"Now, I'm asking you nicely to vacate the premises," she says, shoving the key deep into her pocket, its shape visible as the fabric strains over her mammoth-sized breasts. Barely giving me enough time to switch my foot from the brake to the gas before adding, "Go on now. Back up. Don't you make me ask twice."

Chapter Twenty-Nine

This time when I arrive in Summerland, I skip the usual landing in that vast fragrant field, choosing instead to touch down smack in the middle of what I now like to think of as the main drag. Then I pick myself up and brush myself off, amazed to see everyone around me just carrying on with their normal business, as though seeing someone drop right out of the sky and onto the street is a normal, every day occurrence. Though I guess in these parts it is.

I make my way past karaoke bars and hair salons, retracing the steps Romy and Rayne showed me, knowing I can probably just desire to be there instead, but still anxious to learn my own way around. And after a quick pass through the alley and a sudden turn onto the boulevard, I run up those steep marble steps and stand before those massive front doors, watching as they swing open for me. I step into the great marble hall, noticing how it's much more crowded than the last time I was here. Reviewing the questions in my head, unsure if I need the akashic records or if I can just get my answers right here. Wondering if questions like Exactly who is Roman and what has he done to Damen? and: How can I stop him and spare Damen's life? require that kind of secured access. But then, feeling like I need to simplify and sum it all up in one tidy sentence, I close my eyes and think: Basically, what I want to know is: How can I return everything back to the way it was before? And as soon as the thought is complete, a doorway opens before me, its warm inviting light beckoning me in as I enter a solid white room, that same sort of rainbow white as before, only this time, rather than a white marble bench, there's a worn leather recliner instead.

I move toward it, plopping onto the seat, extending the leg rest, and settling in. Unaware that I'm lounging on an exact replica of my dad's favorite chair until I see the initials R.B. and KB. scratched ontoits arm. Gasping when I recognize it as the exact same markings I convinced Riley to make with her Girl Scout camping knife. The exact same markings that not only proved we were the culprits but also earned us a week's worth of restriction. Or at least until mine got extended to ten days when my parents realized I'd coached her into doing it—a fact that, in their eyes, made me the pre-calculating perpetrator who clearly deserved extra time. I run my fingers over the gouged leather, my nails digging into the stuffing where the curve of her R went too deep. Choking back a sob as I remember that day. All of those days. Every single one of those deliciously wonderful days that I once took for granted but now find myself missing so much I can barely stand it. I'd do anything to go back. Anything if it meant I could return and put it all back to the way it once was—

And no sooner is the thought complete, when the formerly empty space begins to transform. Rearranging itself from a nearly empty room with alone recliner to an exact replica of our old den in Oregon. The air infused with the scent of my mom's famous brownies, as the walls morph from pearlescent white to the soft beige-like hue she referred to as driftwood pearl. And when the three-colors-of-blue afghan my grandma knit suddenly covers my knees, I gaze toward the door, seeing Buttercup's leash hanging on the knob, and Riley's old sneakers lying next to my dad's. Watching as all the pieces fill in, until every photo, book, and knickknack are present and accounted for. And I can't help but wonder if this is because of my question, because I asked for everything to return to the way it was before. Because the truth is, I was actually referring to Damen and me. Wasn't I?

I mean, is it really possible to go back in time ? Or is this life-like replica, this Bloom family diorama, the closest I'll ever get? But just as I'm questioning my surroundings and the true meaning of what I actually meant, the TV turns on, and a flash of colors race across the screen—a screen made of crystal, just like the crystal I viewed the other day. I pull the afghan tighter around me, tucking it snugly under my knees, as the words l'heure bleue fill up the screen. And just as I'm wondering what it could possibly mean, a definition scripted in the mostbeautiful calligraphy appears, stating:

A French expression, l'heure bleue, or "blue hour" refers to the hour experienced between daylight and darkness. A time revered for its quality of light, and also when the scent of flowers is at its strongest.

I squint at the screen, watching as the words fade and a picture of the moon takes its place—a full and glorious moon—shimmering the most beautiful shade of blue—a hue that nearly matches the sky...

And then—and then I see me—up on that very same screen. Dressed in jeans and a black sweater, my hair hanging loose, gazing out a window at that same blue moon—glancing at my watch as though I'm waiting for something—something that's soon to arrive. And despite the fuzzy, dreamlike state of watching a me that's not really me, I can still feel what she's feeling, hear what she's thinking, She's going somewhere, somewhere she once thought was off limits. Anxiously waiting for the moment when the sky turns the same shade as the moon, a wonderful deep dark blue with no trace of the sun—knowing it heralds her only chance to find her way back to this room and return to a place she once thought was lost. I watch, my gaze glued to the screen, gasping as she raises her hand, presses her finger to the crystal, and is pulled back in time.