved the idea. But like I said, we’ll have to split your plane fare.”
“I’ll pay for my own planes, silly.”
“What about your budget?”
“Fuck my budget.” Darcy threw her arms around Imogen again. “I get to go on tour with you and Standerson? That’s amazing!”
“You are kind of lucky, aren’t you?”
Darcy pulled away, laughing. “This isn’t about my luck, Gen. It’s because you don’t want to leave me alone for a week!”
“God only knows what you’d get up to.”
“I promise I won’t ever snoop again.”
“Take it from a half-assed expert in obsessive-compulsive disorders: you can’t stop yourself. But it’s okay, as long as you don’t look in my diary.” Imogen’s face went serious now, her voice suddenly sharp and ragged. “My mom used to read my notebooks when I was little, and I hated it more than anything. So don’t do that.”
“Never. I promise, Gen.”
The hard look on Imogen’s face turned swiftly back into a smile; her moods were oiled by the alcohol in her veins. “I’m glad you like my name.”
“I love your name. Her name. I’m sorry you lost her.”
“Me too.” Imogen’s eyes drifted toward the closet. “Even if she could be a total pain sometimes.”
Darcy followed her gaze. “Are all those matches for her? For Firecat?”
“At first, but then I realized how useful they could be.” Imogen reached for the half-full plastic box at her bedside. She turned it, looking at the matchbooks pressed up against the sides. “Whenever I need a location or a random job, I use them. See? I’ve got pawn shops and yarn stores and shoe repair places in here. Locksmiths and carpet cleaning and tattoo parlors, and look . . . roof restorations!”