A Million Worlds with You (Firebird #3)
Page 44“Why Theo?” Paul says, breaking the silence between us. “Why do you think you chose him and not me?”
“Probably he poured on the charm. At home he works with you guys, my parents are his thesis advisers, and so maybe he held back because he didn’t want to step on their toes. Then I fell for Paul, and Triadverse Theo came and screwed everything up for him, and that was that. In a world where he didn’t have any reason not to go for it . . . well, I guess that’s this one.”
“So there’s no real difference between us in terms of how you could feel.” Paul tries to make it sound reasonable, but I can hear the hurt he still hasn’t managed to bury.
“I know this world’s Marguerite loves this Theo. But when Paul and I have been together—in Russia, in Rome—” My voice breaks. “I didn’t even know you could love someone like that, until I loved you. I mean . . . him.”
“I know what you meant.” This time Paul’s voice is gentle. He believes me now.
“Maybe, if I’ve finally been to enough worlds to put all the pieces together, then maybe I can make it right. Maybe I’ll finally really understand him.”
“It wouldn’t matter if you visited a million worlds. You never know everything about another person—not even someone you love. You can’t, and you wouldn’t want to.” To my surprise, Paul smiles, his expression as warm and adoring as it was that night in Chinatown. “You have to love the mystery. You have to take a chance.”
A speaker’s squeal startles us both. Only now do I see the small, perforated screen in one corner with a toggle that must be my communication with the rest of the ship. Dad’s tinny voice says, “Marguerite, we have confirmation on, um, Wicked’s movements. She’s shifted universes again.”
“Understood,” Dad says. “Safe journeys, and know that we’re watching you. We’ll help if we can.”
“Thank you. Love you, love to Mom.” Which is sort of stupid, when their own Marguerite is about to reclaim control of her own existence. But it feels right, especially when the reply comes back: “Love you too.”
Paul stands, and we’re face to face. Only a short week or so ago, I hoped I’d never have to confront him again. And now it’s so hard to say goodbye.
“I’d like to kiss you,” I said. “Bad idea?”
“Probably. This Marguerite wasn’t thrilled with what happened,” he says, referring to our makeout session on a Chinatown sidewalk. “She didn’t blame me. After we learned the full truth, she didn’t even blame you. But I’m not going to take advantage of the situation.”
“I knew she’d remember that. But I hope she also remembers how much you helped me. How good you can be.”
His eyes drink me in. This may be the last time he sees me gazing back at him with love. “I hope so too. And good luck.”
—and slam back into my airplane seat, hard enough that it rocks. Behind me I hear someone grumble. I think I knocked their drink off their tray table.
The stewardess is standing in the aisle next to me, a quizzical expression denting her prefab smile. “Miss? Are you all right?”
“Good. Yeah. Definitely.”
“Can I get you anything else to drink? This is our final service of the flight.” Her voice has a faint accent—she’s Latina, I think. “Coffee, tea, water?”
“I’m okay. Thank you.”
As the stewardess moves on, I think, Wicked put me on a plane. My mind fills with nightmare images of jetliners being blown up, fiery crashes into the runway, or some terrible oceanic disappearance that doesn’t get solved until a year later. I clutch the armrests, because if that’s what Wicked has done, then I have no chance to save myself, none at all.
But could Wicked get this theoretical bomb past security? And where would she buy explosives? I don’t have any idea, and she’s from a world so different from my own that I doubt she’d have a clue here. This world is pretty obviously close to mine; everything about the plane and the passengers looks totally normal, plus I’m wearing leggings and a lacy top from Anthropologie that I’d been coveting but—back at home, at least—never managed to save up enough allowance money for. Also, if this is the final service of the flight, Wicked rode this plane for at least an hour or two, possibly much longer. She wouldn’t wait so long if a bomb were going to go off midflight anyway. I’d have been trapped here just the same.
My inner ears tighten. I swallow hard and feel them pop just as the pilot’s voice says, “We are now beginning our final descent into Quito, Ecuador—”
Ecuador? I know now what universe I’m in, and who will be waiting for me on the other side. This was where Triadverse Paul escaped to, after he turned against Triad in an effort to protect me. This is where he must still be living in hiding from Wyatt Conley’s goons.
Why would Wicked travel to Ecuador? She hates Paul, or at any rate doesn’t mind causing him pain. But then I realize the one reason she could possibly have. If she made arrangements to meet Paul at the airport, then she could have told other people to meet him there too. Say, people who work for Wyatt Conley.
My heart sinks as I realize that Wicked set a trap for Paul . . . and I’m the bait.
16
THE ONLY PLAN I CAN COME UP WITH DURING OUR LANDING is to try to get out of the airport without Paul seeing me. Wicked must have called or emailed him, told him to meet my flight, but if Triad’s people are looking for our reunion as their cue to move in, then that reunion can’t happen. Of course they might be watching for him outside the airport, in which case nothing I can do will help. But if avoiding Paul now has any chance of helping him, then that’s what I’m going to do.
I’ll pass up baggage claim, see if I can get into another terminal or something before I exit, and hope the credit cards I’ve found in my wallet will work in Ecuador. If my tPhone works too, I’ll call Mom and Dad back home and see how much they can tell me.