A World Without You(15)

But it’ll be worth it if I am able to reweave time. I stare down at the chaotic, beautiful timestream spreading out in front of me. I can see the three little puckers I’ve made to the red string. I reach out to try one more time, but even as I watch, the red string of Sofía’s past evens out along the weave, smoothing down flat again. Any chance I had of pulling the end of Sofía’s string from the vortex disappears before my eyes.

Time has a way of correcting itself, and I won’t be able to save Sofía this way.

I stagger, almost falling when I get up from my desk chair. The weight of those memories drags me down and reminds me of just how much I have to lose if I lose Sofía.

And yet, like a drug addict looking for another hit, I want to dive back into the timestream and relive more memories. I almost bring it back up, but I force myself to lie down instead.

It’s dangerous to dwell in the past. You don’t have to be a time traveler to know that. But more than that, I can’t let myself be satisfied with just memories. I need to find a way to save the real Sofía, not the image of her I carry around in my head.

Ugh. I need fresh air.

I used to hate Sundays. They always felt too close to Monday and to responsibilities. Since coming to the Berk, though, Sundays have become my favorite day of the week. They’re the days I return from my parents’ house to the place where I really belong, and to Sofía.

As I head out of my bedroom, I can hear someone, probably Ryan, playing a loud video game in the common room. A stream of curses follows a particularly loud blast on the television—definitely Ryan. I head outside. I want quiet. I need the ocean.

Growing up on the coastal side of Massachusetts, I was never too far from the Atlantic. But I didn’t really appreciate being this close to the water until I moved to Berkshire. Until Sofía would take me for walks on the sand.

I arrive at the beach and kick off my shoes. Wind makes my shirt flap around as the sandy soil with stubborn clumps of grass gives way to the sand. I can taste the salt in the air, crisp and pure, and the ocean’s waves drown out my dark thoughts.

The last time I was out here, Sofía came with me. It was cold that day, made bitterly so by the wind. Dark storm clouds billowed over the ocean, and although we could see lightning far out across the waves, it wasn’t even raining on us. Sofía could stare at the sea for hours, but that day, there weren’t any pretty blue waves, and everything was choppy and gray, as if the water was so disgusted by itself it was trying to jump out of the ocean.

We walked as far north as we could, up to the point where the sandy beach gives way to a rocky hill topped by the lighthouse. Then we turned around and walked south, past the academy, to the sharp point at the end of the island.

“My mother loved the beach but hated the sun,” Sofía said, tipping her face up to the cloudy gray sky.

“Then this is the perfect place for her.”

Sofía laughed. But there was a hitch in her voice, and her smile fell from her face almost immediately.

I wanted to ask her what happened to her family. She didn’t talk about them often, just that they were dead. When she looked at me, I think she could see the questions I didn’t ask.

“Car accident,” she said.

“You don’t have to—”

“It’s okay. Dr. Franklin says I should talk about it. And it happened a while ago. Almost a year now.”

The tide was rising; cold saltwater splashed over our feet, and Sofía gasped in surprise and pulled me further up the beach.

“Drunk driver,” she added, not looking at me.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“I never know how to feel about it,” she confessed. “The Doctor seems to think that I feel guilty, but I don’t. It wasn’t my fault. I know some people have survivor’s guilt, and I guess I feel that way sometimes, like, why did I live when they didn’t? But that’s not how I really feel about it.”

“How do you really feel?” I watched her closely, waiting to see if she’d go invisible, hoping she wouldn’t.

“Empty,” Sofía said.

The waves were getting higher, the air colder. There was an edge to the wind, as if it wanted to cut us.

“Let’s go inside,” Sofía said, rubbing her shoulders.

I checked the time on my phone. “Kitchens are closed,” I groaned. After dinner, the kitchens were always open with snacks until an hour before lights-out. Usually, they were just stocked with fruit or granola, healthy stuff, but Ryan almost always talked his way into chips. He’s good at getting what he wants.

“Come on,” Sofía said. “I’ll make you something.”

Even though the kitchens weren’t off-limits, it felt like we were breaking rules being there just before lights-out. I don’t think students were supposed to cook, but no one came to stop us as Sofía pulled out a container of eggs and set a pot of water to boiling, adding a pinch of salt.

“My sisters and I called these ‘ghost eggs,’” Sofía said.

“Harold would like them then,” I replied, trying too hard to be funny.

She grinned anyway. “It’s because of how they look when they cook.” The water barely started to bubble, and she moved quickly. She swirled the water with a wooden spoon, making a tiny tornado in the pot, then cracked an egg with one hand. As soon as it hit the hot water, the egg twirled into the center, the clear parts immediately turning white and streaming around. It looked . . . delicate. Beautiful.