“Where are we going?” I ask.
“Back to the cloud,” Max says. “To finish what we started.” He comes up behind me and wraps his arms around my shoulders, leaning down to rest his head on my shoulder blade.
I blush. “We don’t have to go back to the cloud,” I say.
“We don’t?” he asks, spinning me around to face him.
“Nope.” I take a nervous breath, gazing up at him.
“Great,” Max says. “Because I’ve been dying to do this again all night.” Then he places one hand at the back of my neck, and leans down to kiss me.
20
They’re Merging
WHEN WE ARE ushered into Petermann’s office the next morning, I am shocked to see him dressed in something other than athletic attire, but relieved to see it’s just as strange. Max and I aren’t the only people in the room in pajamas. Petermann’s are a silk cobalt blue.
“Good morning, sleepyheads,” he says, removing his glasses and setting down the paper. “Please, take a seat and help yourself.”
Spread out all over his desk is an array of breakfast items. Scones, cinnamon buns, bagels, and croissants. In other words, heaven. Lillian walks in looking tired, pushing a cart with a bunch of clinking cups.
“Would anyone care for coffee?” Petermann asks, gesturing to the cart, and both Max and I eagerly raise our hands.
“This is all for us?” I ask, genuinely excited.
“She has a thing for baked goods,” Max interjects, and I nod enthusiastically.
“It’s your reward for all your hard work yesterday,” Petermann says, leaning over his desk and clasping his hands together. “I think it really paid off, because not only did you sleep soundly through the night, your brain activity was off the charts. Now I am dying to hear what happened!”
Max has already covered a bagel in cream cheese and taken a big bite, so I go first, smiling when I notice he put the other half of the bagel on my plate. There is something very primal about it, like we are prehistoric people and he went out and killed the bagel and brought it home for me. “Well, we dreamed about the hot air balloon again,” I start to explain.
“No,” Petermann says, waving a hand impatiently. “No, no. Earlier. Start at the very beginning, when you were conscious. Begin with the reenactment and go from there.”
I hesitate, and look at Max. “Everything?” I ask. But Max just gives a why not tell him shrug, and Petermann insists. So this time, I don’t leave anything out. I tell him about Emmet and the clawfoot tub, about the stolen artwork, about Nocturne, and about how we stood in front of her and went through the whole dream . . . even the kiss. I look down when I mention the last part, feeling weird talking about it in front of Petermann, of all people. But he doesn’t seem fazed.
“Your idea must’ve worked,” I say. “Because it all felt so real at the time. I could actually hear the symphony music from the Met dream.”
“So did I,” Max adds. “And your lips tasted like Oreos.”
“So did yours!” I practically shriek in excitement, and Max, laughing, reaches over and lets his hand rest lightly at the back of my neck, giving it an affectionate squeeze.
But Petermann doesn’t look excited. “I’m confused. You mean his lips tasted like Oreos in your dream.”
“No,” I say. “Well, yes, they did in the dream the first time, but then they also did in real life.”
Petermann’s brow furrows. “I suppose it would be silly for me to ask if you had in fact consumed any Oreos yesterday?”
Max and I shake our heads.
“What is it?” Max asks.
“I’m not sure,” Petermann says, tapping his fingers on his desk. “Have either of you ever experienced anything like this before? A moment where something from your dreams seems to seep into your reality?”
The question makes the hair on my arms stand up. “I have,” I say cautiously, telling him about Sergio and Brunilda outside my window, and Jerry’s giant footprint. “Have you?” I ask Max.
Max nods. “The parrots have been stalking me, too. The other day they were roosting on the goal during a game and cheered when I scored. And yesterday, when I went to switch my laundry from the washer to the dryer, I pulled a rubber ducky out with the load.”
“Like the washing machine dream,” I whisper. “I saw one in the Charles River a few weeks ago.”
“Had either of you ever experienced this . . . dream bleeding, so to speak, before meeting each other?” Petermann asks.
Max and I both shake our heads again.
“They’re merging,” Petermann says under his breath.