Delilah Jackson lives in the top flat of the tallest building at the end of the longest road up the highest hill in Black Sands, a road that undulates like a San Francisco street on a smaller scale. The closest bus takes Sunny to the bottom of the hill and by the time she reaches the top of the second slope, she's sweating and struggling for breath and she has to stop several times before she continues. How the hell people climb mountains for fun, she has no idea, considering a hundred metres up a paved road nearly wipes her out. If she lived here, she'd never leave the house. Or she'd befriend whoever lives at the bottom of the hill. Maybe she'd have to learn how to drive at last.

At the summit, she has to stop for air, until the urgency of her situation rears its ugly head and she jabs the buzzer for Delilah's flat four times before her ever patient friend waltzes over to the intercom and answers it with a sweet, "This is Delilah, how may I help you?"

"It's Sunny, we need to talk. It's an emergency," Sunny says. Delilah doesn't ask any further questions, just buzzes her up, and Sunny laments these beautiful old buildings turned into four storeys of flats with no lifts as she climbs the steps as fast as possible without bursting a lung.

Delilah's door is already open when she reaches the top. Sweet, dependable Delilah, standing at the threshold with a steaming mug of herbal tea in one hand and a freshly lit incense stick burning in the other. She's a vision of elegance in her silk dressing gown that clings to every curve, the same shade of mermaid blue as the dip-dyed ends of her box braids, her thick eyebrows pulled together above the chunky frames of her glasses. She steps back, door wide open, and ushers Sunny into her flat. Half an inch of ash floats to the floor from the end of the joss stick, which Delilah pushes into a crack in the doorframe from which dozens of charred remains protrude.

Flat 8, Sandy Hill is heaven. It's all natural light and bright colours, original art and galaxy prints on the walls and plants on every surface; the books scattered over Delilah's coffee table are an eclectic mix of physics and astronomy tomes; guides to astrology; DIY craft manuals, and cosy romance novels. Delilah is a hundred contradictions in the corporeal form of quiet girl with loud ideas, with eyes as deep as the ocean and dark as the night, her skin as smooth and brown as a chestnut.

The sofa in the centre of the room must be as old as the building itself, soft cracked leather that sighs as Sunny sinks into a deep cushion and digs her nail under a tear on the arm. It's as comforting as Delilah herself, who is not predictable but she is dependable to a fault. Delilah is a rock in a stream: turbulent waters may flow, but she remains unmoved.

"Start from the start," she says, her voice a honeyed hush. A second cushion gently wheezes as she takes a seat next to Sunny and places her cup on the pale ring long since worn into the scuffed arm of the sofa. That is one Sunny's favourite things about Flat 8, Sandy Hill – nothing is so sacred that it is put before comfort; no object comes before the people that Delilah invites into her home.

Except the telescope facing out of the enormous bay window that looks out over the entire town and the ocean beyond. The last time someone touched Griff – named after Los Angeles's Griffith Observatory, Delilah's favourite place on earth – without asking, they were never invited back. A shame, really. Sunny had liked Lauren, but she'd broken the cardinal rule and moved Griff out of prime viewing position, so Delilah had excommunicated her halfway through their third date.

"Either I've got amnesia or a brain tumour or I'm a time traveller," Sunny says.

Delilah doesn't flinch. She's unflappable. "Okay. Why?"

So Sunny goes back to the start and she fills in her friend with as much detail as possible, and she holds it together this time because there's something about Delilah, knowing that nothing is too weird for her. She doesn't judge. She listens, and she works her short, immaculate nails into every crevice of a problem until she understands it inside out, until she can help as much as possible. She's the best of both worlds, with a head for science and a heart for creativity, and she knows exactly how to use both sides of her brain.

Once, Sunny had asked how she could marry her passion for astrophysics and her love of horoscopes. Delilah had shrugged that languid shrug and said, "Astronomy, astrology, it's all the same stars. The only difference is what you see in the way they lie."

"Well," Delilah says once she has listened to everything Sunny has to say. She takes a sip of her tea and tilts her head. "Would you like a drink?"

"Depends what you're offering," Sunny says. Her throat is sore; it feels like she's losing her voice after trying to explain what's going on to Ravi and Delilah, after panting so hard up the hill her oesophagus burned.

"Well, it's not quite ten in the morning," Delilah says, her soft hand on Sunny's shoulder, "so your options are water, juice, coffee, or tea. Do you need energy or do you need to calm down?"

"I don't even know." Sunny rests her elbows on her knees, only now realising she never changed out of her pyjamas. Damn it. She's going to be getting a reputation, racing around town in a whirlwind of chaos in her baggy pyjamas – complete with her trusty cap and a pair of fur-lined boots that seemed more appropriate when she thought it was still February.

"I think this situation calls for chamomile," Delilah says. As she boils the kettle and finds a teabag and adds a dash of honey and milk, just the way she knows her friend likes it, Sunny takes a moment to breathe. To sit there and stew in the moment, to marinade in the cacophony of smells that permeate Delilah's flat. Patchouli from the incense. Clean cotton from Delilah's always-fresh laundry. Mellow, silky sweetness from the tea.

Only after Sunny has drunk a third of her tea does Delilah speak, once she's had the time to formulate a theory and a response. Nothing rushes Delilah Jackson. She works to her own clock, bending time to her will with a surprising degree of success.

"Have you heard of the multiverse theory?"

"No."

"So, the word universe comes from a Latin word that means one thing, one whole," Delilah says, clasping her hands together, "but the multiverse theory posits that there are in fact multiple universes – hence multiverse – or even an infinite number of universes because the universe we know exists because of quantum fluctuation, and what's to say these little quantum fluctuations aren't a constant occuren—"

"Delilah, I love you, but you're going to have to explain it to me like I'm five," Sunny says, her mind already boggled. "You're far too clever for me."

Delilah's smile softens. She reminds Sunny of a wren – small and round and brown, her eyes bright and inquisitive.

"Okay," she says, pulling her feet up under herself. "Basically, it's the idea that every action we take and every decision we make sparks off a new universe, therefore an impossibly high number of universes exist – maybe there's one in which you ask for coffee instead of tea, or one where you let me talk hard science to you. So, I guess, every decision made sparks off a new strand of a new life. Whether these universes coexist on the same timeline, who knows." She shrugs, hands spread wide.

"So what does that mean for me?" Sunny asks. She's sure this is more than her being forgetful, more than a bump on the head, and she is eager to latch onto whatever theory Delilah has.

"Well, I think there's a chance that when you made that wish, there was a ... I don't know, a clash in time? A collision of universes? Time and space are such strange and unknowable things, really; we can't ever fully understand them. And, of course, destiny plays a role. Destiny and fate and timing all play a part in our lives."

"Are you about to say it's because I'm a Gemini, somehow?" Sunny almost laughs, but Delilah's expression doesn't change.

"Perhaps. Who knows? Gemini is the twin sign – you may not be a twin but that's not all it means. You made a powerful enough wish with true enough intention behind it that you essentially doubled yourself, and fate and physics gave you a nudge into a universe that matched your desire." She gathers her braids over one shoulder and stretches out one smooth leg, her glittery celestial-painted toes nudging Sunny.

"How do I undo it?"

"I don't know. All of this is just theory, anyway – I'm merely saying what I think. I don't know how this happened, so I don't know how it unhappens."

Both of Sunny's hands are wrapped around her mug, the sweet aroma wafting up to calm her through diffusion. She inhales deeply and finishes off the last of the lukewarm brew. It's thick and sweet at the bottom, where the honey hasn't fully dissolved. "I'm scared."

"I know. It's scary. But I believe you, and I want to help you," Delilah says. "Whether that means figuring out how to get you back to the night you last remember, or whether it means helping you settle into this life. It's not too different from last year."

"Except I have a girlfriend now," Sunny says. That's a pretty huge difference.

"A very hot one at that." Delilah presses her lips together and nods her appreciation, her eyes closed and her hands held in prayer. "Do you want to know what I think?"

"Always." Sunny realises she doesn't tell her friends enough how much she loves them, how much she appreciates them, how grateful she is to have them in her life. The thought of waking up more than a year into the future without them is unthinkable and she is so glad to not be alone. They have no reason to believe her. She's sure that if Ravi came to her thinking it was still 1998, she would write it off as a joke, or she would race him straight to his doctor.

"I think that there is so much we cannot predict and cannot control," Delilah says, "and you risk missing out on even more of your life than the fourteen months you've already lost if you spend all of your time trying to return. Imagine if you spend the next eight months doing nothing but trying to get back to 1999 – before you know it, it's 2001 and you've lost nearly two years of your life, and probably alienated everyone around you in the process."

Her words are a bucket of ice over Sunny's head, dousing her in cloud. Because her plan was to go straight back to The Witching Well and recreate what she did that night – pitch her money into the water and make a wish. But another part of her can't bear to try, because to try and to fail? She's pretty sure that's more devastating than never trying at all. If she makes no attempt, then the possibility of success is like Schrödinger's cat – if she doesn't open that can of worms, she will never know for certain if she would slip back through time or remain rooted in the future.

The present, she thinks. To everyone else, this day is earned. They have worked towards it, worked for it. They have lived through the days before that led up to it.

"So you think there's a chance I'm stuck here?"

"Yes." Blunt but soft. She scoots closer and takes the empty mug from Sunny's hands, and she pulls her into a tight hug, so tight that Sunny can't breathe, can hardly think, and it's so reassuring to be held so hard. Her cheek is pressed to Delilah's warm neck, her chin pressed to the cool silk of her dressing gown, and she wraps her arms around her friend equally as firmly.

"Whatever happens," Delilah says, "you're not alone, Tennyson Shelley. Have you talked to Viv?"

"No. I don't even know how to talk to her. I don't know her and she's going to think I'm a fucking psycho if I tell her that I came from 1999 precisely to be with her, only to get so freaked out that I need to go back." She slips off her shoes and lifts her bare feet onto Delilah's sofa, wrapping her arms around her knees. "I don't want to tell her. Not yet, at least."

Delilah purses her lips. "I think she needs to know, Sun."

"Yeah, eventually. But I need to come to terms with this first. I need you and the guys to fill me in on the last year." She hugs her knees to her chest, resting her chin on her kneecaps, and looks around Delilah's flat. It's large and open plan, the only two doors leading to her cosy bedroom and her bright bathroom, everything else happening in this space. When her eyes land on the chunky laptop on the desk in front of the window, she says, "I guess Y2K wasn't a big deal in the end?"

"Only because of the years of pre-emptive action and billions of pounds spent ensuring it wouldn't be a big deal," Delilah says. She's the only person Sunny knows who owns a laptop. Sunny doesn't get the big deal, especially when it's so expensive. If she needs the internet, she can get it for free at the library – and she can find a new book while she's at it, so it's a win-win.

Neither of them says a word for a while. Delilah makes a new cup of tea and Sunny licks the last dregs of honeyed chamomile from the teaspoon in her mug. Outside the window a chiffchaff sings, and though the ocean's half a mile away, Sunny's sure she can hear the swell and break of the waves as they lick the seaweed-slick sand. Perhaps it's the rush of blood to her head, the pressure of today filling her veins.

"Do I love her?" she asks after minutes have meandered by. Delilah looks up from the newspaper folded in her hand, her thumb marking her horoscope. She's a Cancer, a summer baby.

"Viv?"

"Mmm."

Delilah's focus liquefies, a gentle smile blossoming on her plump lips. "You do. You adore her."

Sunny's not sure why she asked because hearing that doesn't make things any easier. She has never loved anyone before, not romantically. Why is it that the moment she does, it's in an alternate universe in which she has no memory? Fate is cruel, she thinks, and destiny is mean, and physics can go fuck itself.

"We all like her," Delilah says. "She's very cool, and she lets me do her hair."

Sunny runs a hand through her new purple 'do and Delilah adds, "So do you, of course."

"This was a surprise," Sunny says, with the slightest of laughs, tugging on a lilac strand to look at it closer, though it's so short, it's a struggle to see without her eyes slipping out of focus. "You did an amazing job. I just wasn't expecting it, considering it was the colour of a puddle the last time I looked in the mirror."

"The purple suits you. You weren't sure when I suggested it but you were won over after I did Viv's pink. Hold on." She unfurls herself from the sofa and pads across the flat to her desk, where she has a folder of recently developed pictures. She always has a Kodak instant camera on the go and a spare in her bag, for snapping before and after pictures of the hairdressing jobs she does as a side hobby, and she rifles through the prints until she finds the four she's looking for.

"Here's you," she says, holding out two of the pictures to Sunny. She takes them, carefully holding the edges without getting her fingerprints on the photos, and is struck by a strange out-of-body feeling at seeing a recent photo of herself that she doesn't remember. In the first one, she looks like the self she remembers – plain brown hair almost to her shoulders, straight as a ruler, half hidden under her backwards cap – while the second shows the new her. That perfect purple gradient, that razor sharp bob that hugs her chin.

"I can't imagine being patient enough for this," she muses. Delilah laughs.

"Yeah, it took a couple of sittings." She hands over the next set of pictures and Sunny's heart thuds hard, a similar sensation to the flip of her stomach when she drives too fast over a bridge. These ones show the woman who kissed her this morning, the woman she supposedly loves.

And she is stunning. That can't be denied. In the first picture, she's bare-faced and freckled, with an unruly mop of mocha brown curls. Her wide smile shows off perfect teeth, straight and white, and there's the glint of a stud in her nose, dimples in her tanned cheeks. Sunny sees now what she didn't see before: that Viv looks so much like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, with those curls and that broad grin, her bare-faced beauty and the hoops in her ears. The second photo is more familiar – her deep brown hair is now bright, bold pink; her smile is wider; she's wearing a touch of colour on her lips. Sunny feels as though she's looking at a picture of a model in a magazine; she can't compute the fact that this is her girlfriend. This tall, muscular, Amazon of a woman with the soft bronze glow of someone who spends a lot of time in the sun, or—

"What's her surname?" Sunny asks.

"Uh, Galanis, I think?"

"Is she Italian?"

That smiles creeps back over Delilah's lips. "Sorry, this is just ... so strange. Last year you were gushing to me about this girl who asked you on a date and now you're asking me all about her." She shakes her head to herself and sips her tea, holding it in her mouth for a moment before swallowing. "Her dad's Greek. I'm sure she could give you more information than I can."

Sunny knows this. She knows that the best person to talk to is probably the one she spends her time with, the one who loves her. But in this equation, that person is the only one she doesn't know. The only one she is unfamiliar with, uncomfortable around. Delilah and Ravi represent safety and security; Vivian is an unknown quantity and seeing as the entire world feels a bit off kilter right now, Sunny wants to surround herself with comfort. She needs familiarity. She realises, in that moment, that she needs her family. For a heart-stopping moment, she thinks of everything that could have happened in the last fourteen months and she almost can't push the words out to ask if her parents are all right, but she does, her voice strangulated.

"They're fine and dandy, don't worry," Delilah says. "I'm pretty sure you said yesterday that you were going to see them today or tomorrow."

And like that, Sunny knows what she's doing with the rest of the day. She doesn't need to tell her parents what's going on because they will worry about her, and possibly suggest crisis intervention and immediate therapy, but she craves a hug from her mothers, and it conveniently means she doesn't have to face Vivian yet. Maybe, she hopes, a couple of days in her childhood home will put her mind and her body at ease. It always worked when she was at university. When the stress began mounting up until it felt like an impassable mountain, a trip home always did the trick.

It doesn't help that her purse is almost empty.

Delilah, who seems to have read Sunny's mind, hands her a five-pound note from somewhere within the folds of her dressing gown.

"Thank you. For everything. You're the chef's kiss of people, Delilah."

Delilah blinks. "That ... is so strangely sweet. Thank you, Sunny."

They hug, long and tight again, and when Sunny steps outside, she appreciates the breeze and the long walk down the hill and the salt in her hair, because she has a plan, as loose and temporary a plan as it is. Everything is going to be okay because it has to be. Delilah has soothed her mind, for now. Whether she has slipped through a crack in time or been flung to a different universe or got caught in a fight between physics and fate, or mutating cells have invaded her brain and altered her reality, there has to be a reason. She thinks. She hopes. Because that's the thought that will keep her sane – there's a reason she's here.

*

i feel like if i knew someone like delilah, i would have no worries in the world