Until We Meet Again(41)

over the water. “A decision has been pushed on me, and I don’t

know what to do.”

“A decision about your career?”

“And other things…” He sighs. “My choices are to accept my

family’s plan for me or I’m kicked to the street.”

“It’s wrong,” I say, shaking my head. “They should let you

decide how you want to spend your life.”

He smiles ruefully. “I wish I lived in your time. I can’t imagine having that freedom.”

“I wish you had it. You deserve better.”

He scrapes a hand through his hair. “I’m not sure I do. That’s

part of the problem. I’m willing to accept the responsibilities

that come with my life of privilege. Without my father’s money,

I’m nothing. I should be grateful that practicing law is even an

option for me, rather than, say, digging coal out of the ground,

a mile under, or breaking my back behind a plow. Is it wrong

to live the life people expect of you? To please the people who

helped make you who you are?”

I shake my head. “But you’re still entitled to your dreams.

Being rich doesn’t exclude you from that.”

“My old man thinks dreams are a waste of time. Work is the

only thing that matters.”

“You don’t believe that, do you?”

He sighs. “I guess not. Otherwise I wouldn’t fill notebooks

with my writing when he thinks I’m asleep.”

“You deserve to follow your dreams, Lawrence.” My eyes

sting with tears as I speak the words, knowing he’ll never get

the chance. He sets his hand beneath my chin, turning my face

to him. His intensity melts me.

“In my mind, you have come to embody those dreams,” he

says softly. “A girl from another time. Who only exists on one

windswept beach. You’re a poem, Cassandra. You’re my poem.”

He takes my hand and presses it to his chest. My heart is

pounding so hard that I can barely breathe.

“I feel like, if this is real, then my dreams can be real. If these feelings I have for you are truth, then the truth of my words is worth fighting for, and it doesn’t matter what people expect of me.”

Lawrence sets his hands on my face. His fingertips slide

gently into my hair. My ears are ringing. I shouldn’t let this

happen. But everything in me longs for it.

Lawrence’s gaze brushes over my face, tender and hungry at

once. And then he presses his lips to mine.

For a moment, there’s only the crash of surf, the clean smell

of cologne, and the burning heat of this kiss.

We part. Then, like magnets, our lips come together again. I

turn fully to him, hooking my arms around his neck. He grips

my back. Our breathing rises and joins in unison. I want more.

I want to lose myself.

But then the inevitability of Lawrence’s death seizes me.

He keeps kissing me, but I freeze. These lips, this hair, those

eyes—they’ll be gone forever in a matter of days. Less than

two weeks.

I pull away. Lawrence looks dazed. His cheeks are flushed. I

push to my feet. The truth bears down on me, oppressive and

overwhelming. I can’t breathe.

I have to tell him. He deserves to know. I would want someone to have the courage to tell me, if they knew I was about to die. I have to do the hard thing and tell him or break under the

weight of this secret.

Lawrence stands, his brow furrowed. “Cassandra? What’s

wrong?”

“I can’t…” Tears burn in my eyes. I can’t meet his gaze or I’ll

lose it. I shake my head, trying to find a breath, let alone the

words to tell him he’s going to die.

Lawrence cups my face in his hands. His expression is so earnest, so caring. “What’s wrong?” he asks. “Is it the kiss? I shouldn’t have done it, should I? It was taking advantage of you.”

“No. It’s not that.”

He pulls me into his arms, and I don’t resist. I can’t. I lay my

face against his shoulder. His body feels firm and warm against

mine. Can’t we just stay here together? Why does he have to

die? Why?

“What is it, then? Tell me, Cassandra. Please.”

“I know something. Something that’s going to happen…

to you.”

He’s quiet. I push through the wall of resistance in my heart.

I have to do this. “I came across a newspaper from your time.

At the library.”

I reach for the words. They’re there, but they refuse to pass

my lips.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Lawrence says softly.

The perfectly horrible, perfectly correct words to say. I am

looking at a ghost, Lawrence.

“Tell me,” he says again.

Drawing in a sharp breath, I press my face to his shoulder.

The horrible words come out in a trembling whisper. “It says…

that you will…die. There. On our beach.”