Page 54

A Bad Dream

Marsh is at her Hong Kong dinner party.

Again.

She, Jo, Bex, Harper, Victor, Adrian, and Ren are all gathered around her gorgeous dining table just like last time. At the center, the French duck waits, succulent and spiced, amid a heap of delectable side dishes. The comment box is completely still for once, as if locked. Soft jazz is playing in the background from their expensive stereo. The briefcase is gone.

Marsh looks around, her expression tense.

“I’m so glad we could do this,” Ren says as he settles into his chair and scoots himself in. “It’s so nice to have everyone here.”

The camera pans to the rest of the table as he talks. Everyone else at the party is happy—frozen midlaugh, their cutlery partially raised or their napkins halfway shaken out.

Except the scene has already begun.

And no one but Marsh and Ren is moving.

“Don’t you think?” Ren asks.

She stares, unable to speak.

“Marsh?”

She nods at him at last. Manages a weak smile.

“Yes,” she says. “It’s very nice.”

Ren grins back. Oblivious, he pops the champagne cork and carefully fills Marsh’s crystal flute, then his own.

“A toast,” he says. “To you.”

“No,” Marsh says.

Ren sets the bottle down and studies her.

“You’ve been under so much stress lately,” he says. “Let me help you. That’s why I’m here.”

Marsh looks around the table again, at the utterly still scene. Jo is reaching for Bex’s cheek, a lock of Harper’s hair hangs in midair. Even Pickle, begging for scraps beside Victor’s elbow, is stone still. None of them are blinking, or even breathing. It’s like someone pressed PAUSE on a remote, for everything in the Bubble but her and Ren.

Is this Chrysalis?

“I don’t think you can help me,” Marsh finally says.

Ren reaches over and puts a hand on hers.

“I know this is hard,” he says, his voice gentle. “But it’ll all be okay. I promise.”

Marsh closes her eyes, as if she can’t bear any more. “Will it?” she asks.

“It will,” he says. “Because I want the same thing you do.”

Marsh opens her eyes and looks at him. Her stare is both a challenge and a plea.

“And what do I want?” she whispers.

“For everything to be perfect,” he answers.

Marsh watches as he reaches back to his champagne glass, and picks it up. As he raises his arm to toast her, everyone else around the table suddenly turns and raises theirs, too, perfectly synchronized. Their glasses are full now. The bubbles hiss and pop against the crystal. Marsh watches, both fascinated and horrified, as six flutes go up, then come back down.

“Cheers, Marsh,” they all say as Ren does.

“Cheers,” she whispers.

Ren tilts the rim to his lips, and the rest of the party does the same. They put their glasses down together, six light thuds that sound like one. He reaches for his napkin, and everyone flicks their own at the same time, in the same way, six fancy squares of cloth smoothed identically onto six laps.

“Isn’t it?” he asks her, his eyes eager, full of hope. “Pretty damn close?”

Marsh stares for one more long moment.

Then she stands up from the table.

“Where are you going?” Ren asks, surprised. “Dinner just started.”

Marsh walks out the door.