Until We Meet Again(19)

smash through green branches until, gasping for breath, I

collapse onto the sand.

What is happening? I’m losing it. I am legitimately losing it.

Or maybe I’m not. Maybe this is the end of the world. Not a

big bang but a whimper. Everyone just vanishes. It would make

a fantastic sci-fi novel.

Two hands clamp down on my shoulders. “Cassandra.”

Screaming, I whirl around. Lawrence is on his knees before

me, panting and pale, but flesh and bone.

“Did you see Ned?” he asks.

“What?”

“Ned.”

I blink. “What are you talking about?”

“Ned was on the back lawn. You didn’t see him?”

I stare at him, my brain unable to handle all of this. I feel

sick, light-headed. I bend forward to keep from throwing up.

Lawrence’s shoulders rise and fall with his breath. His eyes scan

my face, as if searching for answers embedded somewhere in

my eyes.

“Are you a ghost?” he whispers.

“What? No! What are you—? Of course I’m not!”

He cocks his head, unsure. My jaw sets. “If I were a ghost,

would you feel this?” I punch him in the arm.

“Say!” He rubs the spot, grimacing. Then his eyes narrow. “It

could be a trick. I’m not familiar with the supernatural.”

“I’m not a ghost, Lawrence.”

“Well, neither am I. So, what’s the explanation?” He taps his

fist to his mouth, deep in thought. “What if it’s the pathway

that’s haunted?”

“But we’ve both walked it a hundred times and nothing

strange has ever happened,” I say. “Whatever is going on, it has

something to do with you.”

“Or you.”

“Or us together…”

Our eyes meet. Lawrence pushes his fingers into the sand,

absently carving a line as he thinks. Then he looks up hesitantly.

“I say we try it again. Maybe if we run, we can make it to the

house together.”

I shake my head, but he grabs my hands.

“Once more. Please.”

We try it three more times. Running at full speed the first

time, crawling on hands and knees the second, and pausing in

the middle the last time to examine the bushes and surroundings. But each pass brings the same result. The person in front vanishes, as if some otherworldly force is determined to blot

them out.

As the sun dips low, the sky orange and purple with the

coming twilight, Lawrence and I sit on the beach in silence,

staring out at the waves like the first time we met. But I have

no words this time. No witty punch lines. What can you say

when faced with the inexplicable?

Lawrence pinches the bridge of his nose, exhaling. And then

suddenly he snaps his head up. “What?” I ask.

“What year is it?”

“Excuse me?”

“What year do you think you’re from? You said nineteen

twenty-two was more than ninety years ago.”

“Because it was.”

He swallows hard, says nothing.

“Do you dispute this fact?”

For a long pause, he only stares at me. Then he releases a

shaky breath and rubs his face.

“Is it possible?” He mutters to himself. “From the first time I

met her, all the confusion, all the strange insisting.”

“What are you talking about?”

He bites his lip, as if preparing his words carefully.

“Cassandra…this is my uncle’s private beach. At his home. He

built it three years ago. It’s never belonged to anyone else. The

year is nineteen twenty-five.”

Now it’s my turn to stare.

Is he trying to be funny? Or is he truly crazy? Schizophrenic?

Or…

The image of Lawrence vanishing into the air like a cloud of

steam returns to me. An undeniable event. Tested five times.

A terrible thought pierces my mind. What if he’s the ghost?

Haunting this beach for the last ninety-plus years? That would

explain why he thinks it’s 1925, why he acted so strangely the

first time I saw him.

But…he’s a solid entity. I can feel him. He breathes. He

gets wet. He’s changed clothes. I’m not well acquainted with

ghost rules and decorum, but I’m pretty sure they don’t change

outfits. I take his hand in mine. Warm flesh. The firmness of

bones beneath it.

“Cassandra…what are you doing?”

I don’t respond, but instead press two fingers to the smooth

inside of his wrist. My head and body are in too much turmoil.

I can’t get a read on his pulse. He stares at me but doesn’t move,

as if he’s watching me in a strange dream.

I set my fingertips on the base of his neck, where the jawline

and the throat connect. And there it is. The soft, warm movement of blood passing through the carotid artery.

“You’re definitely alive,” I say softly.