Boundless (Unearthly, #3)(87)

“They’re always telling you what to do,” she says. “And I don’t like to take orders.”

“Even from God?”

She glances at me, one corner of her mouth hooking up into a quiet smile. “Especially from God.”

Very interesting. Maybe I’m having a little too much fun with this conversation. Maybe I should tell her who I am, point-blank, stop messing around, but how do you break it to someone that you’re actually their as-yet-not-even-conceived child, come to visit them from the future? I don’t want to freak her out.

“So,” she says after a minute. “What did you come up here to think about?”

How to put this? “I’m supposed to go on a … trip, to help a friend who’s in a bad place.”

She nods. “And you don’t want to go.”

“I want to. She needs me. But I have a feeling that if I go, I won’t ever be able to really come back. Everything will change. You know?”

“Ah.” She’s looking at my face intensely, seeing something there. “And there’s a guy you’re leaving behind.”

Trust her to miss nothing, even now. “Something like that.”

“Love is a many-splendored thing,” she says. “But it is also a pain in the ass.”

I give a surprised laugh. She swore. I’ve never heard her truly swear before. Young ladies, she used to tell me all the time, do not swear. It’s undignified.

“Sounds like the voice of experience,” I say teasingly. “Is that what you came up here to think about? A man?”

I watch her carefully frame the words before she says them. “A marriage proposal.”

“Whoa!” I exclaim, and she chuckles. “That’s serious.”

“Yes,” she murmurs. “It is.”

“So he asked you?” Holy crap. This must be Dad she’s talking about. She’s up here trying to decide whether or not to marry Dad.

She nods, her eyes distant like she’s remembering something bittersweet. “Last night.”

“And you said …”

“I said I needed to think about it. And he said that if I wanted to marry him, to meet him today. At sunset.”

I give a low whistle, and she smiles in a pained way. I can’t help myself. “So are you leaning toward yes, or toward no?”

“Toward no, I think.”

“You don’t … love the guy?” I ask, suddenly out of breath. This is my future we’re talking about here, my entire existence on the line, and she’s leaning toward no?

She gazes down at her hands, at her ring finger, where there is very conspicuously no gorgeous engagement ring. “It’s not that I don’t love him. But I don’t think he’s asking me for the right reasons.”

“Let me guess. You’re loaded, and he wants to marry you for the money.”

She gives a little snort. “No. He wants to marry me because he wants me to have his child.”

Child, singular. Because she doesn’t know that there’s a Jeffrey in the plan.

“You don’t want kids?” I ask, my voice a tad higher than usual.

She shakes her head. “I like children, but I don’t think I want to have my own. I’d worry too much. I don’t want to love something that much and then have it taken away.” She looks off across the valley, embarrassed by how much she’s given away about herself. “I don’t know if I can be happy in that life. Housewife. Mother. It’s not for me.”

It’s quiet for a minute while I try to think of something smart to say, and miraculously, I hit on it. “Maybe you shouldn’t look at it in terms of whether or not you’ll be happy as this guy’s wife, but if being his wife is true to the kind of person you want to be. We think of happiness as something we can take. But usually it comes from being content with what we have, and accepting ourselves.”

Happiness class is coming in handy, at last.

She looks over at me sharply. “How old are you, again?”

“Eighteen. Sort of. How old are you?” I ask with a grin, because I already know the answer. I’ve done the math. When Dad asked her to marry him, she was ninety-nine.

She reddens. “Older than that.” She sighs. “I don’t want to become someone else simply because it’s what’s expected of me.”

“So don’t. Be more,” I say.

“What did you say?” she asks.

“Be more than what’s expected of you. Look beyond that. Choose your own purpose.”

At the word purpose, her eyes narrow on my face. “Who are you?”

“Clara,” I answer. “I told you.”

“No.” She gets up, walks to the edge of the rock. “Who are you, really?”

I stand and stare at her, meeting her eyes. Time to show my hand, I think. I swallow.

“I’m your daughter,” I say. “Yeah, it’s kind of weird to see you, too,” I continue, as her face goes sheet white. “What’s today’s date, anyway? I’ve been dying to know ever since I saw your outfit.”

“It’s July tenth,” she says dazedly. “1989. What are you playing at? Who sent you?”

“Nobody. I guess I was missing you, and then I crossed through time by accident. Dad said I would see you again, when I needed it most. I guess this is what he meant.” I take a step forward. “I really am your daughter.”