Mom sees me first. “Hello, sweetheart. I thought you’d be painting by now.”
“Hi,” I say. It’s completely inadequate, but I can’t think of anything else. So I bound up the two steps that lead to the kitchen and take both of my parents into my arms.
“What’s this for?” Dad laughs.
Somehow I keep my voice steady as I say, “I just—I missed you guys.”
Dad pulls back, looking wary. “Did you spill paint on something?”
“No! Everything’s fine, I swear.” I let go of them, but I can’t stop smiling stupidly. Being near them doesn’t heal the wound of Paul’s death in Russia—but it helps me feel almost complete again. “Everything is totally fine.”
Mom and Dad exchange glances. She says, “I suppose eventually a teenage hormone swing had to work in our favor.”
“About time,” Dad replies.
I push back at them, but playfully; Mom and Dad could tease me a thousand times worse than this and it wouldn’t bother me, not today. “What did you get?”
“The makings for some lasagna. And a little red wine—Josie might want a glass.” Mom starts unloading her grocery bags, but I take one of them from her.
“Why don’t you let me make dinner? You guys can sit down and relax.”
When Mom and Dad look at each other this time, they seem less amused, more worried. Mom says, “Are you feeling all right?”
Dad shakes his head. “You’re going to ask to borrow the car.”
I laugh out loud; apparently I dodge working in the kitchen as much in this dimension as I do at home. “You guys, stop. Everything’s fine. I just feel like it would be fun. That’s all.”
Although Dad clearly isn’t convinced, Mom says, “Henry, don’t fight it.” She places a package of lasagna noodles in my hands, then turns to my father, pushes him gently by the shoulders and points him toward the sofa. As he walks off, chuckling, Mom pauses at my side. Very softly, she adds, “Thank you for helping out, Marguerite. Right now, it means a lot.”
Right now? What does she mean, right now?
“Okay,” I say. That seems safe.
“I know this—it didn’t only happen to us.” Mom keeps her voice low; her fingers brush through my curls. She did that when I was little. The last few years, I’ve found it annoying, but I never will again, not after two worlds without her. “Even if the police find Paul, we may never understand why he did what he did. Your father and I would gladly drop any charges once we got some answers, but Triad never will, so—” Her voice breaks. “I hate what he’s done to us, but I can’t bear what Paul’s done to himself. He’s ruined his whole life, and for what?”
I can’t answer her. Right now I can hardly breathe.
“Forgive me. You were trying to cheer us up. I’ll let you keep trying.” Mom pats my shoulder, and goes after Dad.
All I can do is stand there in our kitchen, stupidly clutching a box of pasta, thinking, What the hell?
Even without the details, I understand what happened here. Paul betrayed Mom and Dad. Betrayed us. Again.
I’d thought I was beginning to understand Paul. Now I think I’ve never understood him, or anyone, or anything.
Half an hour later. I’m still working in the kitchen, for values of “working” that mean “numbly wandering around in shock.” Somehow I managed to get all the ingredients for the tomato sauce into the pot, but it took me five minutes to remember to turn the burner on. My brain is too stunned by Paul’s betrayal to concentrate on anything as mundane as dinner.
Should I tell my parents the truth about who I am and where I’m from? I was able to convince my father of cross-dimensional travel in a universe where nobody had even invented radio. Here, they’d believe me instantly. All I’d have to do is pull the Firebird out from under the neckline of my dress.
But I don’t need their help now the way I needed Dad’s back in Russia. I want to tell them the truth because I want them to comfort me, and listen to me vent about everything I’ve been through so far. That’s not a good enough reason. They’re already devastated by what Paul did; how much worse would it be when I told them how much further the betrayal goes?
I still want to believe in Paul, and my heart still aches for the one who died in my arms, but right now—I don’t trust my instincts any longer.
The kitchen door opens again, and I turn to see who it is.
“Hey there, Meg.” Theo grins at me. “Happy New Year.”
I haven’t seen him in almost three weeks. It feels like three lifetimes.
“Theo.” I throw my arms around his neck. And he can pretend to be blasé all he wants, but he hugs me back even more tightly.
Into my ear he whispers, “Save me that kiss at midnight, huh?”
He’s joking. He’s also not joking. I blush . . . and yet I can only think of Paul lying on the cot where he died, opening his eyes to see me one last time, and saying, Every Marguerite.
I step back from Theo. “We should—uh—I told Mom and Dad I’d cook.”
Theo’s eyes widen. “It is you, right?”
Realizing what he means, I snag the chain of the Firebird with my thumb and pull it from the neck of my dress. He visibly relaxes, reassured.
From the living room, Dad calls, “Theo! You made it.”
“Like I’d miss New Year’s Eve,” he answers with a grin.