Page 14

Pretty Damn Close

The colors of the next scene are heavy and dark, like the fullness before a satisfying storm.

Marsh is in the front passenger seat of a car. It’s not her car—the color is different—but Marsh is still gaining her bearings. Absentmindedly, she reaches to unclick the seat belt.

“Hon, the light just turned green. What are you doing?” Ren asks her from the driver’s seat.

Marsh jumps, surprised, as the vehicle eases into motion and glides through the intersection.

Okay. So far, so good.

The car doesn’t look like the one Ren owned in the real world, but that’s a minor detail. Ren is here. That part is right, at least.

“Hon?” Ren asks, glancing at Marsh before returning his eyes to the road.

“Uh, the belt was just tight,” she says.

“It’s your dress that’s tight,” Ren whispers with a wink.

She is wearing a tight dress, she realizes. A very nice tight dress.

Definitely an improvement over the clothing situation from the last scene’s utterly disastrous tryst.

She winces at the thought, and pushes the memory away. There’s no point in trying to understand what went wrong there. That version is over, as good as forgotten. Marsh has made her choice. She’s here now, with a new chance to try again with Ren—the right way.

“You look good, too,” Marsh says to him, noticing at last that he’s wearing a suit.

“Not even in the same league,” he replies.

“I think a storm’s coming,” Harper says from the back seat, surprising Marsh. Her voice is loud, too loud. Marsh turns to see that her daughter has her headphones on, and is looking up at the evening sky through the moonroof. The faint echo of classical music from the little speakers reaches Marsh as Harper sits back, closing her eyes and twitching her fingers in time to the song’s violin.

They must be on their way to a concert, Marsh guesses. This is how Harper always prepares.

“Glad I brought the patio furniture in,” Ren says. “Did you turn the house alarm on before we left?”

“I’m not sure,” Marsh confesses, because she really has no idea.

“Oh, it’s fine. We only got it installed last week. I’m still learning to remember to do it, too.”

So, she and Ren live together now, Marsh deduces. And maybe also own this car together. It looks like an SUV—a very practical model. A family car. Maybe she and Ren bought it when they moved in. His old one was too small to fit her, him, Harper, and Pickle comfortably in it.

A fresh start.

Grinning now, Marsh opens the overhead mirror to put on a dash of lipstick. Then she leans closer to her reflection. For some reason, the wrinkles around the outside corners of her eyes are a tiny bit deeper.

She frowns and touches one fine line. Is she more stressed in this version of life?

There’s a newspaper folded into the middle console between them. She tugs it free and looks at the date on the front page.

No, not stressed.

It’s just two years into the future this time.

Marsh isn’t forty-five in this episode. She’s forty-seven.

Notamackerel: Ha, she’s OLD now! Look at those wrinkles!

The outburst is downvoted a million times before she closes the chat.

“Weird,” Marsh says.

“What’s weird?” Ren asks.

“I—thought I grabbed a different shade,” Marsh says, capping the lipstick again.

Actually, she doesn’t look bad for forty-seven, she realizes, the longer she considers her face in the mirror. Honestly, she looks pretty much just as good as at forty-five. Maybe a little better, even. All the incremental improvements from every path she’s tried so far are building on one another. Her body feels a little firmer, like she might be eating healthier or exercising more frequently, and there’s a glow to her that wasn’t there before at forty-five. It’s already tugging at her lips, like she’s so used to smiling that it’s odd to have a neutral expression.

Maybe those crow’s-feet are a little deeper because Marsh spends more of her time in this life grinning, rather than fretting.

Ren brakes for a turn, and Marsh looks out to see that they’re pulling into the parking lot of a somewhat run-down apartment complex.

The starter apartment where she and Dylan lived before they bought their house.

“All right, kiddo, don’t forget your tuba! I mean, your trumpet! What instrument do you play again?” Ren teases as they cruise through the parking lot. “Gotta be the bassoon!”

Harper laughs politely at his attempt at a dad joke. “Violin, Ren, violin.”

“Violin!” He smacks his head, feigning amazement.

In the real world, Marsh hadn’t yet introduced Ren and Harper, but she’d begun to wonder about how it would go—before she’d ruined everything on that disastrous night. Would Ren want to be a stepdad, someday? Would Harper accept him? Even like him?

Seeing them together now, it’s all right. Her daughter seems comfortable enough with Ren around, but she’s not her full, relaxed self yet. Warm enough to be friendly, but still too guarded to goof around.

Their relationship is off to a good start, but it’s not perfect.

Not yet, she thinks.

“Thanks for the ride,” Harper says as soon they park. She pops the door, jumps out, and grabs her violin case. “See you guys at the theater!”

“Love you!” Marsh replies enthusiastically, craning her neck to catch a glimpse of her daughter. As she does, she catches a flash of color on the back seat—of course Harper’s remembered her beloved instrument, but in her excitement, she’s left her jacket.

“Wait, Harper! You forgot your—” Ren cries, but her headphones are still on. Her door slams closed, and she skips across the asphalt toward Dylan’s apartment.

Marsh leans over and grabs the rumpled fabric with a loving sigh. “Hang on, I’ll be right back.”

“Don’t take too long,” Ren warns. “We’ll miss our dinner reservation.”

Marsh blows him a kiss. “I’ll go as fast as I can in these heels.”

He waggles his eyebrows. “I’ll stay here and enjoy the view.”

She gets out of the car with a little bit of extra wiggle, just for fun. Harper was right, though—it really does look like a storm is coming, and she picks up the pace. Ahead, Harper’s darting up the stairs to the second floor, and knocking on the third unit in. Just as Marsh reaches the landing, Dylan opens the door. He gives Harper a hug and then lets her inside, not seeing Marsh.

“Dylan!” Marsh calls, and he leans back out. “Hold on a sec.”

His eyes widen as he catches sight of Marsh—she can’t tell if it’s because of the dress and stilettos, or because he just wasn’t expecting to see her, period.

“What’s wrong?” he calls out, his voice strangely formal.

“Harper forgot her jacket,” Marsh says as she reaches him. “Do you mind if I give it to her?”

Dylan hesitates. He seems tenser than usual in this episode, she observes. Maybe they’re not amicably divorced in this reality, and things are frostier between the two of them than they’ve been in other versions?

“It’s just, it looks like rain,” Marsh finally adds.

Dylan glances up at the sky for a long moment. “Sure,” he says at last.

He opens the door wider so Marsh can slip in, and she stands there awkwardly just inside the entrance of his modest place. It looks mostly the same as when they lived there as newlyweds, with the same budget furniture and cheap curtains, except the photos of the two of them are all gone now, of course. Dylan hasn’t gotten around to replacing them with anything, and the walls look sadly bare.

She’s unsure of what to do. He clearly doesn’t want her to go farther in or make herself more comfortable. He’s waiting stiffly, one hand on the still-open door, trying to catch a read on her expression and also trying not to make sustained eye contact.

“How... are you?” Marsh asks.

“Fine,” Dylan says, like he’d rather be talking about anything else. “How’s Harper? Nervous for tonight?”

“I don’t think so,” Marsh replies.

He smiles a little at that. “I’m glad. She’s going to do great.”

Marsh’s eyes fall on the side table beside where they’re standing, and she spies a single ticket next to his keys—a seat for tonight at the Mirabel Theater, for a Pallissard classical music concert.

“I still can’t believe it,” Marsh says as she picks the stub up as if the paper itself is precious.

“Me either. She’s the best first chair violin they’ve ever had, she told me yesterday,” Dylan says. Despite the tension between them, he’s beaming with pride for Harper.

First chair violin.

A grin breaks out across Marsh’s face. Improving her own life is one thing, but it means even more that she’s also making Harper’s dreams come true.

If only there were some way to right things for Dylan, too.

Marsh knows he’s not her responsibility anymore, but still. She doesn’t want him to suffer. Can things really be perfect for her if they’re not so great for him?

“Are you all right?” he’s asking, she realizes suddenly.

She sets his ticket down and nods. “I’m just so proud of her.”

“So am I,” Dylan replies, but he’s not smiling anymore. The happy expression has faded from his face and been replaced by something else. Unease, maybe.

“Are you all right?” Marsh asks him back.

“Yeah, yeah.”

He pauses too long.

“It’s just, Harper’s always loved violin, but first chair? You’ve heard her practice. She’s good, damn good, but not this good. Not yet. She only just got into Pallissard this year, off the waiting list! Then it’s like, I wake up today, and suddenly she’s first chair ? On a full scholarship? How is that possible?” He points behind him, toward the living room. “And then Pickle—”

As Dylan says their dog’s name, Marsh realizes that he hasn’t barked once, despite Harper ringing the doorbell, running through when Dylan opened the door for her, and then Marsh’s arrival after her.

Where is Pickle?

Dylan sees the question slip across Marsh’s face for a split second before she hides it again.

“Right?” he accuses, pointing at her.

“Is something wrong with Pickle?” Marsh asks, trying to cover. “Is he sick?”

Dylan lets out a frustrated sound. “No, he’s not sick. He’s fine.”

“Then what is it?” she asks, relieved.

“Pickle is a rabbit, Marsh,” Dylan snaps. He grimaces in frustration. “We hate rabbits. Dirty, timid, moody little things. No better than fluffy rats, we used to joke when Mateo got one. Why would we ever have bought Harper a pet rabbit?”

He’s right, she knows. Marsh and Dylan did hate that rabbit his roommate Mateo brought home senior year of college. It was always scuffling around in its cage, making a mess, and would bite anyone who tried to pet it.

But how can Dylan vaguely sense that Pickle ever wasn’t a rabbit, in this episode?

How did he notice the other anomalies, too?

Marsh tries to think through it, but all she can picture is Pickle as a little black bunny, hopping around in shredded newspaper in his cage in Harper’s room, nibbling on some carrots.

Dylan, meanwhile, must be taking her perplexed silence for irritation, or dismissal. He shakes his head. “I’m sorry. But I don’t know, Marsh. I don’t know. It feels wrong. It’s not him. But he’s right there in Harper’s room, in his cage, with two big ears. How could he be anything else?”

“He can’t be,” Marsh says at last. Her expression is right this time. Certain, confident, calm. “Pickle’s a rabbit because Harper wanted a rabbit. We’d do anything for her. Even buying her a no-better-than-a-fluffy-rat pet.”

Things are silent between the two of them for a long moment. Dylan hesitantly takes a step closer, until he’s near enough to touch Marsh.

“Hey,” he says. The quiet urgency in his voice makes her look up at him. “Tell me that it’s not just me. Tell me that you’re also feeling it. That something weird is going on.” He looks so desperate. “Something really wrong.”

“I...”

“ Please, ” he whispers. “ You know something is off, too, don’t you?”

Marsh swallows, stalling.

It’s clear that in this episode, maybe she and Dylan don’t talk to each other at all, outside of Harper’s scheduling logistics. They’re not faintly wistful for what they’ve lost, or even friends, in this version. They’re just barely, coolly civil. Telling him what’s really going on would either just confuse him even more, or destroy the already tenuous peace there is between them, all for nothing.

And after all, even if Dylan knew what was going on, this is her season. Maybe if he wanted the chance to try to fix his life, he should have signed up for All This and More himself.

“Here,” Dylan says then, and turns around to a duffel bag on the floor by the door. “Just look at this.”

Marsh glances down, perplexed, but as soon as he pulls out what’s inside, her stomach lurches.

Dylan is holding a medium-sized rectangular box. The kind like what a dress shirt might come in.

Marsh’s hand is over her mouth, and she’s shaking her head slightly.

Something is wrong.

Very, very wrong.

Not just that this moment has played out before, but that it just keeps happening, no matter what she chooses.

“Look,” he says as he opens the package to show her what’s inside.

“It’s a briefcase,” Marsh says at last, trying to sound surprised. The words are clumsy in her mouth. The metal clasp looks cold and dull beneath her fingers as he hands it to her.

“I finally got around to unpacking the last of my boxes from the divorce yesterday,” Dylan says, his tone strange, like he’s reciting a script rather than simply speaking, or like he knows he’s said it before. “I found it inside one of them.”

“You kept it all this time,” Marsh replies stiffly, too.

She knows all this already, but he’s still talking anyway. Dylan bought the case when she’d gotten pregnant, and planned to give it to her after Harper was born and she’d finished law school and passed the bar. Then after she dropped out, after things in their marriage went south, after the divorce, and after she’d gotten together with Ren, he’d still held on to it. The same, the same, the same. Unable to throw it away for some reason—in any version of their lives.

Dylan’s voice is lost, helpless. “I went to throw it out, and I couldn’t. I needed to see your face when you opened it. To see if you recognized it, somehow.” His eyes are pleading. “Do you?”

Marsh is staring at him now, unable to make her mouth work. She’s clutching the briefcase so hard, it’s starting to warp. She feels sick, light-headed and unbearably heavy at the same time.

“Mallow,” Dylan whispers.

But before she can say anything, Ren’s voice interrupts from behind.

“Harper also left her student ID in the back,” he says apologetically, and a moment later, he’s standing in the doorway, too, just behind Marsh. “Can’t get into the theater without that!”

“Wow, I really have concert-brain.” Harper sighs as she emerges from her bedroom in Dylan’s apartment. “Can’t believe I forgot this, too.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” Ren replies. “You’re going to do great.”

“Thanks to all the extra lessons you drove me to,” she says to him, and then hugs Dylan, perhaps worried her father might be jealous. Dylan, however, barely notices. He’s clammed up now that Ren and Harper are present, but is still staring pointedly at Marsh, begging her to think about what he said.

“Can we go to the theater a little early, Dad?” Harper asks him. “I want some extra time to prepare.”

“Of course,” Dylan says at last.

He gives her a kiss on top of her head.

“First chair,” he repeats. “I can hardly believe it.”

He’s speaking to Harper, but the words are clearly meant for Marsh more than their daughter.

“The two of you raised a gifted musician, and an incredibly hard worker,” Ren replies kindly. His hand gently, reassuringly comes to rest against Marsh’s lower back. “She’s very special.”

Dylan’s given up, knowing the moment is lost. He nods humbly to accept the compliment, and then Harper is dashing down the stairs and toward the parking lot of the apartment complex, her violin case, jacket, and ID card clutched in her arms.

“I guess we’re heading over really early,” Dylan says to both of them. “Enjoy your night. And congrats again, Marsh.”

Congrats again? What is he congratulating Marsh for? But all three of them are outside on the landing now, and Dylan has shut and locked the door and is already heading off after Harper before Marsh can ask.

Ren waits until they’ve walked down the steps, too, and are making their way back toward their own car before he plants a kiss on Marsh’s cheek. “We’ve got to get a move on, too, if we want to finish our meal before her show.” He glances down at the briefcase in her hands. “What’s that old bag?”

Ren has picked the fanciest restaurant in the city. Marsh gawks at all the dark lacquered oak, moody red drapes, and gleaming brass fixtures as the hostess leads them between candlelit tables toward a private booth near the back.

“How much is this dinner going to cost?” she whispers to him shyly after the waitress fills their delicate water glasses and departs.

“It’s worth it,” Ren says. “It’s not every day your incredible girlfriend passes the bar and becomes an attorney at the best firm in the city.”

A surprised grin spreads across her face at that news.

And another flash of realization—that’s why Dylan gave Marsh his gift in this episode. Although the briefcase felt less like a present this time, and more like a piece of evidence. Or a compulsion.

“I’m so, so proud of you, Marsh,” Ren says to her, pulling her back to the present. Their waitress has returned with a chilled bottle of extremely expensive champagne. Ren takes the two flutes from her and hands one to Marsh. “You’re going to do incredible things, and this is just the start. I’m so glad that I get to be with you on this journey.”

His words are so serious, so intimate. He’s talking like the two of them aren’t just having fun, but might already be discussing a long-term future together, and are working toward it.

“I’m a lawyer,” Marsh finally says.

She’s already doing the math in her head. Marsh is only two years ahead of her normal life, which means that she had to have studied at an accelerated, full-time program to already have taken the bar and gotten a job by now. But the only way she could have accomplished that is if she hadn’t needed to also work.

Which means that Ren must have taken over all the bills. He must have supported her for the last few years, so that she could get started on the life she’s always wanted as fast as possible.

“Marsh,” Ren says softly.

Marsh takes his hand. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

Even if not every single detail is right yet, things are finally starting to really feel truly right. Maybe Marsh isn’t the big-shot attorney that Jo is, but she is a fully qualified, practicing lawyer now— and with a loving, supportive partner this time. One who not only encouraged her, but stepped up to help instead of just complaining at how much harder it would make things in the short-term. And now Marsh’s life is really on track. Her career is on its way, and she’s building a future with Ren. Things really are better than ever—everything she’s ever wanted, and more.

“Congrats, again,” Dylan had said to her. But why not just “congrats,” then? Why “again”? It almost seemed like he didn’t realize he’d said it, ei ther. Was he so mixed up, he also half remembered that Marsh already had the option to try out a different version of this high-powered career in another episode, somehow?

“You okay?” Ren asks her.

Marsh pushes away the clouds hanging over her expression as decisively as she can.

She knows what Talia would say. She has to stop caring about everyone else more than she cares about herself. She’s finally doing what’s right for her for once. And as soon as the season is over, the changes will stop, and everything will settle into place. There won’t be any more confusion, and everything will be the best it can be, for everyone. Marsh won’t have to worry about Dylan. He’ll be okay. And so will she.

“I’m just... really happy,” she says.

“Me too. Our life is perfect,” Ren replies.

“‘Perfect’ is a big word.” Marsh laughs.

“Okay, fine, Ms. Smarty Pants Lawyer,” he concedes. He sticks his bottom lip out in a comical, exaggerated pout. “Nothing is perfect.”

Marsh kisses him. “But it’s pretty damn close.”

Marsh and Ren finish dinner with enough time to share a dessert, and then Ren drives them over to the theater where Harper’s performing. After he parks, he climbs quickly out of his side of the car and jogs to hers before Marsh even has her door fully open, so he can help her out.

Is Ren really so gentlemanly, even after two years together? She swoons.

“Your dress is so beautiful, I don’t want it to get torn,” he says as she loops her arm through his. “At least, not until we get home.”

Marsh blushes at that.

At the entrance, Ren hands their tickets to the usher, and they waltz into the auditorium to find good seats.

“Near the front. I want to be able to see Harper clearly,” Marsh urges, and Ren leads them to a pair of seats at the right distance.

“She’s so brave!” he exclaims as they get settled. “I would never have had the guts at her age to get up onstage like this. Did you?”

Marsh sighs. She’d rather not, but Ren is still looking at her, waiting for her answer.

“I did,” she finally admits.

He grins. “Well, there you go! She gets it from her mother.”

Marsh tries to smile back.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

Marsh doesn’t want to think about it, but she can’t help it. Too much is similar not to notice. The curve of the stage, the cheap red curtain.

“Let’s just say it didn’t go well,” she finally says.

There had been months of preparation. Begging her parents to buy her the expensive materials for the costume she’d envisioned, hours of sewing by hand, weeks of practicing the song and dance she’d made up herself. Fifth grade was the first year students were eligible to enter the annual school talent show, and Marsh was not going to waste the opportunity.

She would be a fluffy cloud, who, through a performance that would include rain from a spray bottle and lightning from a flashlight and two cymbals, would transform into the sun by flicking on the battery-powered string lights she’d sewn into the gauze.

It had seemed artistic and deep at the time, to a ten-year-old.

This was supposed to be her big chance. To show her classmates that she could be talented, could be interesting.

But when the curtain finally went up, the glare was so bright. The auditorium was so full. So many, many eyes. All watching, all waiting, all judging. All of them, on her.

Marsh did try.

The audience of students erupted into cruel laughter. Boos and spitballs flew from the front row. She pushed on for a moment, hoping eventually they might quiet down, but the heckling continued, merciless. It didn’t stop until she finally ran from the stage, tears of humiliation streaming down her face, blurring with the harsh lights.

Lesson learned, she thought as she tripped, picked herself up, and kept running.

If only that had been the end of it.

“You okay?” Ren asks, as he studies her.

“Yes,” she replies, desperately pushing away the memory. “Just glad it’s Harper up there this time, and not me. I’m better in the audience.”

Typical Marsh.

“Nonsense.” Ren takes her hand. “You’re a star to me.”

He kisses it with a gallant flourish, which makes her laugh.

The parents sitting on Ren’s other side ask him for the time, and as he chats politely with them, she peruses the paper program, hoping to find her daughter’s name in the violinists’ list. A rush of pride fills her as she spots Harper in first place, right where she should be, just beneath the song she’ll play.

Her daughter’s first mark on the world.

Maybe Marsh couldn’t manage to escape her shell as a kid, but somehow, she managed to help raise a daughter who seems too brave to have grown one at all. She clutches the page tightly, even more joyfully determined to make sure All This and More is as good for Harper as it is for her.

Just before she closes the program, her eyes catch on one of the local business ads at the bottom of the page.

Chrysalis Life Insurance, the little bolded text reads. “Protect What You Love.”

That word— again .

Marsh closes the program and puts it on the floor.

This must be at least the fifth or sixth time it’s appeared, in some form or another.

Is it just some kind of weird, weird fluke?

Or something else?

Marsh really needs to ask Talia about this the next time they see each other.

She looks up then to see Ren studying her with mild concern.

“You sure that you’re okay?” he asks.

“Yes,” Marsh lies. “I... just wish I could take photos.”

“Well, this way you’ll have no distractions. You’ll be in the present moment, and experience it fully.”

Marsh tries to push away her lingering unease. As she glances around the rapidly filling room, she spots Dylan sitting at the far end of the same row as her and Ren.

“Oh,” Marsh says. “Dylan’s in our same row.”

Ren winces sympathetically. “Maybe the lights will dim soon, and he won’t notice us.”

But at the same moment that he says it, Dylan glances up from his paper program. Marsh whips her head back to face forward, but not before their eyes might have met by accident for a fraction of a second.

She sighs. “I think he just spotted us.”