Or maybe Paul only wanted me to distrust Theo, so I’d go on trusting him completely.
My hand settles on Theo’s head; his hair is thick and silky, wavy against my palm. His arm is slung across my legs. I look for the small tattoo above his wrist, the one he keeps promising to explain but never does . . . but that was stupid. This dimension’s Theo apparently doesn’t go in for body art.
Slowly he stirs, snuggling into my belly as though I were a pillow, then suddenly pulling himself up to sit beside me. His eyes have a drowsy quality, sensual and unfocused, and yet I know he’s mostly himself again. “Mmmph. How long was I out of it?”
“Thirty minutes or so.” Theo has caught the last break he’s going to get from me. I hold up the bottle of green stuff. “What the hell is this?”
Then I feel sorry for being such a hard-ass, because he looks so desperately ashamed. “Homemade stuff,” he says, his voice low. “Something this Theo uses—must’ve cooked it up with some chemistry guys. It’s one hell of a ride.”
He’s joking about what a great “ride” it is when we’re in the middle of something this dangerous? This important? I should’ve called an ambulance anyway; Theo’s going to need one before I’m done with him.
But then he adds, “It also hooks its claws into you, hard. He—we—I needed a hit. I was trying to fight it, but this body belongs to this dimension and, you know, it needs what it needs. While I’m here, I kinda have to play by this world’s rules.”
“It’s not just here, though, is it?” I ask. If it had been, I feel like Theo would have told me about his other self’s drug addiction; his secrecy seems to hint at something more. “You use at home, too. Don’t you? We all suspected.”
Theo runs one hand over his face; his gaze is sharpening back to its usual clarity. “I’m not an addict,” he finally says. “Not at home. It’s . . . more mental, really. Sometimes I need to step out of my head, to silence all the voices telling me what an asshole I am.” The shame shadows his face more harshly. “I hate that I need it. But I do.”
“How long have you been using?”
He winces, but his voice is firm as he says, “Only the last few months, and it never got in the way of the work. Never. I swear that to you.”
Has he forgotten the Accident? Mom and Dad lost it when he told them. I rub my tingling arm, which had almost gone to sleep with Theo draped over it. “Okay.”
“I’m sorry I checked out on you,” Theo continues. He reaches toward my hand, as if to take it, then stops himself. “It’s over now, all right? Totally over.”
I nod as I push myself to my feet. “Just one thing—”
“Yeah?”
“I’m relying on you.” My voice shakes slightly, but I don’t attempt to steady it. Let Theo see how badly he hurt me. “We have to stop Paul, no matter what. I can’t do that without you, and you can’t do that if you’re getting high all the time. So get your act together.”
He looks stung, but I refuse to feel guilty. Theo always manages to wriggle off the hook with those puppy-dog eyes of his—not this time.
“I need you. I need all of you. Don’t you dare check out on me again.” I spear Theo with my hardest gaze. “Do you understand?”
He nods as he looks up at me with something that might even be respect.
“Clean yourself up,” I say, gesturing toward the shower. “You have fifteen minutes. Then we’re out of here. We have a job to do.”
7
THEO EMERGES FROM MY ROOM SCRUBBED CLEAN. HE’S put on a fresh T-shirt from his backpack, a gray one with a picture of some rock band I don’t know, from the sixties maybe, The Gears. He’s freshly shaved and smells of soap; his damp hair is combed back into something that, on another guy, would look almost respectable. When his eyes meet mine, I expect to see lingering embarrassment—but instead Theo seems determined. Focused. Good. I need that more than his regret.
At first, neither of us knows what to say, and he can’t hold my gaze very long. I look at his T-shirt because it’s less awkward than looking at his face—and then I realize I know a couple of the members of The Gears. “Wait. That’s Paul McCartney and George Harrison, but—who are the other guys?”
“No freaking clue.” Theo holds his shirt out as he glances down. “Apparently they never met John Lennon, or even Ringo Starr, so the Beatles never quite happened. These guys seem to have been pretty famous on their own, though.”
No Beatles in this universe. It makes me sad, the nonexistence of a band that broke up decades before I was born. I know all their songs word for word, thanks to my father. Dad was the biggest Beatles fan ever. His favorite song was “In My Life,” and he’d hum the verses while he washed up after dinner.