Blue Moon (21 page)

I'd do
anything
to go back.
Anything
if it meant I could return and put it all back to the way it once was—

And no sooner is the thought complete, when the formerly empty space begins to transform. Rearranging itself from a nearly empty room with a lone recliner to an exact replica of our old den in Oregon.

The air infused with the scent of my mom's famous brownies, as the walls morph from pearlescent white to the soft beige-like hue she referred to as
driftwood pearl.
And when the three-colors-of-blue
afghan my grandma knit suddenly covers my knees, I gaze toward the door, seeing Buttercup's leash hanging on the knob, and Riley's old sneakers lying next to my dad's. Watching as all the pieces fill in, until every photo, book, and knickknack are present and accounted for. And I can't help but wonder if this is because of my question, because I asked for everything to return to the way it was before.

Because the truth is, I was actually referring to Damen and me.

Wasn't I?

I mean, is it really possible to
go back in time
?

Or is this lifelike replica, this Bloom family diorama, the closest I'll ever get?

But just as I'm questioning my surroundings and the true meaning of what I actually meant, the TV turns on, and a flash of colors race across the screen—a screen made of crystal, just like the crystal I viewed the other day.

I pull the afghan tighter around me, tucking it snugly under my knees, as the words
l
'
heure bleue
fill up the screen. And just as I'm wondering what it could possibly mean, a definition scripted in the most beautiful calligraphy appears, stating:

A French expression
, l'heure bleue,
or “blue hour” refers to the hour experienced between daylight and darkness. A time revered for its quality of light, and also when the scent of flowers is at its strongest.

I squint at the screen, watching as the words fade and a picture of the moon takes its place—a full and glorious moon—shimmering the most beautiful shade of blue—a hue that nearly matches the sky …

And then—and then I see
me
—up on that very same screen. Dressed in jeans and a black sweater, my hair hanging loose, gazing out a window at that same blue moon—glancing at my watch as
though I'm waiting for something—something that's soon to arrive. And despite the fuzzy, dreamlike state of watching a me that's not
really
me, I can still feel what she's feeling, hear what she's thinking. She's going somewhere, somewhere she once thought was off limits. Anxiously waiting for the moment when the sky turns the same shade as the moon, a wonderful deep dark blue with no trace of the sun—knowing it heralds her only chance to find her way back to this room and return to a place she once thought was lost.

I watch, my gaze glued to the screen, gasping as she raises her hand, presses her finger to the crystal, and is pulled back in time.

 

I tear out of the hall and sprint down the steps.
My vision so blurred, my heart pounding so fast, I'm completely unaware of Romy and Rayne until it's too late, and Rayne is crumpled beneath me.

“Omigod, I'm so sorry, I—”

I bend down, my hand outstretched, waiting for her to grab hold of it so I can help her to her feet, asking repeatedly if she's all right, and wincing with embarrassment when she ignores my gesture and struggles to stand. Straightening her skirt and pulling up her kneesocks as I watch in amazement as her skinned knees instantly heal—never having considered the possibility that they might be like me.

“Are—are you—”

But before I can even get to the word, Rayne shakes her head and says, “We are most certainly
not.
” Making sure her kneesocks are of exact equal height. “We are
nothing
like
you,
” she mumbles, straightening her blue blazer and plaid skirt, then glancing at her much nicer sister who's shaking her head.

“Rayne, please. Remember your manners.” Romy frowns.

But even though Rayne continues to glare, her voice loses some of its steam when she says, “Well, we're
not
.”

“So—so you know about me?” I ask, hearing Rayne think:
Well, duh!
As Romy nods her head solemnly. “And you think that I'm
bad
?”

Rayne rolls her eyes, while Romy smiles gently, saying, “Please, ignore my sister. We think nothing of the sort. We are in no position to judge.”

I glance between them, taking in their pale skin, huge dark eyes, razor-slashed bangs, and thin lips, their features so exaggerated they're like Manga characters come to life. And I can't help but think how strange it is for two people to be so identical on the outside and yet so opposite inside.

“So, tell us what you've learned,” Romy says, smiling as she heads down the street, assuming we'll all just follow along—which we do. “Did you find all the answers you seek?”

And more
.

I've been wide-eyed and speechless ever since that crystal went blank. Having no idea what to make of the knowledge I've been given, but well aware of the fact that it holds the potential to change not only my life but quite possibly the world. And while I have to admit that it's pretty amazing to have access to such powerful wisdom, the responsibility that goes with it is undeniably huge.

I mean, what am I expected to
do
with it now that I know? Was I shown the information for a reason? Some kind of big global reason? Is there some new expectation of me of which I'm not even aware? And if not, then what's the point?

Seriously—
why me?

Surely I'm not the first person to ask that sort of question.

Am I?

And the only plausible answer I can seem to come up with is: Maybe I'm meant to go back. Maybe I'm meant to return.

Not to halt assassinations, stop wars, and basically change the course of history—I just don't think I'm the right girl for that job.

Though I do think I've been shown this information for a reason—one that leads right back to what I've been thinking all along: That this whole scenario of the accident, my psychic powers, and Damen making me an immortal has all been a terrible mistake. And that if I can just pop back in time and stop the accident from ever happening—then I can put it all back to the way it was before. I can go back to Oregon and re-enter my old life like my new life never even occurred. Which is what I've wished for all along.

But where does that leave Damen? Does he go back too?

And if so, will he still be with Drina until she manages to kill me, and everything happens all over again?

Will I just be delaying the inevitable?

Or does everything stay the same except me? Does he die at Roman's hands while I'm back in Oregon, completely unaware he exists?

And if that's the case, then how can I let that happen?

How can I turn my back on the one and only person I've ever truly loved?

I shake my head, noticing Romy and Rayne still looking at me, waiting for an answer, though I've no idea what to say. So, instead, I just stand there, my mouth hanging open like a ginormous dork. Thinking how even in Summerland, a place of absolute love and perfection, I'm still a total dweeb.

Romy smiles, closing her eyes as her arms fill with red tulips—beautiful red tulips she promptly offers to me.

But I refuse to take them. I just narrow my eyes and start backing away. “What are you doing?” I glance between them, my voice tenuous, fragile, noticing how they look just as confused as I am.

“I'm sorry,” Romy says, trying to ease my alarm. “I'm not sure why I did it. The thought just popped into my head, and so—”

I watch as the tulips dissolve from her fingers, going back to
wherever they came from. But having them gone doesn't make the least bit of difference, and all I want now is for them to go too.

“Isn't
anything
private around here?” I shout, knowing I'm over-reacting but unable to stop. Because if those tulips were some kind of message, if she was listening in on my thoughts and trying to persuade me to give up the past and stay put, well, it's just none of her business. They may know all about Summerland, but they know
nothing
about me, and they've no right to butt in. They've never had to make a decision like this. They've no idea how it feels to lose every single person you've ever loved.

I take another step back, seeing Rayne furrow her brow as Romy shakes her head, saying, “We didn't hear a thing. Honest. We can't read
all
of your thoughts, Ever. Only the ones we're permitted to see. Whatever you see in the akashic records is yours and yours to keep. We are merely concerned by your distress. That is all. Nothing more, nothing less.”

I narrow my eyes, not trusting her for a second. They've probably been snooping in my thoughts all along. I mean, why else give me the tulips? Why else manifest such a thing?

“I wasn't even visiting the akashic records,” I say. “This room was—” I pause, swallowing hard as I remember the smell of my mom's brownies, the feel of my grandma's blanket, and knowing I can have it all again. All I have to do is wait for the right day and time and I can return to my family and friends. I shake my head and shrug. “This room was
different.
”

“The Akashic Hall has many faces.” Romy nods. “It becomes whatever you need it to be.” She looks at me, her eyes roaming over my face as she says, “We only showed up to help, not to upset or confuse you.”

“So, what? You're like my guardian angels or spirit guides? Two private-school-uniform-wearing fairy godmothers?”

“Not quite.” Romy laughs.

“Then who are you? And what're you doing here? And how come you always manage to find me?”

Rayne glares and pulls on her sister's sleeve, urging her to leave. But Romy stays put, looking me in the eye when she says, “We are only here to aid and assist. That is all you need to know.”

I look at her for a moment, glance at her sister, then shake my head and walk away. They're deliberately mysterious and way beyond weird, and I've a pretty good hunch their intentions aren't good.

Even as Romy calls out from behind me, I keep going. Eager to put some distance between us as I head for an auburn-haired woman waiting just outside the theater, the one who, from behind anyway, looks exactly like Ava.

 

The huge disappointment I felt when I tapped that
auburn-haired woman on the shoulder only to discover she wasn't Ava, made me realize just how badly I need to talk to her. So I exit Summerland and land back in my car, plopping onto the driver's seat right in front of the Trader Joe's in the Crystal Cove Promenade parking lot, and startling an unsuspecting shopper so badly she drops both her bags, scattering numerous cans of coffee and soup under a whole row of cars. And I promise myself that from now on, I'll make sure my exits and entries are a bit more discreet.

When I get to Ava's, she's in the middle of a reading, so I wait in her bright sunny kitchen while she finishes up. And even though I know it's none of my business, even though I know I shouldn't be snooping, I go right for my quantum remote and access their session, amazed by the amount of accuracy and detail Ava provides.

“Impressive,” I say, after her client is gone and she comes into the kitchen to join me. “
Very
impressive. Seriously, I had no idea.” I smile, watching as she goes through her usual ritual of filling the teapot to boil, then placing some cookies onto a plate and pushing it my way.

“That's quite a compliment coming from you.” She smiles, taking
the seat just across from me. “Though if I remember right, I gave you a pretty accurate reading once too.”

I reach for a cookie, knowing it's expected. And when I lick the little bits of sugar from the top, I can't help but feel sad that it no longer holds the allure that it used to.

“You remember that reading? On Halloween night?” She watches me closely.

I nod. I remember it well. That's the night I discovered she could see Riley. Up until then I'd been sure I was the only one who could communicate with my dead little sister, and I wasn't too happy to learn that was no longer the case.

“Did you tell your client she's dating a loser?” I break the cookie in half. “That he's cheating on her with someone she thinks is a friend and that she should dump them both ASAP?” I ask, removing some crumbs that fell onto my lap.

“In so many words,” she says, getting up to fetch our tea the moment the pot starts to whistle. “Though I can only hope you'll learn to soften the message if you ever decide to give readings.”

I pause, overcome by a sudden pang of sadness when I realize just how long it's been since I last thought about my future, about what I might want to be when I grow up. I went through so many phases—wanting to be a park ranger, a teacher, an astronaut, a supermodel, a pop star—the list was endless. But now that I'm immortal, now that I'm in a position to try out
all
of those things over the course of the next thousand-plus years—I no longer feel that ambitious.

Lately, all I've been thinking about is how to get Damen back.

And now, after this last trip to Summerland, all I can think about is getting the old me back.

I mean, having the entire world at my feet is not so enticing when there's no one to share it with.

“I—I'm still not sure what I want to do. I haven't really thought about it,” I lie, wondering if it will be easy for me to slip back into my old life—if I decide to return to it, that is. And if I'll still want to be a pop star like I used to, or if the changes I've experienced here will follow me there.