I suck in a breath. Theo and I exchange glances, and then I call out, “Paul? Paul, are you in there?” Quickly I knock. “It’s me. It’s—”
The door opens, and my fist makes contact with Paul’s chest.
In that first instant, I can’t speak. I can only stare up at him as he slowly smiles. I launch myself into his arms. Paul hugs me back fiercely, like he never wants to let me go.
“Happy endings all around, almost,” Theo says as he takes a couple of steps backward. “I’m going to head out, you guys.”
“Theo?” Paul never lets go of me, but he looks over my shoulder, only slightly less happy about this second reunion. “It’s really you?”
“The one and only,” Theo says. “Accept no substitutes. Which I realize is easier said than done, these days.” He sounds like his old self, and I have to grin.
Paul reaches one hand out to Theo, who clasps it in something that’s more than a handshake—it looks like old paintings of Romans swearing allegiance to each other, swearing to die by each other’s side. Their bond is too powerful to be destroyed by their feelings for me, or their rivalry.
But Theo can’t keep up the pretense that it doesn’t bother him, seeing us wrapped together like this. As he lets go of Paul and takes a few steps back, his smile is strained. “I’m gonna—I’m grabbing the good Dr. Kovalenka and the resurrected Dr. Caine and the soon-to-be-doctor Josephine and bringing them over this way. Soon we’ll have the band back together.”
I whisper, “Thank you, Theo.”
“You crazy kids have fun,” he says, and then he turns around to go.
For a moment we watch him leave—but then Paul pulls me into his room and closes the door.
As soon as he does, though, reality intrudes. Everything I know about Paul, everything I feel for him, is swallowed up in uncertainty. In the love I felt for Lieutenant Markov, who lies dead a universe away.
I don’t say a word, but Paul understands. He takes a deep breath as he steps slightly closer. “I’m not the one you loved. I know that.”
“How can you know when I don’t?”
He shakes his head, not denying what I’m saying but moving past it. “Something in us has to be the same, Marguerite. I know we both feel the same way about you. After the way you lost him, I don’t expect you to—to rush into anything, to know your own heart right away. But I’d like for us to find out if what you felt . . . if it wasn’t for him alone. If anything you felt was for me.”
Some of it was. Is. I know that; I always have.
Paul says, “Will you give me a chance, Marguerite?”
I feel the smile spreading over my face, lighting me up inside. “Yeah,” I whisper as I take his hand. “Oh, yeah.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
THIS BOOK COULD NOT HAVE BEEN WRITTEN WITHOUT Jordan Weaver (formerly my publicist in Australia); Dan Wells and Lauren Oliver (my partners on the book tour where I first thought of this concept); Diana Fox (my agent and destroyer of plot holes); Ruth Hanna, Edy Moulton, and Amy Garvey (beta readers and cheerleaders extraordinaire); Sarah Landis (my former editor at HarperTeen, whose input on the first draft was invaluable); Rodney Crouther, Jesse Holland, Whitney Swindoll Raju, and Eric O’Neill (for constant encouragement); Walter Wolf and Alexandra Mora (who recommended a book that wound up being inspirational); my parents and the rest of my family (for all their enthusiasm and encouragement); Kiersten White (for providing constant support); Florence Welch (of the Machine fame); and last but not least, Marina Frants (when you are writing a book that involves both Russia and oceanography, it is very helpful to have a friend who is both Russian and an oceanographer). Not all of the above people knew they were contributing—I feel sure Florence Welch is oblivious to her part in this—but each of them provided some critical element that went into A Thousand Pieces of You.