It's 6:30 and Warren still isn't home. It looks like you will be late to the gallery show tonight. You can't be too cross with him, after all you did say at breakfast that you were okay not showing up until eight. That was before you knew Kate would be there and now you can hardly wait to show up. She sounded so happy on the phone earlier. So unlike the time that never happened on the dorm roof.

You close your eyes tight against the memories that flood unbidden into your mind, focusing instead on what everyone else knows happened: Kate vindicated and actually befriending the ones who tormented her. Turned out Victoria and her hangers-on could actually be real human beings when they felt like it. Anger at how stupid and insensitive some people can be wells up, displacing some of the sadness. That's good. Anger is easier to focus than sadness.

The reflection in the full-length mirror stares back at you with stormy blue, conflicted eyes. You study the reflection, focusing on it to distract yourself from the unwanted emotions and thoughts. The freckles. The chestnut hair that spills over your shoulders in brown waves. The flowing maroon dress that you've been waiting for an excuse to wear, that you just can't wait to show off to Kate. The three bullets hanging from a black cord around your neck. The metal-studded leather bracelet. Once again the sadness threatens to come back, but you tell yourself why you wear them on occasions like this.

"Because she made this all possible."

At that thought, you twist around and pull your hair to the side to look at the blue butterfly that is forever perched between your shoulder blades.

"So you'll always have my back."

Downstairs the front door opens and closes. Warren's home. So down the stairs you go and see him waiting for you with a self-satisfied smile and a hand behind his back. You pretend not to notice the hand and kiss him delightedly when he brings out the flowers. Roses and carnations of a red to match your dress. You kiss him again.

"They're beautiful, Warren, but you didn't have to."

He smiles. "I wanted to do something special for your big evening, Max."

You hold up the flowers and inhale deeply of their sweet scent. He really does know how to make your day better. "I'll take care of these. You go upstairs and get ready; everything's hanging in the bathroom for you."

"What would I do without, Super Max?" Warren gives you a quick kiss and heads up the stairs.

"Probably be very sad and lonely and play too many video games." You call after him while smelling the flowers again.

"I'm pretty sure there's no such thing!" His voice comes from around the corner upstairs, then he pokes his head around the corner and looks down at you. "But I'm glad you've saved me from ever having to find out."

Fifteen minutes later you're sitting in the passenger's seat of his car as Warren navigates evening traffic in the suburban sprawl. He looks very handsome in his red shirt and black pants and tie, though with his hair still in the trademarked student shag you can't help but smirk at the memory of his attempt to dress up for the Blackwell prom. That and the way he yet again grumbled about having to be a redshirt for the night.

"So how's Kate?"

"She's good. Happy. Said her publisher's talking about including Canada in the next book tour."

"Way to go, Kate. That girl's been really knocking them out of the park. I'm glad things are going so well."

"Yeah, I'm glad things ended up this way." You say and look out the window with a smile, ignoring the images that pass before your mind's eye. Kate is safe, Kate is happy, Kate is successful. That's what matters. You are too, and that's what matters also.

Your gaze drifts across the windshield to rest on Warren. The light of the dashboard provides a steady base for the shifting patterns of streetlights and headlights that play across his gentle features. His lips are softly pursed and his brow shows a slight furrow. He knows what goes through your head and you know it worries him and that it also bothers him that he can never truly understand these shared experiences that only you have lived. You reach over and rest a hand on his leg. "It's okay, Warren. Everything's okay."

His features relax some. "Did you ever tell her?"

"God, no. How do you even start that conversation? 'Oh hey, Kate, so I watched you jump off the dorm six times before I managed to freeze time and talk you down.' Yeah, that would go great."

"You told me."

He's right. You did tell him. But it's different with him, and you say as much.

"How is it different?"

"Well, first of all I married you. Second of all, you didn't try to kill yourself. And third, it's just... why? Why should I talk about that with Kate? It's not like it makes a difference."

"You never know."

You want to give a witty comeback. Or even just argue. But you can't because he's right. You don't know how Kate would respond. It's why you never said anything in the first place. Better to pretend that nothing but what everyone knows happened that week happened. Besides, time travel, altering destiny, how would that even work with all the God stuff? You've seen the aftermath of one crisis of faith, what could happen if she has another one, especially one you caused? Not to mention you don't even know if your power still works, so you can't rely on being able to rewind your way out of it if she does take it badly.

No. Best to just keep things as they are. A shared secret that only you, Warren, and your journal know about.

The rest of the drive is quiet save for the noise of the car and the rain.

It is bright and cheery in the gallery tonight. Dozens of people mingle throughout the space, eating, drinking, and keeping the dull thrum of conversation just loud enough to mask the air vents. Warren seems intent on single-handedly eradicating the local mini quiche population. So far you've managed to get a pair of tiny cucumber sandwiches down and are currently nursing a glass of wine with an uncharacteristically absent enthusiasm. The wine is good, it just doesn't sit right this evening.

A series of three statues catches your attention. It's a series of three vaguely flat human shapes in progressive stages of a strange walk. For some reason it seems familiar. You walk closer to the sculptures, vaguely listening to the man who is describing the piece. He's trying to explain the meaning of the piece to the woman standing next to him and sounds like he's reciting from an article. The piece stubbornly refuses to give up its secrets.

You hear the words "representative of the nonconformist zeitgeist" and it clicks: this is the sculpture from the lower level of the Zeitgeist Gallery in Los Angeles. The back of your head begins to ache even as you smile at the memory. It was a good day up until the call from Chloe. However, your thoughts are interrupted as you spy a familiar poof of brown hair heading toward the black curtains that are blocking the stairs to the second floor.

"Kate!" You call out, garnering more than a few sidelong glances, and weave your way between paintings, people, and pottery to intercept her.

"Kate!" You call out again, quieter this time. She hears you this time and turns around.

"Max!" Kate says, beaming, and hugs you. You hug her back, making sure that none of your wine escapes onto her shirt.

"It's so good to see you." She says as the hug ends. "I know it's only been a few months, but it feels like forever. Isn't this so exciting? Your work featured in a gallery!"

Biting back the first answer that comes to mind, you smile and take a sip of the wine that's not so awful this time. "It feels good. But your name should be up there too. I never would have taken most of those photos if it wasn't for your books."

Kate laughs and shakes her head. "Oh, Max, stop being so modest. You're a great photographer and if it wasn't these pictures it'd be other ones. You really do have an amazing gift."

"I'm glad you see that, because sometimes I don't. I'll look at a shot I've taken and just see all the ways I could have done it better."

"That's just because artists have no sense of perspective on their own works. Believe me, I know. I'm still scribbling down revisions even as things are getting printed. In fact-"

Whatever she was about to say is lost as Warren arrives. "Hey, Kate, you made it. How's the book biz?"

"Better than I could have ever expected. How're you, Warren?"

"Oh, you know, classes, movies, and loving my lady." He slides his arm around you, winking at you, and you can feel the blush rise. You hide it behind another sip of your wine as Warren holds his plate out to Kate. "Want one?"

Kate considers for a moment then nods. "Sure. They look good."

"They are great. Need to find out where they get them." Warren says.

"WalMart, probably." You chime in while snagging one of the little pastries from his plate. Chewing thoughtfully, you consider what Warren said on the drive over. No, you decide firmly, I can't do that to Kate. She's been through enough and I just can't take her back there. I need to let her be happy.

Warren looks down at his plate and seems to be mulling over the possibility. Then he shrugs and lets you go in order to pop one into his mouth. "Well, if they are, they're using the bake directions. Have to look next time I go shopping. These little guys are awesome" He says around the mouthful.

You and Kate share a look and a silent conversation. Her eyebrows ask "is he being serious?" Your shrug and smile say "he is, and it's part of why I love him."

He, of course, is too focused on his food to notice. So you take the reigns of the conversation. "So I think I can get us in to see the display before they open it up at eight. Want a short private tour?"

She lights up. "That would be great!"

The curator, Jeff, is happy to let the three of you duck behind the curtain and head upstairs. "I only wish I had known ahead of time that you would be here, Miss Marsh. My daughters adore your books. Cee has read The Lighthouse Club probably a hundred times now and is always telling me how she wants to be like Alice." He says, leading you all up the stairs and across the floor of the tall, white room filled more pieces like those below, towards the back of the room where your photographs hang on a series of partition walls.

"I'm glad. The world needs more people like Alice in it. Too many people forget what simple kindness can do." Kate says.

"Oh, I know. Kids can be such savage little bastards sometimes." Jeff says, clearly thinking about something.

Kate smiles reassuringly. "I wouldn't use those words, but yes, people can be very mean and cruel sometimes. I just hope my books can help inspire people to not be that way, or to help anyone who is being bullied."

"Well, they're certainly helping my girls. So thank you for writing them. And thank you for helping to bring them to life." The last part is said to you as Jeff turns and keeps leading you all back to the display. Once you arrive, he lets you know that it's not going to be very long until they'll let everyone else up. You thank him for giving you the opportunity to have this time here.

It's a small showcase, only about a dozen large pictures on the partitions and another dozen smaller ones clustered around the "About the Artist" plaque, and most of them from A Day at the Beach. Some children and their parents on the beach below the Arcadia Bay lighthouse. You picked the happy ones for this show. The ones of the kids playing in the sand and the surf, framed by the golden sunset. The one of a family eating at the picnic table. You, Kate, and Warren walk through the display, talking about the pictures, where they were shot, how, and what a wonderful day it had been. It was the only shoot that Kate had actually been to.

You stop in front of the photo of two kids running across the parking lot at the beach. It's supposed to be Alice and Michael racing to join their parents for lunch. The innocent joy in their faces never fails to make you smile and remember the happy times you used to have on that beach. But today, with the memory of the nightmare still so fresh in your mind, there's a strong streak of sadness there. You wish Chloe could be here to see the pictures of the children she saved, playing on the beach she saved, the town she saved far in the background.

"That's hers, isn't it?" Kate's voice, soft and warm, breaks you out of your thoughts.

"What?" You ask, not sure what she's referring to.

"The necklace."

Then you notice that you're clutching the bullet pendants in your hand and staring at the picture of the kids running, a few tears running down your cheek. You let it go abruptly, feeling the weight of the metal against your chest and the ghost of the bullets on your palm.

Warren's arms encircle you from behind and you feel him kissing the back of your head and then resting his chin on your shoulder. He says nothing, but he doesn't have to. He hasn't had to for a long time now. His touch and presence alone is enough to warm you and make you feel safe.

"Yeah, sorry." You say and try to smile, to pretend like everything's okay. "I'm fine, it's nothing, just remembering."

Kate's hand is warm on your shoulder. "It's okay, Max. She was your friend. It's okay to miss her."

There's a hot flash of anger at yourself for being so stupid as to cry and distract everyone from what's supposed to be a happy occasion and you worm your way out of Warren's embrace. Then the anger turns towards Nathan and Jefferson, those two 'savage little bastards' as Jeff had said. It's their fault that Chloe can't be here with the rest of you. Nathan's fault because he killed her and Rachel, and Jefferson's because without him, Nathan would have just been another asshole from a shitty family, not a murderer.

"Max, it's okay. We're here." You're not sure who says it, but you know that both of them follow you as you turn from the picture and walk away, almost into the wall with your name on it. In the scattered photographs surrounding your name you see one that immediately shocks you out of all the anger, all the sadness, all the pain: one of your first digital manipulation experiments from that last semester at Blackwell. A pair of bright blue butterfly wings superimposed over a distance shot of the Arcadia Bay lighthouse, turning the white beacon into the body.

Walls you didn't even know you had put up in your heart and mind come crashing down and you turn to look at Kate and Warren, expressions of loving concern on their faces. You wipe the tears from your eyes and look from Kate to Warren and back again. Then you sigh, look to the ground to gather your strength for what you know you have to do, then look back up at Kate and say, "Kate, there's something I need to tell you about that week."