Page 57 of In What World

“Don’t worry,” I stage-whisper to my Marlowe. “I’m sure our arrival in their world will fast-track their inevitable divorce. Honestly, being a young divorcée is kind of hot. I could wear that well. Should we go to Vegas after this is all over and do a chaotic twenty-four-hour marriage?”

“You’re almost thirty-five,” my Marlowe says.

“I’m choosing to embrace the fact that in the grand scheme of things, that is plenty young.”

“Tell that to my students.”

“They’re too busy making fun of your sweater-vests.”

Her blushing outrage travels all the way to her ears. “They’re not making fun of them. They like them. It’s a tribute.”

Psychic Marlowe interrupts us to say, “Ah,yes. These are our unhealed selves.”

“What haven’t we healed from?” I ask, genuinely curious how she’s gotten that from such a brief interaction.

“The trauma of being around each other?” my Marlowe quips.

Psychic Marlowe and Psychic Priscilla take that as a cue to gaze at each other. “Exactly,” they say in unison.

This stops my Marlowe’s snarky laugh dead in its tracks.

“Why don’t you give us one of your famous love readings?” I suggest.

These two think they understand us better than we understand ourselves. If I know anything about Marlowe, she will love the chance to prove them wrong. That will make her feel better, which will make me feel better, too. We need some of that normalcy right now.

My Marlowe lets out an immediate “No,” and I turn to her, batting my eyelashes. “C’mon,” I plead. “If nothing else, it will be highly entertaining. I think we’ve earned the right to some easy smiles.”

“Do you really want to know your future?” Psychic Priscilla asks.

“Seems pretty certain it’s not predictable. We have free will, after all,” my Marlowe says, calling back to our time in the library. My knee wedged between her legs.

Free will indeed.

“You do,” Psychic Priscilla confirms.

“There’s a world where we’re a doctor in Utah, by the way,” I tell her.

Psychic Priscilla taps Psychic Marlowe. “I told you I had healing energy.”

“Come along,” Psychic Marlowe says. “We do the readings in our basement.”

My Marlowe lingers, still resisting.

“What’s the worst that can happen?” I ask.

Her focus flickers back to my mouth.

“Oh, it’s kissing me?” I tease.

Whether my Marlowe agrees or she’s desperate for an excuse to look somewhere other than my face, she follows the psychics downstairs.

In the basement, the wind chime music is even louder, accompanied by some other ambient noises that provide the appropriate mystical effect. The psychics lead us behind a partition,where a velvet-covered table is set up, surrounded by a collection of large crystals and lit candles. There are already four chairs set out—two on one side of the table, two on the other.

“Is this how you usually have it, or are their four chairs because you knew we’d be here?” I ask.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Psychic Priscilla replies.

My Marlowe makes a point to drag her chair farther from the table, a harsh screeching punctuating her symbolic protest.