“Why a mathematician, then?”
“I took an algebra course my first year of college because I thought I might need it for my major.”
“What was your major?”
“Undecided,” he replied, “but I did well in that class, so I just kept going. I left for two years, came back, had to pick a major. All of my credits were in math, so I just kept going.” Another sip. “I started working with some grad students and got asked to stay on in the doctoral program. I haven’t left, as you can see,” he said with a smile floating somewhere between wry and grim, and then he added, “so I guess I’ll just stay until the university tells me to leave.”
The sentence rung with familiarity. Regan wasn’t sure how to identify what specifically had struck her as relatable, but she felt certain that whatever mental space Aldo had just occupied, she had been there before herself.
“Well,” she said. “That’s something.” She eyed her glass, remarking, “I suppose I learned a little of your history today.”
“So did I, sort of, though it still doesn’t really answer my question.”
“What, the one you had about the heist?”
“Not a heist,” he said, and she permitted a fleeting smile. “It was … a fixation, I think. At least partially.”
“Partially?”
“Maybe I’ll figure out the rest another time,” he said. “During one of the other three conversations.”
“Maybe,” she said.
They both paused, sipping from their respective thoughts.
“I like it,” he said.
“What?”
He loosened the wine from his lips. “Your brain.”
Three conversations, Regan marveled, and she already understood that was the highest compliment in Rinaldo Damiani’s arsenal. Clearly he was onto something with his rule of sixes.
“Thanks,” she said, and toasted him, permitting her glass to chime in synchronicity with his.
* * *
HE GLANCED AT HER NAME ON HIS SCREEN and answered on the second ring.
“Wave patterns,” she whispered.
He squinted at the clock. “It’s four, Regan.”
“I know. I couldn’t sleep.”
He dragged himself upright, leaning his pillow against the wall that lacked a headboard, and shifted to sit up. He reached over for the unlit joint on the nightstand, considered it, and then changed his mind, directing his attention back to Regan.
“What about wave patterns?”
“When you drop something into water,” she said, “and it ripples out. Those are circles.”
Ripples of consequence.
“Our eyes perceive them to be perfect circles,” he said. “There’s no telling whether or not they are.”
“Still, it sort of counts, doesn’t it?”
He figured he’d let her have that one, or at least part of it. “It’s not the most compelling contradiction but it counts, yes.”
“Crop circles,” she said. “Fairy rings.”
“Those aren’t nature,” he said. “They’re supernatural.”
She hummed a little in thought. “Do you believe in the supernatural?”
“I think I’d be irresponsible not to,” he said. “I’m sure there are explanations. I just don’t have time to consider them.”
“True. Not with time travel to puzzle out.”
“Right,” he agreed. “Only one impossibility at a time.”
Regan was silent for a moment. He didn’t feel the need to fill it. Instead, Aldo leaned his head back and lingered in the quiet contemplation that swung between them.
“Rainbows,” she said.
“What about rainbows?”
“They could be circles,” she said. “That arc is, you know. Circular, right?”
“Could be. But symmetry is only implied, and symmetry doesn’t often happen in nature, either.”
“True,” she sighed. “We did some facial compositions with symmetry in one of my drawing classes and they were terrible. Disturbing, even.”
“Yes,” he agreed, glancing at the still-dark sky outside. “Why are you whispering, by the way?”
“My boyfriend is sleeping.”
“Ah,” he said. “And you just figured I’d be awake, or did you plan to wake me?”
“I wasn’t really thinking about you, to be honest.”
For whatever reason, he smiled.
“Anything else going on in your mind?” he asked her.