Until We Meet Again(33)

sort this out. Can I call you later?”

I don’t respond. He nods and turns to go.

What am I supposed to do? What am I supposed to think? I need

to calm down. I’m probably overreacting. I’m sure there is a

perfectly good explanation for all of this.

Glancing at my phone again, I run downstairs. Mom’s in

the library, sitting at the computer with her reading glasses on.

When I burst in, she looks up, with motherly concern.

“Cass?”

“Travis Howard,” I blurt out.

“What?”

“I can’t find a picture of Travis that I took on my phone. Did

you…delete it or something?”

Mom frowns. “No, I haven’t touched your phone.”

“But you know who Travis is, right?”

Her lips twist to the side in thought. “Is he from around here

or back in Ohio?”

The floor feels unsteady. “Mom, Travis. Brandon’s best friend?

Tall, blue eyes? Only child of the Howards?”

Mom shakes her head. “And I know them?”

“They came to your party! Don’t you remember? They

brought you that über-expensive bottle of wine that you and

Frank were gushing over.”

“Well…” She’s trying really hard.

“You can’t honestly not know who I’m talking about,” I say.

There’s a tremor in my voice. “You’ve met him at least five times

this summer. He’s come to the house.”

Her silence says everything I need to know. I drop into one of

the deep maroon armchairs to keep from falling over. This can’t

be happening. It’s impossible.

But Lawrence’s voice echoes in my ears. Billy Howard died

yesterday. It can’t be. It can’t.

“What’s wrong, Cass?” Mom’s voice sounds fuzzy. It’s like I’m

listening to her with my head underwater. I rise to my feet and

stagger out of the room .





h


The butterfly effect. Three hours of frantic research on the Internet, and this is the answer I have come up with. The idea that a small event can cause big ripples over time. Lawrence choosing to meet me instead of his friend led to Billy Howard’s car accident and death, which in turn eliminated the entire genealogical line he would have created, which means that as of yesterday, Travis Howard ceased to exist. He’s not dead. He never lived in the first place. Either way, he’s gone.

And it’s my fault. Lawrence should have been with Billy. Billy should have lived, married, and had kids who had kids, who gave birth to Travis Howard.

I should have thought of this before. I’ve seen enough sci-fi movies to know there are ramifications when you mess with time. The time-space continuum is a fragile thing. There are consequences to even the smallest unplanned shift.

I lie on my bed, but sleep won’t come. It’s not possible with the chaos in my brain. I even snuck one of my mom’s Xanax because I was afraid I was having a nervous breakdown. But the medicine has only slowed my pulse, not my mind.

Turning over, I stare at the red numbers of my alarm clock, glowing in the darkness like eyes—2:48. I roll to my back again. The ceiling is less-stressful to look at. I try to clear my head and relax. But my thoughts are impossible to hide from. They march though my brain, an unrelenting army.

The tears return. It’s been like that on and off all night. Tears of mourning for Travis. I never got to know him all that well, but I liked him. And to me, it’s like he’s dead. Which isn’t far from reality. In a lot of ways, Travis was sitting in that car with Billy Howard as it careened off the cliff.

I smudge the tears away with my pajama sleeve, sniffling. It’s not all for Travis. I’m also crying for myself. Because this turn of events has surfaced a fear that I’ve tried to bury thus far.

It’s not safe to know Lawrence. It’s not normal. It’s not natural. As this case proves, interacting with him can have serious, even deadly repercussions.

And I ugly cry, because I know that tomorrow night I have to say good-bye to Lawrence Foster forever.





Chapter 12





Cassandra


thought I had prepared myself, steeled my mind and





I


heart for saying goodbye, but as Lawrence appears on

the glistening white beach, I realize how desperately wrong I

am. I’m not prepared. Not prepared at all.



He comes up to me with a smile that kicks me right in the

chest. “I was hoping you’d be here already,” he says. “Have you

been waiting long?”

I shake my head. Words aren’t possible yet. All I can do it

stare at him.

“I brought your surprise,” he says, patting his jacket pocket.

“I wrote you a poem. Nothing Byron-esque, mind you. Just a

few words on paper. But I thought you might like it.”

Longing twists my throat. He wrote me a poem. In a moment

of supreme foolishness, I’m pretty sure that I’m in love with

him. It’s pathetic, I know. But I’m about to lose it all. Might as