“I thought the laws of physics never bent. I thought that’s why we call them laws.”
Charm sniffs. “Well, maybe they’re more what you’d call guidelines, than actual laws. Anyway, the rules of Prim’s world are different than ours.” My brain, which is still processing the immensity of those clean X-rays, pauses to waggle its eyebrows and say, Prim, eh? “In her world there are wicked fairies and magic knives and probably unicorns. In her world, kisses lift curses.”
I mull this over for another string of seconds. “But not in this one, huh?”
Some of the fervor leaks out of Charm’s face. “No, not in this one. They took about fifty samples and confirmed that your RNA is still fucked. You are still officially diagnosed with Generalized Roseville Malady.”
I picture the rules of this world reasserting themselves over my cells, harsh reality swallowing fantasy. I glance sideways at Primrose and understand that it’s not just the leather jacket that confused me when I first saw her: her hair is an ordinary blond rather than a shimmering, impossible gold; her eyes are blue rather than cerulean; I think she might even have pores. She isn’t a fairy tale princess any longer.
Charm clears her throat and slides the X-rays back into their stack. “But like, this is pretty good. Very good. It’s like the clock is reset.”
I swallow, tasting the plasticky cold of the artificial oxygen in my throat. “So—so how long—？” It’s not a question I’m accustomed to asking. I’ve always known exactly how long I had left.
“They don’t know,” Charm answers. “It could be a month. It could be another twenty-one years. Welcome to regular-old mortality, friend.” Her voice is shaking again and her eyes are shimmering with tears she’s too stubborn to shed. Normally this is the point when I would look away from her, when the two of us would retreat to sarcasm and bravado. But God, I’m tired of being too cowardly to let myself love anyone. I catch her wrist and haul her toward me. She falls against my chest and I wrap my arms around her and it turns out I haven’t used up my tears after all.
The princess steps around the bed and looks politely out the window while we cry at one another. I rub Charm’s back and watch Primrose through the rainbowed distortion of tears. A princess who slept with a poison knife beneath her pillow, who rode into the night to face her own villain, who stands now in the strange light of a new world, unflinching. I don’t think the next person Charm falls for will be a coward.
I scrub a hand across my cheeks and tousle Charm’s hair. “You’re snotting all over my hospital gown, hon.”
She slides her gross face across my collarbone and burrows in a little closer. “Fuck off.”
“So, Prim,” I say loudly, “What do you think?”
The princess looks away from the window, a tendril of yellow hair drifting fetchingly in the air conditioning. “Of what?”
“Of our world.” I gesture grandly at the cramped room, with its bland furniture and wipe-able surfaces. “It gets better than the Columbus ICU, I swear to god. There’s … ice cream? Bet your world didn’t have that. And dresses with pockets. Gay rights, at least some places.” Charm goes very still against my chest, barely breathing. “You wouldn’t be a princess anymore, but you’re hot and white and young, so you could be pretty much anything else you wanted. A librarian or a physical therapist or a lion tamer, if those are still a thing.” I can see the idea taking hold of Primrose, rising like stars in her eyes. A whole galaxy of possibilities laid out where before there had been a single, narrow story with a single, bitter end. I know precisely how she feels. “Would you like to stay?”
Charm sits up. She looks at Primrose and then away, as if she doesn’t care what the answer is. Charm’s worst crushes are generally the ones she pretends she doesn’t have.
Primrose is looking down at her borrowed clothes, running her thumb along the leather sleeve of her jacket. Her hand is shaking. “Could I?”
I kick Charm again and she clears her throat. “Yeah. I mean, you could stay at my place. I mostly sleep on the couch anyway.” This is a stone-cold lie, but I don’t call her on it. Some lies are important.
Primrose looks at Charm through her lashes. I see her eyes trace the stubborn line of her chin, the defiant square of her shoulders. “I—yes. I would like that.” Charm gives her a watery, puffy-eyed smile, and Primrose smiles back, and I’m torn between rolling my eyes at them and crying some more.