Chapter 8 #3
“Friend?” Dallas questions.
“Old?” I ask. She starts tugging so hard on my arm that I have no choice but to stand up. “I’ll be right back!” I tell Dallas and Billy. “Keep icing!”
“You can’t just pretend to be a doctor,” Marlowe seethes in my ear as we exit the dressing room.
“I’m not doing anything other than looking at his ankle and making an educated guess,” I tell her.
“I really do think he could have a ligament tear. The swelling is concerning. I’m surprised they didn’t do more at urgent care.
I hope his family knows not all doctors work that way. Some of us really care.”
Marlowe balls her hands into fists as she shouts, “You’re not a doctor!”
“Debatable,” I say.
“This is so like you. You skate through life without bothering to actually learn things. You’re going to give a medical assessment to a minor based on secondhand knowledge from a medical drama.
” She drops her voice so low I have to lean in to hear her.
“The bigger issue is that Dallas reappeared out of thin air, and he thinks you’re a doctor who lives in Utah. ”
“Why Utah, do you think? Is it my hair? Be honest.”
She says nothing.
“I guess they do have beautiful mountains there,” I decide, embracing my assignment as a doctor who lives in Utah. “And we have two real doctors who oversaw our scripts on Heartbeats. I know some things. A lot, actually.”
Marlowe bangs her head against her hands in frustration. “This is what I’m saying. You think hearing about someone who has actual experience in something is enough to give you the experience, too.”
“And you think you deserve to be rewarded for the time you’ve invested in something, when you know what? The world doesn’t work that way! Not everything happens to the person who does the most research or whatever.”
“That’s for sure.”
We’re back in front of Dallas’s office, gesticulating with our arms like we’ve been instructed to play this conversation to the cheap seats. My hand hits her forearm by accident, and she backs up, annoyed at my invasion of what she probably deems her space.
It’s ridiculous that we’re arguing. I can’t believe she’s already gotten me this heated, which only makes me more frustrated. With all this new adrenaline pumping through my veins, I could lift a car over my head and throw it.
“You just told me I needed to stop acting like I know you,” I say. “Seems like you’re pretty comfortable acting like you know me, though. Any other feedback on my life you’d like to give, since you’re the expert?”
“I don’t keep up with your life,” she says, going way too heavy on the disdain.
“Kinda feels like you do,” I tell her. “By the way, in case you weren’t aware, bitterness is not a good shade on you.”
“I’m not bitter,” she says bitterly.
“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” I say. “I think the Memory Machine worked, by the way. If Dallas told me he’s figured out how to walk through universes, then we’ve done the same. I think we’re in an alternate reality.”
For a moment, Marlowe falters. Her eyes flicker to the side, like the very ground beneath our feet might turn to quicksand.
Like she knows it’s not our usual ground at all.
But then she hardens, returning her gaze to me, and I know what she’s going to say before it comes out of her mouth.
Forever my antagonist, no matter how right I may be.
“We are not in an alternate reality,” she says. “Please be serious. We’re almost thirty-five. This isn’t a good look.”
“I didn’t realize alternate realities had age restrictions.
As usual, the good parts only go to the young ingenues,” I say.
“Just think about it for a second. Dallas has spent decades making a gigantic box called the Memory Machine that has a purpose he’s never explained and that he’s very protective over.
He’s about to retire, and he won’t be able to spend long nights here to work on it anymore, so he’s put his foot on the gas, and he’s finally used the machine. ”
“And why would he do that now?” Marlowe asks.
“Maybe he only meant to do a test run?” I guess.
“So Dallas decided to test out the infinite vastness of the universe two days before his last-ever show opens? And now we’ve inadvertently joined him in the test?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Exactly.”
She huffs out such a big sigh of frustration that her bangs lift up off her forehead from the force of it.
“He does have that undergraduate degree in physics,” I remind her.
That’s when we hear the voice. Marlowe’s voice. Only I’m looking right at her, and she hasn’t said anything else.
The voice speaks again. Louder. More distinct. Still undeniably Marlowe, but coming from the other side of Dallas’s office door.
“Don’t,” Marlowe whispers, blocking me from reaching for the handle.
The sweat on her nose has made her glasses slide down. I have an urge to either swipe them off her face or push them back up for her. I can’t tell which.
Instead, I skirt past her to throw open the office door, only to find Marlowe already inside, sitting at Dallas’s desk.