Page 66 of In What World

In the quiet that follows, I can practically hear the whirring laptop of her brain working overtime to think of an appropriate way to respond.

“Come on,” I say. “You were at my love reading.I’ve dated plenty, but it’s just been for fun, not for love,” I remind her, doingmy best impression of Psychic Priscilla, which is ultimately an impression of me at my most earnest.

She settles on a simple “Why?”

“Because I’m afraid they won’t actually choose me when it counts,” I say, likeisn’t it obvious?

Marlowe makes no face that indicates it is, in fact, obvious. She looks horrified, or maybe so deeply sad she has to present it as terror.

Finally, it shifts to understanding.

“Because your parents didn’t choose you,” she says.

I give her a small nod, but I can no longer meet her gaze. “I learned how to choose myself,” I say, speaking my words to the ceiling now. “And that’s been great, don’t get me wrong. I’ve shared my bed with some very fun people I knew would never see me as a serious relationship candidate. That way I never had to experience their rejection up close. But as we both know so well, we’re only getting older. And some day, I won’t be Hollywood old. I’ll be actually old. And I don’t know who will care for me when I’m too old to care for myself.”

Marlowe rolls on her side to face me, prayer hands tucked under her cheek. I can feel her studying my face, even as I stay on my back, keeping my focus trained on the ceiling, where peel-and-stick stars have been fixed into constellations.

“I worry about that, too,” she says. “I don’t want to be a burden to my friends and family. I guess I always thought I would get my career in order first and then figure out my relationships after that. Maybe get married. I’ve never been opposed. Just thought of it as a thing to handle later. But my career never came together, my girlfriend and I rightfully broke up, and like you just said, I’m only getting older. It feels like the years go by faster and faster, and I still don’t have someone to love me through it all.”

“Your friends and family love you so much,” I tell her. “They would help you no matter what.”

“They would, as much as they could,” she says. “But they have their own partners. Their own lives. I want someone who would put me first. I’m not anybody’s number one.”

She’s found the words for me with such specificity, it’s hard to catch a good breath.

I’m not anybody’s number one either. Not on a call sheet. Not on a contact list. Nowhere.

The psychics were right. I have never let anyone love me. I didn’t think it was in the cards. I’ve tried to make my peace. But now I’ve seen proof it is possible in Psychic Priscilla. I know exactly what I don’t have. And I know who I don’t have it with.

It’s quiet enough I can hear Marlowe’s breathing, long and smooth. I set my own breath to match hers. “I keep thinking about how, if we get stuck in this for years, there is no one waiting for me to return,” I say. “They’re all waiting for Cilla Cove. Probably hoping to get a media circuit going about my sensational disappearance that will put me back on the map again. But no one is waiting forme.”

Marlowe stays quiet so long I think she’s fallen asleep. I can’t bring myself to look, too exposed already by my own admission, so I reach for the side lamp and flick it off, thrusting the room into near-total blackness. Only the small rectangle of the window and the golden sheen of the ceiling stickers cast the faintest glow.

“If I weren’t already here, I would be waiting for you,” Marlowe whispers into the dark. “I’d be reading Reddit theories all night. I’d probably have my own bulletin board with red string and pictures of you and Dallas on it. I’d move back in with my parents and convert this very room into my investigation headquarters.”

“You’re only saying that after we’ve spent all this timetogether,” I reply. “The Marlowe I talked to in Dallas’s office when I got back to Garden Meadows wouldn’t miss me one bit. She immediately kicked me out, remember?”

Marlowe sits up, propped on her elbow, forcing herself into my view. It’s dark enough that she’s only in shades of gray, but I know her face enough to paint her eyes hazel, to pull the soft red color into her cheeks.

“She’d probably miss you even more, because she’d recognize in herself this void where knowledge of you should be,” she says. “She would hate knowing you disappeared without ever getting resolution between us.”

“What kind of resolution?” I ask.

Her free arm moves, landing on the other side of my shoulder, placing her nearly on top of me. “I used to think I knew exactly who we were to each other,” she says. “Everyone else called us rivals. And yes, I did hate you. But I think it’s because I didn’t understand you. And now…”

“Now what?” I ask on a breathless whisper.

“Now my understanding of you has reshaped the past. What used to make me angry now only seems to make me charmed,” she says. “And all that makes me want to do is kiss you, even though I know I shouldn’t.”

“Why?”

“Well, the psychic reading, for one. What they said about letting go of—”

“Never mind,” I interrupt. “For once, will you throw caution to the wind without worrying about the why? Will you just kiss me because you want it, and I want it, too?”

I expect a thousand hypothetical scenarios to dance across Marlowe’s expressive face until she comes up with a perfectly articulated argument as to why this would be a bad idea. Instead her lips find mine, pressing into me with hunger. I kissback even harder, granting permission for more, needing her like oxygen, and she throws the comforter off her legs to climb on top of me.

The pressure of her body on mine feels so good, pinning me to the immediacy of this moment, to her soft lips and her certain hands, and to the way she doesn’t question where to touch or how much to give me. When her tongue slips into my mouth, it’s like I’m being raised from the dead, because my arms reach up and wrap around her, needing more.