The Love That Split the World(81)

“It’s not,” I agree. “Maybe we should get to work.”

“How’s the dancing going?”

I shrug. “It feels great. Sometimes we seem to travel forward or backward in time, but I haven’t seen any clues that there’s a third world.”

“She’s hiding somewhere.”

“Yeah,” I say, “or somewhen.”

Alice’s eyes dart to me. “What’d you say?”

“I just meant she could be hiding in some other time,” I clarify. Alice stands abruptly and shoves a pile of books out of the way, grabs her purse, then heads toward the door. “Where are you going?”

“Something came up,” she barks. “I’ll see you Thursday for hypnotherapy, okay?”

“Alice!” I call after her.

“Thursday!”

My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I fish it out to see Joyce’s name onscreen. My heart stops, but when I open the message, it’s just a picture of a bundle of flowers with a little note from the coach and Mrs. Gibbons. That’s so nice! I type back while swallowing the latest wave of anxiety. Every new message like that is just one more false alarm, one more reminder that Matt’s life is hanging in the balance and I’m no closer to figuring things out.



When Beau comes to get me that night, he looks more haggard than I’ve ever seen him. All day I’ve hardly stopped replaying our time together, haven’t stopped counting the seconds until we’re together again, but seeing him now, after a night in the truck and a long day at work, I know these excursions are pushing him too far. He needs rest. “We should take a couple of nights off,” I suggest.

“All right.” He reaches across the truck to pull me into his lap, awakening an electric current under my skin.

“That’s not what I mean,” I say, staring down into his parted lips. He starts to kiss my neck, and my breath becomes heavy, my fingers splaying out against his chest. “Beau, you need sleep. And you’re going to have to go home eventually.” It’s not what I want, but it’s what he needs.

He sighs, sets me back down beside him, and his eyes go to the steering wheel. “I know.” He runs his hand over his mouth and shakes his head. “You’re right. I need to go home.”

“I’ll miss you,” I say quietly. “Would you come to dinner here tomorrow?”

He drops his head back against the headrest and lets out a long breath.

“What?” I ask.

“Probably not a good idea. Parents don’t like me.”

“Mine would.” I can’t share everything with them, but I could share Beau. I want to.

“And what makes you think that?”

“Because I like you,” I say. He laughs and his face drops, the corners of his eyes crinkling. For a moment, he looks just like a little boy. “Do you like me, Beau?” I tease, shaking his elbow.

He looks up and knots his arms behind my lower back, easing me against the seat and climbing on top of me. “What do you think?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think,” I say. “It matters what you think.”

“I’m not good with words, Natalie.”

“Try.”

“You remember that night on the football field?” I nod. “I want you more now than I did then, and I didn’t think that was possible.”

“You like me.”

“I like you,” he says softly.

“You want me,” I whisper.

“Everywhere,” he says, “all the time.”

It’s the same look he gave me when I asked him what he wanted in the dance studio: serious, almost sad. I reach up to trace the lines of his face, committing each to memory. “I want you too,” I tell him. “Everywhere, all the time.”

His eyes dip, his arms tighten, and his voice drops into a whisper. “Natalie . . .”

“You need sleep.”

“I need you.”

A momentary battle rages inside my head, and then I make one of those choices that isn’t really a choice. “Let’s go inside,” I say.

We hurry to get out of the car, leaving it parked on the street, and take off down the dark cul-de-sac, humidity sheening us in sweat by the time we reach the porch. I climb up first to let myself in through the open window, and then turn back. I can’t see Beau in the yard below, so he must already be on the porch railing. I wait for a few seconds of silence, but he doesn’t emerge over the side of the porch roof.

“Beau?” I hiss into the night, disrupting the cricket song. I listen for an answer, but none comes. After the longest minute of my life, I scramble back onto the porch roof to see what’s taking so long. I lean out over the ledge and gaze down into the yard, but I find no sign of him. “Beau,” I whisper again, a bit louder.

No response but the hoot of an owl.

I scurry back down to the porch railing and drop down into the yard, scanning the cul-de-sac. “Beau?” I say again, louder still. My heart is wild. Something’s wrong.

He must’ve slipped back into his world.

I jog up the street to the curb where he left his truck, but it’s gone. I spin in place, searching for any of the flickers of change that have become my norm. “Beau,” I call again. “Beau.”