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  The boat rocks back and forth, to and fro, side to side. It’s small, wooden, a little cramped, even. Cracking white paint plastered on the knobby boards, red trim along the edges. Turn left and see an infinite expanse of ethereal water – pastel blue – reflecting what appeared to be tiny clouds dotted over its glassy surface. Turn right and see the same. Ahead, across the small gap from your wooden seat to the next, sits a cloaked man. He shifts – a great mass of patchwork quilts and tattered rucksacks – to face you. Two cerulean eyes, glowing softly in the heavenly light bathing the landscape, settle on your face. He holds a fishing rod.

  “Hello there,” he says. The boat glides along the ebbing and swirling eddies of clouds all around. “No, you’re not dead.” A wide-brimmed straw hat adorns his head, lops over his face, concealing his expression in tandem with thin, layered scarves wrapped about his mouth. “Just in between, of sorts.” Feeling comes to you – arms solidify, eyes start to move and sting unless you blink, your head becomes heavy. Fingers, toes, prickles of invisible hairs across your skin. You open your mouth, only to find you cannot speak. “None of that, here, I’m afraid,” he says, a lilt to it, like there’s a mild smile underneath those layers, “You’re a passenger.” Multicolored pastels ripple across the little waves, crystalline shapes form and dissolve. You see fish down there. Bright oranges, and pinks, and smooth greens patterned in gold. “Pretty, aren’t they? Terribly difficult to catch, I’m afraid.”

  He shuffles back to looking out at the endless expanse of ocean. Facing right, he grips his rod, and with a deft swing, swishes it out to sea. “All in the wrist,” he says. “Though some try more force, more structure, I’ve always been partial to softer methods.”

  The boat seemingly propels itself. No oars or motor, yet it silently glides along the rippling surface of waves hiding unseen currents underneath. You see no land around. Just the man, and the boat, and the low clouds. “They’re troublesome things; plenty die before they even make it to dock. Blasted hard to catch on their own.” He looks at you, “It’s a patience game. They won’t bite ‘till they’re ready.” Bright chimes sparkle through the air, dinging and singing their cheery songs. “Don’t worry, you won’t be here long,” the fisherman says, “I’m sure you have plenty of questions – that’s only natural. It’s good, actually, unless I drag it out.” Winking, “But the fish should take care of that.” The rod bends a little. “There we are, I was a little worried I’d have to do this all myself. And trust me,” he growls, “that never works out.”

  Suddenly, he yanks, pulling hard and fast, grunting, “Gotta get ‘em quick at first, otherwise they won’t even make it to the boat.” Furiously reeling, fighting and lurching, he hunches over the side of the boat, the thick ball of blankets shifting to accommodate. You start to hear sounds, quietly at first, then louder and louder: laughter, small talk, the buzz of conversation. Steam, machinery, the rattle of a train cart. You smell food, and cigar smoke, and you feel felt beneath your feet and luxurious seats under your palms, scratchy with embroidery. The fisherman pulls one more time, flinging a velvety red and gold koi, floral and elegant, into the boat. It arcs and twirls until the fisherman’s dexterous hand snaps it straight out of the air.

  As it wriggles and thrashes, your vision dims to an oil-lit scene, the boat fading and morphing into a mahogany booth, the fisherman turning to you, his face now sharp and cunning. He’s wearing a suit, his once blue eyes now a warm chocolate, and sports a scruffy brown hairstyle. Blinking, you see double; the hunched, shrouded man you know, and this new, dapper gentlemen in front of you. A thin smile spread across his face.

  “Told you.”

  I rolled my eyes, “But I still don’t know about this ending, it just feels… iffy.”

  “Please,” he laughed – a smooth baritone – “You’re the best author I know, darling.”

  “I’m the only author you know,” I corrected, wincing only a little at ‘darling’.

  “No,” he said, “I met that Lovecraft fellow, once.”

  “Barely counts,” I muttered, “his stuff was garish and macabre.” Rudyard shifted in his seat a little, his smile fading to a contemplative look, as his gaze drifted to the window. The dark green landscapes of the Pacific Northwest whizzed by. He rested his chin in his hand, and his elbow on the table. “You know that’s improper manners, right?”

  “Since when do I care about proper manners?” He scoffed.

  “Since you were a member of high society. You’re supposed to be all, you know, fancy and stuff.” I put down the few pages of manuscript I’d brought with me – just the later chapters. I couldn’t get it out of my head.

  “Right, ‘fancy and stuff’, I’ll get on that.” A waiter, dressed in that lavish white-and-black garb expensive restaurants use, walked up to the side of our booth. His face was scrunched and his hair balding, except for his face, which sported a heavy mustache. Drab.

  “Monsieur,” nodding to Rudyard, “Mademoiselle.” French. Interesting. “Your menus.” They were trimmed in gold – just like everything on this damned train – and contained every delicacy one could imagine. Filet mignon, lobster, prime cuts of beef, oysters, stuff I didn’t recognize. No prices, of course. If you had to look at the price, you weren’t supposed to be here. “Your drinks?” The waiter asked, pulling out a notepad and pen.

  “Uh,” Rudyard started, “I’ll go for a…” his eyes darted across the front page, “Champagne.”

  “Mhm,” he was waiting for more. Rudyard listed off some brand I severely doubted he knew. “And you, mademoiselle?”

  “A water will do me nicely,” I said, doing my best to imitate fancy-people-speak. The server raised a brow, but jotted down my order nonetheless.

  “I shall return shortly,” and off he scooted. This was hard. It was supposed to be a date, of sorts, kind of. This train was the Affluence, an on-the-nose name for a luxury engine sporting professional chefs, a ballroom car, and the ‘finest atmosphere’ this side of the country. I’d gotten the tickets myself. My fiancé was Rudyard Bellingham, the rising stockholder extraordinaire, after all. I couldn’t disappoint.

  In truth, however, I was here for ulterior reasons: a chance to speak to Lilian Carlisle. We hadn’t seen each other in months, after I’d met Rudyard and left Providence like an idiot. I wish I could say I didn’t blame myself, but I did; I blamed myself for the falling out, for the escalation of a dumb argument, for everything. For breaking up, for leaving, for trying to move on the way society told me to.

  I was elated, however, to hear that she, too, had found some rich boyfriend (several, I learned, but that was its own scandal), and would be here, on the Affluence, tonight. Whether I was looking for consolation, or closure, or just a chance to see her again, I don’t know. But I was here, and every time I heard her voice cut through the dense chatter cluttering the air, a flood of memories and emotions crashed over me.

  As I fiddled with my book, Rudyard continued, “You’re a great author. Macrocosm was an incredible novel, and I’m sure this one will be too.” I twirled my pen. Even a pleasure train wouldn’t keep me from this blasted manuscript.

  “It just… ugh,” throwing down my pencil and slouching back into the seat, “I can’t even begin to explain. I think I’ve got too many moving parts.”

  “Well,” he said, taking my hand, “if anyone can figure it out, it’s you.” At first, platitudes like this sent butterflies fluttering in my stomach, but they had died out quick, long ago. I’d tried to rationalize it, but I couldn't. I spent many nights tossing and turning and lamenting over not only the question of whether I loved him now, but if I ever had at all. If I had, what was wrong with me? What changed? Answers eluded me. So, instead, I’ve spent my recent late nights staring at the ceiling, wondering. Wondering if it could’ve been different. Wondering how it could’ve been different. Wondering what my life would be like with Lilian next to me, rather than this rising aristocrat I couldn’t escape from.

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  “Thanks, hon.” My main character, Ridhya, was facing the dilemma of a lifetime: the death of her husband. She gets with new people, tries to build a new life, but the big twist is Lane is very much not dead, and she is still very much hung up on him. Now I have the trouble of figuring out how exactly these two reconcile; do they move on and live happily ever after? Do they crash into each other and rekindle old love? What is to come of this new life that Ridhya finds herself ever more absent in? “You’ll be the first to know once it’s done.”

  Rudyard just smiled.

  People flooded the alley, still loud and rambunctious as ever – the first thing I’ve learned about being ‘upper-class’ is that really, deep down, we’re all still uncouth, rowdy kids. Some of us just drink the expensive wine. “I suppose the ball is beginning?” he asked. I shrank inwardly; I hate people. I hate people in small spaces. Twenty odd stuffy rich folk in a train car, pretending they can dance? I’d rather die. Rudyard probably felt the same, as he shifted just as uncomfortably. “Do you want to…?” He motioned to the passing crowd. I was about to say no, until something caught my eye. A glint; a necklace. Shrouded by blonde curls, the gold jewelry glinted in the dim lamplight. A dove, holding a small branch in its beak. Lilian.

  She was smiling, laughing, holding the arm of an older man streaked with graying hairs and crinkling with age. A fire erupted in my chest. “Yes,” I whispered, “Yes.” I stuttered out. “I think we would be remiss if we were to miss one of the main events!”

  Rudyard raised an eyebrow. “We don’t have to go,” he said. Then, leaning over the table a little, a cheeky smile on his face, he whispered, “I don’t want to go.”

  “C’mon,” I urged, “I think it’d be fun.” He really didn’t want to go – but he seemed to be weighing the cost of arguing about it.

  “Sure,” he sighed, “You’re probably right; it’ll be fun. And it is one of the main events.”

  We danced – swirling and twirling, Rudyard holding my hand as I span under it – but all the while I was watching Lilian. She swayed and stepped like a pro, weaving through the crowds, ebbing with the live classical playing in the background. Shorter, but not much more than I; calm, but with a rebellious smirk. Her necklace – the one I had given to her a year to the day we first met – shimmered and shined in the lamplight.

  I brushed up against Rudyard. “You seem distracted,” he said, worried. “Is it the book?” he smirked.

  “Yes,” I chided myself, sidling to him, hands in his, as we waltzed closer than Jesus would have condoned. Not that Jesus was much of a fan, anyway. “It’s the book. I just,” taking a breath, “I can’t see it working out, for me. For my characters, I mean.”

  “How so?” Rudyard purred, as we wobbled along with the music.

  “Like, how is Ridhya – my female character – meant to figure out who to be with? She’s already moved on; at least, I think. And she’s got a life now. A promising one. But she still sort of–” I nearly tripped, laughing nervously as I flicked my eyes away from Lilian. I didn’t think she’d noticed me, yet. I wasn’t sure how to take that. “She’s definitely still hung up on Lane, right?”

  “Well,” Rudyard said, “and I know how you don’t like advice for your books, but since you seem to be asking: what would you do?”

  “I don’t know!” I lamented, “It’s a really a dilemma – she’s led on this great guy that she thinks can replace her,” stuttering a little, “her real husband. Because, you know, Lane is dead.” In reality, I thought, Lane had pissed Ridhya off, and so Ridhya had gotten unreasonably angry and had called the whole thing off. In part because the new guy was rich, and in part because she almost wanted to stick it to Lane, she had gotten with this upstart stockholder and built a whole life. The guy had even gotten Ridhya’s first book published – to rousing success. All her new friends, all her connections, everything stemmed from him. Ridhya was essentially nothing without him.

  But Ridhya definitely couldn’t forget Lane – couldn’t forget the way his eyes crinkled around the edges when he smiled, couldn’t forget the laughter that had made her heart melt, couldn’t forget the blonde curls that once so often rested on her shoulder. She missed Lane so, so, so badly.

  “She thinks he’s dead, right?” Rudyard asked after a moment, eyes furrowed in confusion. “I thought he wasn’t actually dead.”

  “Well, yeah, until she eventually learns he’s not. But he might as well be, until then.”

  “Hm,” he said. “As the author, you should maybe keep in mind that he isn’t. Sometimes, I think, you must get out of your character’s head enough to realize the greater plot. And,” he noted with a certain lilt, “my personal philosophy, of course, is to follow your heart.” He cupped my face. A ripple of agitation – and revulsion. Took a lot to not jerk back from his touch. Maybe he didn’t mean it, but that was nearly as much of a dig as it was sweet. Like, yes, I love you, which is why I’m dating so far below my station. Ugh. “Maybe,” he whispered, as the song became more intimate, as he drew closer, his hands moving down my waist (ew ew ew), “maybe that’s why she starts looking for him again, hm?”

  I noticed Lilian was gone. My eyes darted around, looking for where she may be – there! Oh God. She was staring back, right into me. At the door, the exit to the train car. Looking back – oh! Rudyard was moving in for a kiss and getting far too personal with those hands. “I have to go to the bathroom,” I yelped, putting a finger up to his pursed lips. He opened his eyes in shock. “Sorry,” I said, “weak bladder.”

  Hurriedly, I made for the car Lilian had walked into.

  “Fancy seeing you here,” she said, arms crossed, face sour, leaning against a banister. “It’s just rich.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I blurted out, to her shock as much as mine. Last time we spoke, I guess, I was just as jilted as she was now. “I’m so, so sorry. For everything. It’s my fault. I’m an idiot. A stupid, ugly idiot.” I broke down and sagged to the floor. “I can’t sleep at night. I don’t know what to do. I don’t love him, and I don’t think I ever did, Lilian. He’s ugly. He’s handsy. He’s a man.” I looked up at her, tears streaming down, now.

  Lilian hurried to my side, taking me in her arms. “Hey, hey, it’s okay, it’s going to be okay.”

  “It’s not, though!” I cried, “Practically everything I have is tied to him – money, connections, everything. Even my own damn book is under his fucking name, you know that? Can’t have a woman author, no. Must be a man, or else it’ll never even be considered by a publisher. And worst of all,” burying my face in my hands, “you hate me! I made you hate me! And I don’t know what to do, Lil. I’m stuck, and you hate me.”

  “Hon,” she cupped my face – not domineeringly like Rudyard, rather gently and comfortingly. Her eyes still twinkled, but now with concern. Quiet rings shaped around them; rings that told of late nights and worry. “There is nothing, absolutely nothing in the world, that would make me hate you.”

  “But I –”

  “Was petty, and you messed up, yes. But so was I! So is everybody; petty and messed up. I don’t know why we – either of us – let it get so bad. Do you even remember the argument? The original argument?”

  “…taxes?” I half-sobbed.

  “Maybe. I don’t have a clue. My point is,” she pulled away a little, arms still on my shoulders, both of us still crouched on the floor, “I was going to find my way to you anyway. Say sorry, or reconnect, or something. Can’t say I haven’t found myself in a similar situation. I still love you, have loved you. I learned quick that no amount of trivial dating around would make me feel better about us. It looks like you’ve learned the same.”

  “But we’re engaged!”

  Lilian grimaced at that, “You and what’s-his-face?” I nodded. “Okay, well, not pointing fingers, but some of us have learned a different lesson: wait more than a few months, maybe? It’s fine, though, we can call it off. You’re in a pickle, and so am I. We’ll figure it out together. Not so different to when we first met, hm?”

  I snarked, “You stole a man’s ring, and I pretended like you went the other direction.”

  “Exactly; not so much different than now, is it not? Though I suppose the roles are a tad reversed.” Lilian stood up, offered me a hand. I took it.

  “You really don’t hate me?”

  “No,” she scoffed, “the idea is preposterous. Almost as preposterous as my Raine being pigeonholed into some arrangement with a guy she doesn’t want.” Taking my hand, scrunching her face, she spoke in a low voice, “He looks like a total prick, by the way.” I wanted to agree, or say something worthy of the wit the only critic I ever cared about so praised me for, but I instead found myself drawing in for a kiss. It was passionate, and lengthy, and all the overused adjectives. But it was the best few moments of my life – an emotional rollercoaster, to be sure.

  But sometimes its these odd moments, during the rollercoaster, when one opens their eyes and unclenches their grip enough to feel that magnificent sense of weightlessness, suspended by nothing more than the most intricate and complicated rulebooks of creation, cradled by the surety that – even without knowing entirely how, or why – there’s always the bar there to catch you in case you drift too far. Floating there, in the Nirvana of hindsight, swimming in the ecstasy of rekindled love, I was. I was. I allowed myself to simply be there, in the moment, outside of the winding catacombs of the past and away from the swirling unknowns of the future. Floating, floating, floating.

  Floating in the sky teeming with opalescent fish and pods of aerial whales, sat in a boat, looking at the man again. “Hello, you.”