Until We Meet Again(20)

His eyes, still latched onto mine, flicker with a strange intensity, and I retract my hand, suddenly self-conscious.

“Which is a good thing,” I add. “Because you would make a

lousy ghost. Not scary in the slightest.”

We share a smile, and then all too quickly, return to reality .

I sit back and try to gather my thoughts.

“So…you really think it’s nineteen twenty-five.”

“It is nineteen twenty-five,” he says. “But I gather you don’t agree.”

“I don’t. Because it’s two thousand fifteen.”

Lawrence raises an eyebrow. “You believe you are living a

hundred years in the future. When your parents own Ned’s

house. When Ned is long gone. When…I’m long gone.”

His words send a chill through me.

Lawrence squints at the gap in the bushes. “Is it possible?”

he whispers.

I’m asking myself the same question. Is it possible that he

actually is from 1925? That he’s traveled here somehow? Or did

I travel back to 1925?

Lawrence’s voice trembles slightly. “I gather that you are

living your life as usual in this house, in your time.”

“And you’re doing the same thing. In nineteen twenty-five…”

“Yes,” he says. “Exactly. And yet, somehow, we intercept on

this beach, and this beach alone.” His eyes get wide. “This

would explain why you thought I didn’t meet you the other

night, why I waited and waited but you never came. I did wait

on the street, but it was in nineteen twenty-five.”

I massage my temples. Too many thoughts in my brain. It

feels like a balloon that has been overinflated, sure to pop

any second.

“I don’t know what to think right now,” I say. “I feel…kind

of sick actually.” Nausea has crept into my stomach. I’m dizzy.

Weak. I just want to lie down.

I stand, and Lawrence jumps to his feet. “Where are you going?”

“In. I …I need some time to process this.”

“Will you come back? Will you meet me here again?”

“Why? I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

I back away from him. “Because it’s insane. Because you can’t

possibly be from nineteen twenty-five. It can’t be real.”

“But it is,” he insists. “And we have to try and understand it.”

“My brain can’t handle any more right now.”

His eyes plead with me. “Tomorrow. Please. Meet me here

on the beach.”

I bite my bottom lip. Inside, past the tangle of confusion and

fear, a thrill spreads through me.

“Sometime after lunch,” I say, nodding. “Mom and Frank

are going to an art gallery in the afternoon, so I’ll have some

alone time.”

“I’ll wait for you,” Lawrence says. “I’ll be here.”





Chapter 7





Lawrence


T wo a.m. finds me at my desk. I haven’t even tried to lie down. I know I won’t sleep. Not tonight. Not after what I’ve seen. My hand grips the pen, trembles against the page, and words flow. They pour from me like a rushing tide, breaking against the paper in waves of unquenchable fervor. I don’t think, don’t try to construct a perfectly formed phrase reflective of my thoughts. I just write. And this feeling, to finally have the freedom of words I’ve craved all summer, is nearly as exciting as my discovery on the beach.

When I’ve filled the last of the paper in my desk drawer, sweat beads on my upper lip and temples. My pulse pounds all the way to my fingertips. I set the pen down and sit back. I leaf through a few of the pages, and the impulsive wish to share my writing with someone burns through me. Cassandra’s face appears in my mind. I push through the sheer linen curtains hanging in the doorway to the balcony and go out to grip the stone rail. The salty tang of the ocean glides on the evening breeze, and I can hear the faint crash of surf, but the blackness of night covers the sight of it. Closing my eyes, I picture the ocean, the beach. Cassandra vanishing in a shimmering glint of color. Thinking about it makes me shiver all over.

I feel as though I’m on the precipice of something incredible, something beyond rare. I have to capture everything about this moment. If I can crystalize it with words, then perhaps, when I’m shipped off to Harvard and a life of carefully planned obedience, I’ll have at least one moment of amazement to hold on to. I tighten my grip on the pages. There’s more. More I need to say. I’ll write all night if I have to.

There’s fresh paper in Ned’s study. I move quietly down the hall and main stairs, hoping not to wake anyone. As I pass the foyer, however, a flash of lights catches my eye.

Headlights.

At this hour?

Frowning, I step up to one of the thin, glass windows alongside the door. There’s an automobile outside, but it’s not in the driveway. It’s parked on the lawn, off to the side, partially hidden by bushes. If there had been a party tonight, I wouldn’t think anything of it. But there was no party. And no guests.