An Unexpected Detour

They cut back south through the quieter halls, Laura slowing the pace until the Rotunda opened ahead of them, its vast dome echoing with every step. Even with just the two of them, their footsteps sounded like they’d imported a marching band for the finale.

They paced a slow circuit around the Rotunda, not because either of them wanted to linger, but because neither seemed ready to leave. Laura stopped at the midpoint, pivoting to face Andy with both bodies. “If you had to sum up the last few hours in a few words, what would they be?” The doubled voices came out with a roundness that made the question sound heavier than it should have.

Andy tried to think about it. “North wing was the funny part,” he said. “I can’t even pretend it wasn’t. Some of the stuff in there—”

“Giant sword, wall of ball gags, three shelves of butt plugs?” Laura shot back, both faces bright with the memory.

He grinned, hands deep in his pockets. “That too. Less heavy than...”

Laura’s expression flattened, the humor going out of both faces like someone had flicked a switch. “You mean the empty case?” she said.

He nodded, watching her as her eyes drifted to the mosaic on the floor. “The Edict, yeah. Even knowing what it was for, I didn’t expect it to… I don’t know, feel like that. Like someone set off a fire alarm and you’re the only person in the building who can’t run.”

They stood for a long moment, Laura not answering, both bodies braced against the rail like she needed the support. “It’s weird,” she said, “how even a missing object, in a sex museum, in a random dimension, can still sucker-punch you.” She ran a thumb along the back of her own hand, a nervous habit Andy barely remembered from years ago. “I think the worst was the collar, though. The case with Abi-Eshu’s.” Her faces twitched in sync, a visible shudder. “That one scared me.”

Andy was a little surprised. “Scared you?”

She nodded, this time the motion more forceful, like it needed to convince both of her at once. “I mean, I’ve done the math on what’s going to happen if we don’t fix this thing. I’ve even war-gamed it a little. But there was something about the story of Ereshkigal and Abi-Eshu…”

“Yeah,” he said, the word carrying more weight than usual. “That part landed.”

They started walking again, no rush, neither wanting to admit how much the place had gotten under their skin. Andy watched her, the careful way she kept both bodies together now, no more drifting. He wondered if that was a comfort thing, or if she just wanted to feel a little less alone.

“The last one was strange, too,” Andy said. “The photo.”

Laura’s left face quirked a half-smile, the other keeping its gaze on the exit. “Adrien Moore? The one that looked like the guy you met in the Library?” Laura shrugged, the gesture loose, neither face offering a theory. “Could be a copy, or a trick.” She paused at the glass doors, one hand braced on the brass, then said, “Do you regret coming, now that you know what’s at the end?”

He looked at her, really looked at her, both faces at once, and shook his head. “Not for a second.”

The smile that spread across her was lopsided but real, and it erased the last trace of tension from her posture. “Good,” she said. “Because I have more in store for you.”

Andy smirked. “Bring it on.”

They didn’t leave right away. Instead, Laura drifted again to the velvet rope, both bodies bracketed around the mosaic. She looked at Andy, then down at the tiles. “Did you ever think,” she said, voice quieter now, “that you’d end up here? Not here, the museum, but—” she made a vague motion, taking in the world, the night, all of it. “With me, like this?”

He wanted to say yes, that he’d always wanted it, that some part of him had spent every day since the river wishing for exactly this. But what came out was the truth: “No,” he said. “I didn’t even think I’d ever see you again.”

Laura was quiet for a moment. Both faces looked at him, and for once neither of them seemed to be performing anything. “Sixteen years,” she said, not quite a question.

“Sixteen years,” he confirmed. He looked at the mosaic, then back at her. “I used to—” He stopped. Started again. “There were mornings I’d wake up and for about two seconds I’d forget. And then I’d remember, and it was like—” He shook his head. “Every time.”

Laura’s right hand came up and pressed flat against her sternum, a small, almost involuntary gesture. “I didn’t know that,” she said quietly.

“I know you didn’t.”

Neither of them moved for a moment. Then Laura gave a short, unsteady laugh, the kind that wasn’t quite humor but needed to be something. “Well,” she said, “it’s a good thing you fixed that.”

He almost smiled. Then he nodded toward the doors. “You want to get out of here?”

She did, both bodies turning in a neat pivot, blue eyes catching the last of the dome’s light as they pushed into the glass vestibule.

---

The cold outside was like a full reset: air so sharp it wiped the last hour from Andy’s mind, at least for a few seconds. He looked over at Laura, who blinked twice, then took a long, slow breath. The way she watched her own breath leave her, both bodies together, was almost clinical, like she was measuring how real this felt after the weirdness of the museum.

He asked, “You okay?”

Laura nodded, then made a face. “I’m fine. It’s just—I think the last time I walked out of a place that bright into a night this cold, it was… not a museum.” She didn’t elaborate, just let the sentence dissolve.

They stood a moment on the front steps, neither quite ready to descend into the wide, empty street. The city was weirdly beautiful tonight: snow dusted along the sidewalk, the soft yellow streetlights blurring the edges of the world. Andy wondered if the museum moved. Last time, it had been on an island.

At the curb, a long black car idled, exhaust curling white into the night. It looked out of place, like it had rolled off a movie set by mistake.

Behind the wheel sat Mildred, hair swept under a driver’s cap, eyes obscured by dark glasses even though it was night. She looked straight ahead, hands motionless on the wheel.

Laura saw her at the same instant Andy did, and her whole face (both faces) lit up with satisfaction.

“You arranged this,” Andy said.

Laura didn’t deny it. Both mouths curved into the same small, pleased smile as she stepped toward the curb, both bodies moving in lockstep. They reached the car, and the window rolled down before either of them could reach for it, revealing Mildred’s face, so blank it was almost artful.

“Evening,” Mildred said, her voice syrupy-sweet. “Ready when you are.”

Andy looked from Mildred to Laura. “Where are we going?”

Laura leaned down to the window, both faces perfectly parallel, and her smile widened. “Mildred, is there anything you’d like to tell him?”

Mildred’s mouth twitched, just barely. “I’ve been instructed to say nothing whatsoever.”

Laura straightened, both faces bright with barely-contained amusement, and gestured toward the door. “After you.” Andy, trying to be gentlemanly, opened the door for her and gestured for her to slide in first.

Laura beamed, the tension from the museum dissolved, and then, as if she were starring in a movie, slid into the back seat, both bodies folding in with ease. Andy paused a second, then climbed in after her, the car door shutting behind them with a soft, final sound.

The street noise vanished behind thick glass. The car’s interior was warm and smelled faintly of something floral and expensive. Laura pressed her hands to the seat, almost bouncing in place, as if delighted by the simple fact of being chauffeured. Andy glanced over, caught her looking at him, and for a second neither of them said a thing.

He broke the silence first. “So. Where to?”

Laura leaned back, both faces relaxed now. “Let’s just drive a bit,” she said, “see where it goes.” She sounded lighter than she had all night.

The car pulled away from the curb, its headlights tracing a path through the quiet city, leaving the museum—and everything else—for someone else to worry about, at least for tonight.

---

The outside world dropped away. The estate, the memory of the museum—all of it softened behind the heavy glass and the weight of perfect insulation. Inside, the car was a warm, sealed capsule, the only motion the slow hum of the engine and the even, almost ceremonial way Mildred glided them through unseen traffic.

Laura relaxed immediately, both bodies sprawling at graceful, offhand angles across the leather seats. For a minute, it was just the two of them, buffered from everything. Laura’s eyes flicked back and forth from the window to his face, like she was cataloging the night in real time.

He couldn’t figure out what to say. Maybe he didn’t need to. For once, Laura didn’t fill the air with questions or jokes; she just stared out at the unrecognizable lights as they slid past, both faces thoughtful in stereo.

He sat there, trying to match her for quiet, but the silence filled him with a pressure that was almost physical. He thought about the day—the baby, the museum, the mural with all the Hosts lined up like gods and monsters—and the more he replayed it, the more he felt a sense of counting down, of something slipping past that neither of them would get back.

Somewhere in his chest, the feeling grew tight enough to make him shift in his seat. He wanted—no, needed—this night to last, to give Laura something that wasn’t a rerun of old memories or a dress rehearsal for the disaster waiting on the other side of the debt. He tried to remember what a perfect date was supposed to look like, and the picture in his head was a blur of awkward high school banquets, fancy restaurants with his parents, a single New Year’s Eve at a steakhouse in Chicago with Erin.

He didn’t realize he was staring at the lights with that kind of intensity until Laura’s faces pivoted toward him, blue eyes scanning his profile. “You good?” she asked, the question soft and pointed at once.

He nodded, but the answer was too easy. “I just—I’m trying to make sense of all of it. The day, I mean. You, me, the museum, everything.”

Laura made a sound, one body turning to face him head-on, the other remaining oriented toward the window. “That’s not how it works,” she said, dry. “You don’t make sense of things like this. You just let it happen, then sort the pieces after.”

He smiled, but it was thin. “You always did like the aftermath better than the event.”

She shrugged, both sets of shoulders rising and falling. “You get better stories that way.”

The car took a right, and the lights went dimmer, more yellow than white. For a second, Andy let himself imagine a version of the night where they just kept driving forever, the world outside reduced to color and sound, nothing ever ending.

He looked over at Laura again, both faces now angled toward him, both mouths set in a line that was halfway between anticipation and caution.

He wanted to say something. He wanted to say that tonight might be the last one, or that he wanted it to be more than just a placeholder between disasters. He wanted to tell her that, if it were up to him, he would have driven her anywhere she wanted, just for the chance to see the way the world looked reflected in her eyes.

But all that came out was, “You sure you don’t want to tell me where we’re going?”

Both of Laura smiled at that, though one looked more mischievous than the other. “I said it was a surprise,” she said. “And besides, you’ve always hated knowing things before you get there.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but she held up twin hands, palms out. “I mean, look at you. You can’t even ride in a car without running every possible scenario.”

He grinned, caught. “What if I just want to know so I can brace myself?”

“Then you’re still the same Andy as before,” she said, voice gone fond. “You always did better with a little warning.”

He let that sit. The car kept moving, the streets getting narrower and quieter. The world outside went darker, almost rural, like they were leaving the city behind altogether.

He realized his hands were clenched tight in his lap, and forced himself to relax them. “So how does it end?” he asked. “The date, I mean.”

Laura considered, then said, “I don’t know. I only planned it up to a point.” She looked at him, both faces aligning for a second. “I wanted to see what you’d do, if you had a chance to just be… you.”

He looked at her, and for a second he saw the thirteen-year-old she’d once been, the girl who’d dragged him through the rain because she’d wanted to see lightning up close, the one who’d always asked the questions no one else would. Then he saw the woman, the way both of her looked so certain even when she was making it up as she went.

They sat in a comfortable hush, just watching the city slip by. Andy let himself enjoy it for a moment: no debt, no wedding, no cosmic ledger waiting to be balanced, just Laura beside him and the streetlights sliding past the window.

Then, underneath the quiet, something in his chest pulled tight. He thought about how few nights like this they had left before the debt decided things for both of them, and he wanted, more than he could remember wanting almost anything, to give her one that had nothing to do with museums or gods or ghosts. Something elegant. Something romantic. Something she'd never gotten to have, because she'd died too young to have it.

He didn't remember deciding anything. He never did, not really. But he felt it happen anyway: the now-familiar shift somewhere behind his ribs, quiet and total, like a held breath finally let go.

Laura gasped.

Andy looked over, then down at himself, and did a double take.

He was wearing a suit. Not the button-down and jeans he’d put on that morning, but a real, tailored suit, the fabric smooth and deep black. The shirt underneath was crisp and fitted, and his shoes were polished to the point that he caught their shine even in the low light. He looked back up, about to say something, but stopped dead when he saw Laura.

Both of her were dressed in matching evening gowns, a deep sapphire that picked up the blue of her eyes and made her look—there was no other word for it—royal. The dresses hugged her bodies exactly, with a deep, plunging neckline. The fabric shimmered at the hem, catching the stray light from passing cars. On both sets of feet were elegant, strappy heels that made her legs look longer and, somehow, even more impossible than usual.

Laura’s hands hovered over the new dress, the fabric shimmering blue and cut to her shape with a kind of mathematical perfection that felt like it should be illegal. It looked as if she had been poured into each dress. She looked down at both of herself, then up at Andy, then back at the second set of hands as if double-checking that yes, she was seeing the same thing twice.

The silence that filled the backseat was almost extravagant. It lasted long enough that Andy started to count the lines in the stitching on the dress’s bodice, just to anchor himself to the present. He could tell by the quiet that the car was moving, but the world on the other side might as well have been papered over with blackout curtains.

Laura spoke first, both voices just out of phase. “What did you do?” The tone was half-accusation, half undiluted glee, and both faces were fighting not to smile too wide.

Andy felt his ears go hot. “I—” He cut himself off, looked at his own suit again, then at Laura. “I didn’t do anything. Or if I did, it wasn’t on purpose. I think maybe I just… wanted something else for tonight.”

Laura stared, then laughed. “Did you just override my entire plan because you wanted a night out in a tux?”

A voice answered before Andy could. “For what it's worth,” Mildred said from the front seat, eyes on the road, “we have a new destination.” She paused. “This is entirely him.” Andy couldn’t parse whether she sounded disappointed, offended, or amused.

Laura's laugh faded into something more careful. “This is a flare-up, isn’t it,” she said. Not a question. “Like the ones Claire's been keeping the list of.”

Andy scrubbed a hand over his face. “I think so, yeah. I didn't feel it happen. I just looked down and I was wearing this.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but Laura cut him off: “Be honest. Did you have a secret longing to sweep me off to a ballroom?” She crossed her arms in stereo. “You didn’t even know what my plan was,” she said, both voices flat but not unfriendly.

Andy looked at her, then at the inside of the car, then at his own lap. He remembered their conversation from a few days back, about “boring” dates, including the Museum, and one more thing. “Karaoke, right?”

Her faces flickered in a way that told him he’d guessed right, but she didn’t admit it. “I wasn’t going to make you sing,” she said, which was clearly a lie. “I was just going to—” She stopped, shrugged. “I don’t know. I wanted you to have fun. A normal night. Not a challenge, not a crisis, just…” She trailed off, eyes drifting to the window, where a single streetlight spun a slow, golden stripe around the car.

“Just a night,” Andy said, voice softer. “I thought you’d like it.”

For a second, both of Laura went totally still, the usual spark of banter short-circuiting behind her eyes. “You thought I’d like it,” she repeated, both voices flat but soft.

He nodded, feeling stupid and exposed and absolutely not the master of anything at this moment.

Laura looked at her two sets of hands, running her fingers down the silk. The dresses were sleeveless, the neckline plunging and open at the back. The skirt was slit at the side, just enough to show off both calves when she moved. On both bodies, it fit perfectly.

She looked up, and Andy realized both faces were going a little pink.

She said, “You know I was about to drag you into a dive bar, right? Like, that was the big reveal. Karaoke, beer for you, juice for me, and me trying to do Destiny’s Child on the mic. That was my plan.”

He smiled, helpless. “I would have loved that, too.”

She arched an eyebrow, both faces perfectly synced for once. “So, let me get this straight. We’ve gone from planned bar food and yelling, to… this?” She gestured at the interior, the dresses, the suit, the whole universe of possibility now unfolding outside the tinted window. “You really think I can pull this off?”

He looked at her, both bodies at once, the way the new dresses made her look like she was glowing under the low light. “You look incredible,” he said. The words came out sharper than he meant, so he tried again. “You look like you were always meant to be here. I mean, like this. Consider it a celebration of your medical degree?”

Laura didn’t say anything for a second, both faces going serious. Then, suddenly, both mouths broke into a smile.

She leaned in, the two bodies bracketing him from each side, and kissed him, first one set of lips, then the other. “You’re not afraid I’ll outclass you?” she teased.

He shrugged, trying not to let the heat creep up his cheeks. “It's a risk I'm willing to take.”

The silence hung a few seconds too long, which Laura broke by poking his arm with a fingernail. “You going to tell me what else you're planning?” she asked.

He shook his head. “No plan. Just… this.” He gestured vaguely at the suit, at the car, at both Lauras. “I wanted you to feel special.”

Laura's faces pulled twin expressions of skepticism. “You think this is special? We're in a car, in the middle of nowhere, dressed like we crashed a wedding.“

Andy managed a laugh. “If we crash one, I'll let you do the toast.”

The joke landed, but something in her didn't quite let it go. Both faces sobered, just slightly, and she asked, “Can I ask you something?”

He nodded.

“Did you want this? Consciously, I mean. Like you sat there and decided, I want a suit, I want a restaurant, I want all of it.”

He didn't look away. “I want you," he said. "Every flavor of you. The one in the gown. The one who was about to drag me into a dive bar and make me sing. The one who died young, and the one sitting across from me right now. I don't think there's a version of you I don't want.”

Both faces went soft in a way he'd rarely seen, unguarded in a way that had nothing to do with the dress. She held his gaze a moment, then asked, quieter still: “Do you even know where we're going now?”

He shook his head. “No idea. Wherever it wanted to take us, I guess.”

That seemed to amuse her, at least a little. Both faces grinned, and for a second the car felt less like a pressure chamber and more like a home.

He turned back to Laura, who had switched her attention to the way her dress caught the blue light from the dash. Both hands—both sets of hands—ran up and down the fabric, testing the texture.

“It’s really soft,” she said, a little in awe.

Andy reached out and touched the skirt near her waist, not sure if it was okay. But she didn’t pull back. Instead, both bodies leaned in just a bit, so the three of them formed a kind of triangle, their heads nearly touching in the dim.

He stroked the silk with his thumb, and it really was absurdly soft—almost liquid to the touch, no static, no give. “It’s nice,” he agreed.

Laura didn’t move for a second, then said, both voices very low, “Did you ever go to one of those parties, growing up? The ones with an open bar and the really long buffet, and everyone’s parents in ugly dresses and suits?”

He thought about it, and nodded. “Once or twice.”

She went quiet for a second, both faces doing something complicated. “We went to a few,” she said. “In the other timeline. I remember one where you wore a tie that was genuinely offensive and I had to fix it in the parking lot.”

He felt the familiar vertigo of that shared memory. “I remember the tie.”

“Of course you remember the tie. It was an affront to humanity.” She smiled, but it had a soft, bruised quality to it. “I never actually went to one. Not for real.” She looked down at the silk. “I was thirteen.”

He shook his head. “You did. You remember it, so you did, in a way.”

“I would have found the coat closet,” she said, after a moment. Both voices were quieter now, less performance, more true. “Stolen something off the dessert table. Just to see if anyone would notice me.”

He pictured her, small and furious and brilliant, navigating a world built for other people’s comfort. “I would have noticed,” he said. “I’d have covered for you.”

She smiled, both faces, but there was an edge of real gratitude there. “I know.”

They rode in silence, a soft, not-uncomfortable silence, both of them watching the city twist itself into new shapes every few minutes.

He let his mind drift. He tried, just for a second, to picture the wedding. Not the moment on the footbridge, not big cosmic showdowns or the terrible risk or the debt, but just the actual event: Andy and seven women, maybe a dozen people who mattered, in a room with light and laughter. He wondered what it would be like to see Laura walk down an aisle in white, or to see both of her, side by side, swearing the same promise. The image was so beautiful and so stupid that he almost laughed.

He looked over at her, at both of her, and said, “You look amazing, by the way.” It came out so quietly he wasn’t sure she’d heard it.

But she had. Both faces lit up, not with the usual weaponized charm but with something almost bashful. “Thanks,” she said. “So do you.”

He smiled, and this time it didn’t feel forced.

Then the car slowed, coasted to a stop in front of a building with no sign, no lights but a single warm bulb over a glass door. The sidewalk was bare, the street empty.

Andy hesitated for a second, half-expecting the universe to give them a sign, or at least a punchline, but nothing happened. The car just idled, heat hissing gently from the vents, the world outside suddenly still. He looked over at Laura—both of her—who was studying the new dress as if she expected it to vanish the moment she opened the door. The silence in the backseat was so soft that Andy could have counted the breaths between them, and for a moment, neither moved.

Laura broke the spell first, one body glancing at the glass bulb above the entryway, the other tracking Andy’s face for tells. “Do you want to go in?” she asked, both voices quiet.

Andy nodded, more nervous than he should have been. “Yeah. If you’re okay with it.”

Laura rolled her eyes, but there was affection in the gesture. “I’m wearing two dresses,” she said. “You’re the one who should be worried.”

She opened the door before he could reply. The cold hit them both, slicing through the glamour of the evening in a way that felt more like a dare than an obstacle. Andy stepped out, then circled to the curb and did the thing he’d always assumed was a cliche: he opened the door for her. Both of Laura’s bodies stepped out at once, sapphire silk swirling around her legs, and Andy realized that whatever awkwardness he’d imagined vanished the moment she smiled.

He closed the door behind her, and for a brief second, the world was down to just the two of them and the light spilling from the restaurant’s entryway. The city was silent, the building itself looking less like a destination and more like a secret someone had left unlocked, just for them.

Laura paused at the door, both faces catching the glow of the bulb, and gave Andy a look that was at once daring and uncertain. “Are you going to do the honors?” she said.

He nodded, stepped up, and pulled the door open.

Inside, the restaurant was smaller than he’d expected—maybe ten tables, most empty, the lighting so low that the shadows pooled along the walls. There was no sign of a host, but as soon as they stepped inside, a woman in black appeared from somewhere near the bar. Her hair was jet black, too, and her lipstick was a red so dark it looked almost purple in the candlelight. She smiled, the expression wide but not quite friendly, and gestured for them to follow.

“This way, please,” she said. Her voice was perfectly neutral—no accent, no emotion, just the bare minimum of hospitality.

She led them to a corner table, the tablecloth so white it seemed to glow. As they settled in, Andy glanced at Laura, who was taking in the whole scene like she was trying to solve a puzzle with her eyes alone.

The host set two menus down, then vanished without a word.

Laura stared after her, then back at Andy. “I feel like we’re about to be murdered,” she whispered, both voices barely above a breath.

Andy grinned. “If we are, at least we’ll be well-fed.”

---

They sat in a little rectangle of candlelight, every surface in the place engineered to look like it had been scraped from the hull of a shipwreck or aged under the feet of ten thousand would-be romantics. The windows fogged from inside, turning the street outside into a watercolor of orange sodium and blur. The walls were deep blue, the lighting low enough that even Laura’s doubled eyes needed a moment to adjust. They were, for all practical purposes, alone—maybe two other tables occupied, both already lost in their own bubbles.

Andy watched as both of Laura settled into the booth. It was a corner seat, semicircular, the kind that almost forced you to sit shoulder to shoulder. Both bodies moved in perfect sync: sliding in, smoothing the sapphire dresses under her thighs, crossing her legs, one set of arms folded, the other picking up the menu and flipping it open. It was a small thing, but he could see the way both faces lingered on the room, on the high-gloss wine racks, the pressed linen, the little beads of water on the carafe that materialized on the table without anyone ordering it.

He reached for the menu, but Laura had already opened it, both faces studying the choices. Then she did something he hadn’t expected: both bodies closed their menus, set them flat, and looked up at Andy with a seriousness that was almost clinical.

“I’ve never done this,” she said.

He blinked. “Done what?”

Both faces smiled, one wry, one soft. “This. A restaurant date. The whole thing. I’ve been to places that served food, obviously, but…” She paused, both faces working through the memory. “Never anywhere this nice. Not on a real date.” She smoothed the menu with her hand, as if checking the grain for a flaw. “It was always diners, pizza on the couch, sometimes takeout if it was a special occasion. Not…” She gestured around the room, taking in the table, the wine glasses, the hush.

Andy couldn’t help a smile. “You seem pretty at home, for someone who’s never done it before.”

She shrugged, both faces at once. “You fake it until you make it. Isn’t that the rule?”

He said, “Yeah, but if it’s your first time, you’re allowed to just let it be weird.”

Laura snorted, both faces matching the sound. “If I let it be weird, I’d be under the table right now.” She didn’t elaborate, but Andy could picture it—her, crammed in the footwell, making a fort out of the napkins.

He said, “Why not just enjoy it, then?”

Both faces went thoughtful. “I think I am going to.”

He didn’t say anything, because there was nothing to say to that.

Both faces looked up. “I know you’re not keeping score,” she said, the right face a little softer than the left. “I just don’t want you to look at me and see someone who doesn’t know what she’s supposed to feel right now. Because I don’t. I really don’t.”

He reached for her hand on the table. “I don’t see that.”

She looked at the hand, both faces shifting in stereo. Then, quietly: “I’m not asking for pity. I just wanted you to know why this—” She gestured at the table, the dresses, the world—“already means more than I know what to do with. I know we did this in our memories, but this…” She gestured again, “this is real.”

Andy didn’t answer, not at first. He just held her gaze, both faces, and let the silence stretch. It was Laura who broke it, half-laughing. “You’re really good at not saying anything sometimes, you know that?”

He smiled. “Comes from years of getting things wrong.”

Both of Laura laughed, a stereo effect that bounced off the deep blue walls.

A server arrived, silent and unobtrusive, and recited the specials. Andy tried to pay attention, but found himself more interested in the way Laura’s eyes darted from the server’s face to the list, back and forth, as if she was running a simulation of every possible order.

When the server left, Andy looked at her and said, “What do you want?”

Both faces answered at once: “The chicken.” Then, “No, wait, the duck. The sauce sounded good.” She grinned, both faces mischievous. “I could just get two. There’s two of me.”

Andy smiled, then said, “If you want both, get both.”

Laura considered it. “Maybe I will, then.”

Andy let the moment settle, then asked, “What do you think this would look like? If none of this—” He gestured at the world, the dresses, the game—“had happened. If it was just you and me, somewhere regular.”

Laura cocked both heads, a gesture that looked a little like a pair of birds sizing up a rival at a feeder. “You mean, what would we be doing? Like, if we were just two people with a Friday night?”

He nodded.

She looked down, thinking. Then: “Probably the same thing as always. Sitting on a couch, eating pizza, arguing about whether or not you could beat me at Mario Kart.” She grinned, then added, “I improved, by the way.”

Andy said, “That’s debatable.”

“Not really,” both faces said at once. Then, quieter: “But maybe that’s all I would have needed.”

He let that sink in. “That sounds pretty good.”

Laura shrugged, both faces soft. “It does. But I don’t know if I’d trade it for this.” She glanced around, the candlelight catching on the blue silk. “Even if it’s just for a night.”

He thought about the day, about everything they’d lived and lost, about the version of the world where they never got this chance. “What do you mean?”

Laura didn't hesitate. “I mean that, even after all the things we went through, even after all the hurt, I got you. I got—” She struggled for the word. “I got a family. A real one, bigger than anything I ever pictured for myself. When I was a kid, if you'd asked me what I thought my life would look like, I would've said something small. Some quiet job, maybe family physician. A place to go home to that wasn't loud.” She shook her head, both faces a little embarrassed. “I never once imagined this. But I’m sorry. That's not what you want to hear on a date.”

Andy’s voice was quiet. “Maybe it is.”

For a while, neither of them spoke. The server came back, refilled the water, took their orders. Laura ordered the duck for one of her selves, and the chicken for the other, and when the server raised an eyebrow, she just said, “I’m hungry.”

Andy couldn’t stop looking at her, the way both faces shifted and softened, the way she let herself be present without pretending not to care.

He reached for her hand. Their fingers twined together, warm and perfect, and the world outside the booth faded down to nothing.

They stayed that way until the food arrived, the clatter of plates a distant afterthought. The candles burned lower, the wine glasses emptied and refilled, and for a little while, neither of them thought about the cost, or the future, or even the night beyond the walls of the restaurant.

They made a slow meal of it. The food came in precise courses—first a salad with lemon and pink slices of something Andy didn’t recognize, then a tiny soup, then the duck, crisped at the edges and slick with a syrup that Laura said, both voices, tasted like “orange marmalade but for adults.” The chicken was tender and juicy and spiced with something that made Laura groan in delighted surprise. The server, who Andy was starting to suspect might be akin to another Mildred, reappeared and vanished with a punctuality that bordered on supernatural. If she was surprised to find herself bringing two plates for one guest, she didn’t show it.

Andy ate, but more than that, he watched Laura. It wasn’t just the novelty of the dresses, or even the way she had learned to move both bodies as though she’d been practicing for years. It was the quality of her attention: every bite a deliberate act, every sip of water or dab with the napkin carried out like it was the first time she’d ever had permission to just… be. When she wasn’t talking, both faces would track him, never quite in unison, but always alert, as if she was running a split-screen of every possible reaction he might have.

After the second course, Laura set her fork down and looked at Andy across the flickering candlelight, both faces going suddenly serious. “Can I ask you something?”

He nodded.

“Are you scared about the wedding? It's in three and a half days.”

Andy hesitated—not because he didn't know the answer, but because he'd been doing his best to keep the night untouched by the shadow of what came next. Still, he owed her honesty. “Yeah,” he said. “I am.”

Both faces softened, then, the right side going gentle, the left going a little sardonic. “Me too,” Laura said. “But it's not the wedding I'm scared of, exactly.”

He watched her, waiting.

Laura continued, both voices quieter. “It's the fact that we're here, eating this food, pretending the debt is just going to… solve itself. Like we're going to toast, have a slice of cake, and then walk back into the Suite as if there isn't a cosmic bill coming due.”

He nodded, relief and worry warping his smile. “I was thinking the same thing. The whole drive over, I kept feeling like maybe this was… I don't know. The last time things could be normal.”

Both faces went still, the way Laura did when she was counting heartbeats. “I'm glad you said it,” she said, a little more herself now. “I was trying not to, so I wouldn't ruin tonight.”

Andy reached across the table, catching her hand. “You wouldn't ruin anything. You never could.”

She held onto his hand, but her eyes had gone somewhere past him, doing the math she'd told him about back in the museum. “I keep coming back to the apotheosis,” she said. “If you go through with it. If the bond really does carry all of us across.”

He felt his stomach drop, the way it always did when the conversation turned this direction. “Yeah.”

“If it carries me too, then I stop being a match. Isn't that what Claire said? Ereshkigal collects in kind. A goddess isn't in kind with whatever I am now.” She said it steadily, but both hands had gone tight around his. “So we ascend, and I just… stop being collectable.”

He didn't want to be the one to say the rest of it, but she deserved better than him going quiet on her. “And if you're not collectable anymore,” he said, “the debt doesn't disappear. It just moves. To your mom. Or to Marie, if it doesn't stop there.”

“Yeah,” Laura said, very softly.

“So I'd be saving you,” Andy said, and hated how flat and awful the words sounded out loud, “by handing the knife to your mother instead. Who can't even say yes or no to it, because she doesn't have that back yet.” He shook his head, like he could physically dislodge the thought. “I don't know how to solve that yet. I don't know how to not want it, either, if it means you're still here.”

Laura's throat worked. “That's the part I can't sit with,” she said. “Not the dying. The idea that saving me might just be choosing who else pays for it. I already have a mother who lost sixteen years to me once. I'm not letting her lose the rest because of me too, if I can help it.”

“There's still Arabella's loophole,” Andy said, though it came out sounding more like a prayer than a fact. “Whatever it actually is. If we find it in time, none of this is even a choice.”

“If,” Laura said. “That's a lot of weight to put on an if.”

“I know.”

“How do we know the ascension itself isn’t the loophole? It protects me, and that’s what she had promised Mom.”

Andy hesitated, because the truth was, he had thought the same thing. It fit with Arabella stacking the deck with potential sacrifices. She was quiet for a second, then asked, and it wasn't quite a challenge this time, just tired and honest: “Would you still do it? Ascend, I mean. Even knowing what it might cost, if the other loophole doesn't come through in time?”

He didn't answer right away, because he owed her the true answer, not the fast one. “I don't know,” he finally said. “I want to say no, that I'd never let it land on your mom instead. But I also know that if it came down to you or her, I don't trust myself to make the noble choice. I think I'd take whatever version of you I could keep.” He met her eyes, both sets of them. “I'm not proud of that. But I'd rather tell you the truth than a better-sounding lie.”

Both faces went bright and wet at once, the sardonic edge gone entirely. “That's an awful thing to admit to someone over dinner,” she said, half a laugh, half something rawer.

“I know,” he said. “Ask me again after dessert, I'll have made it sound more romantic.”

She laughed for real then, short and wet, and wiped at one eye with the back of her wrist before it could turn into anything more. "You want to talk about it more, or is that enough for tonight?” she asked, gentler than before.

He hesitated, weighing it, then: “I think that's enough for tonight. We can pick it back up tomorrow. Tonight I just want—” He gestured at the table, the candlelight, the half-finished wine. “This. You. Nothing that costs anyone anything.”

Both faces considered, then nodded in perfect sync. “Okay. Tonight we're just two people having dinner, instead of a math problem with a deadline.” She squeezed his hand once, hard, like punctuation. “But you don't get to carry that alone in your head without telling me. Not tonight. Not ever again. Deal?”

“Deal,” he said, and meant it more than he'd meant almost anything. Andy managed a laugh at that, and for a second the heaviness in his chest eased.

He said, “Do you remember the summer we tried to build a raft and cross the river by the footbridge?”

Both faces grinned, all teeth, the memory arriving with the force of a slap. “You mean the time we used pool noodles and garbage bags and you nearly drowned because you couldn’t figure out how to paddle?”

He tried to protest, but Laura held up both hands. “No, no, don’t even. It was a disaster, and you know it.”

Andy relented. “Okay, it was a disaster. But you’re forgetting the best part: the plan was to use the current to slingshot around the bridge and then coast to the other side. We just didn’t factor in the part where the noodles disintegrated.”

Laura shook her head, both faces bright with amusement. “That’s not even the best part. The best part is that you convinced Emi to stand on the bridge and ‘time’ us with her dad’s stopwatch, and she actually did it for a full hour before she realized we’d never even made it out of the eddy.”

He laughed, for real this time. “You’re right. That was the best part.”

They kept swapping stories, one memory leading to another: the first time they saw a tornado warning on TV and thought it meant the world was ending; the time Andy tried to teach Laura guitar and she broke a string in the first ten minutes; the time they got chased by the crossing guard and hid behind the library until it was dark.

For every story he brought, Laura had one to match, her own flavor of troublemaking or soft disaster. Both faces would alternate between fondness and mock horror, never quite landing on one for long.

They didn’t just remember stories from their childhood. They brought up memories from the life they hadn’t led, buffing them to a shine and bringing them into the light.

By the time dessert came—a trio of tiny chocolate soufflés with a single candle on each of them—Andy felt like he’d spent the last hour in a time machine, hopping from one life to another, the whole world shrinking down to just the table and the person across from him.

Laura blew out the candles, then licked the tip of her finger and dabbed at the melted wax, both faces wearing a mischievous grin. “Make a wish,” she said, her voice low.

Andy considered, then looked at her, both faces. “I already got it,” he said, and meant it.

For a moment, both faces went totally still. Then Laura smiled, soft and bright, the left face going red at the edges. “Sap,” she said, but didn’t let go of his hand.

They ate the soufflés in slow silence, savoring the moment. Then Laura set her spoon down, both faces thoughtful. “Wait,” she said, both voices suddenly conspiratorial. “I have one more.”

He looked at her, both faces, and saw the energy shift: not heavier, exactly, but dialed in like she was about to spring a trap.

“Do you remember the time in middle school that Riley got sent to the principal’s office for fighting a sixth grader?”

Andy wracked his brain. “Not specifically,” he said. “She got sent to the office all the time.”

Both faces grinned, but Laura kept going. “She fought a sixth grader, because the kid said I was weird and that I must have been adopted from a zoo. Riley didn’t even let it go a full thirty seconds before she decked him.”

That jogged something. “Wait,” Andy said. “Didn’t she get suspended for that?”

“She did,” Laura said, both faces absolutely smug. “But the best part is, the sixth grader’s mom came to the school and started yelling at the principal, and it turned out she’d brought her lawyer with her. Like, in person.”

Andy’s eyes went wide. “Are you making this up?”

Laura shook her head, both faces. “Swear on my life. The mom was threatening to sue, and the principal was so freaked out he called a town assembly to talk about violence in the student body.”

He was so absorbed in the story, he didn’t notice when one of Laura reached for the spoon and loaded it up with his soufflé.

“It gets better,” she said, barely able to keep both faces straight. “The assembly turned into a full-on riot because Riley’s mom showed up and started shouting about ‘defending family honor’ and the next thing you know, three other parents got in a shoving match on the cafeteria stage.”

Andy was laughing so hard he nearly choked on his water, and Laura timed it perfectly so the spoon landed in his open mouth as he tried to get a word out.

He coughed, spluttered, and Laura—both faces—laughed so hard she nearly fell out of her seat. The other diners glanced over, and for a moment, Andy wondered if they would be kicked out for causing a disturbance, but the sheer delight on Laura’s faces made it impossible to care.

She dabbed at her eye with a napkin. “I never told you because I thought it would get Riley in trouble. But she was always defending me. She still does, you know.”

Andy’s chest was tight from laughter, but also from the low, humming joy of it all. “God,” he said, finally catching his breath, “I can’t believe you kept that from me this long.”

Laura’s smile was huge, both faces alight, the moment so bright it almost hurt. “I was saving it for a special occasion.”

They finished the dessert, both of them taking turns with the spoon, and it was clear neither wanted to leave the booth, or the warmth, or the shared little world they’d built for themselves. So they just sat, hands twined together on the table, all the heaviness of the day held at arm’s length.

For a while, it was enough to just be there: two people in a restaurant, laughing, remembering, alive. If either of them had a wish left to make, neither said it aloud.

They rose from the booth together, both of Laura moving in tandem, the skirts of the green dresses brushing Andy’s knees as she slid out. For a second, the room seemed to hang onto their leaving—the candlelight flickering, the hush of the other tables settling a little, as if the whole restaurant was bracing for the cold outside.

---

On the sidewalk, the air was sharp, but Andy barely felt it. He stepped out and turned, expecting Laura to follow, but she’d stopped just inside the entryway. Both bodies stood, arms folded, heads tipped up to study the soft light above the restaurant sign. The effect was almost regal, the two of her framed by the glow, eyes squinting against the brightness.

Andy waited, curious.

Laura stepped out, heels scraping the grit on the sidewalk, and turned to look at him, both faces reflective. “That was beautiful,” she said. “Genuinely.” Both voices were soft, less a statement than a confession.

He smiled, and for a second the weight of the night landed on his chest. “It was.”

They stood there, breath fogging, neither of them in a hurry to leave. Laura looked back at the restaurant, then up at the cold stars, and said, “But it doesn’t feel finished.”

Andy blinked, caught off guard. “What do you mean?”

She shrugged, both faces at once, then looked at him with an intensity that made it impossible to look away. “I love this. I really do. But it feels like someone else’s night. Not mine. Like, I want to keep it—but I also want the one I actually planned.”

He was too surprised to hide the pleasure in his voice. “The karaoke?”

Both faces broke into matching grins. “Yes, the karaoke. And the bar food. And the noise and the bad acoustics and the part where I get to make you sing, whether you want to or not.” She shook her head, embarrassed and delighted at the same time. “I want both. I want all of it.”

He felt the happiness lift him up, stupid and huge, and said, “Then we do both. We do everything.”

Laura made a face, almost bashful. “Do you think I’m being greedy?”

Andy laughed, and it felt like a vitamin shot straight into his veins. “No,” he said. “I think you’re finally being yourself.”

She liked that. Both faces went soft, and for a second she just watched him, like she was still getting used to the idea that this was allowed.

The car was waiting at the curb, exactly where they’d left it. Mildred stood at the door, dressed in the same uniform as before, but with the driver’s cap tilted at a slightly more rakish angle. When Laura reached the car, she opened the door herself, slid both bodies into the back seat, and patted the empty space beside her for Andy to follow.

He climbed in after her. The doors closed, the warmth a quick balm against the cold.

Laura didn’t waste a second. She leaned up to the window, knocked twice, and said, “Mildred, take us to The Shambles.”

Mildred didn’t even turn her head. “As you wish, Consort Cooper.” She pulled away from the curb, the engine purring beneath them.

Andy turned to Laura, both faces now animated, buzzing with anticipation. “The Shambles?” he said, more curious than surprised.

Laura grinned. “It’s a dive. A real dive. The kind with a sticky floor and one karaoke machine that hasn’t been updated since 2003.” She looked at both her hands, running them over the dress. “And it’s going to be the most ridiculous thing ever, showing up in these.” She gestured at her own sapphire gowns, then at Andy’s suit.

He caught the spirit of it, held his lapels out, and said, “We’ll be the fanciest people there by several orders of magnitude.”

Laura laughed, the sound a little wild, both voices overlapping. “If you’re not mortified by the end of the night, I haven’t done my job.”

He matched her for intensity. “I want to see you sing Destiny’s Child.”

Both faces grinned, but then she got quieter, almost tender. “You’re not going to back out, are you?” she asked.

He shook his head, earnest. “Not even if the world ends.”

She sat back, both bodies relaxing into the seat, and for a second, she just looked at the city rolling by, watching the lights blur past.

Then, without warning, she scooted closer, both bodies at once, until she was bracketing Andy from both sides. She rested her heads against his shoulders—one left, one right—both faces serene.

He wrapped an arm around each of her, holding both Lauras close. The feel of her—of them—was real and solid, the heat of her body soaking through the suit, the weight of her head perfectly right. He exhaled, feeling his whole chest loosen.

For a while, neither said anything. The city zipped by, the only sound the whisper of the heater and the hum of the road beneath.

Then, just as Andy was losing himself in the quiet, Laura said, “This is better. This feels like us.” Both voices were barely more than a whisper.

He agreed, absolutely. “It does.”

She pulled in tighter, and for a minute, Andy had the absurd thought that if the car just kept driving, if the night just stretched on forever, he would never, ever be bored.

He glanced sideways, saw the smile on both her faces, saw the way her eyes had softened.

“Hey,” he said.

She turned, both faces at once. He said, “I never thought I’d get a night like this. With you. Not after—” He left the rest unsaid.

Laura didn’t look away. “Me either,” she said.

“I love you, Laura,” he whispered.

She smiled. “I love you too.”

He held her a little closer. The rest of the ride was easy. They didn’t bother to fill the silence with stories or plans. They just leaned into each other, a little fortress of heat and hope against the world. Occasionally, Mildred’s eyes caught theirs in the rearview mirror, but she didn’t say a word.

The car finally slowed, coasted to a stop outside a squat, brick building wedged between a shuttered laundromat and a pizza place. The sign out front was half-lit: THE SHAMBLES in cracked red neon, and underneath it, a hand-lettered banner that read KARAOKE NIGHT—ALL VOICES WELCOME.

Andy looked at the place, then at Laura. “Ready?”

She grinned, both faces alive. “I was born ready.”

They slid out of the car, arm in arm (in arm), their reflection tripled in the bar’s grimy windows. For a second, Andy thought about what it would look like, to anyone inside, to see the two of them step out of a limo in full formalwear. He hoped it would make someone’s night.

He held the door for both of her, and together, they stepped into the noise, the light, the real world—ready for whatever came next.

The door swung shut behind them, and the music carried them forward.