Departure (26 page)

I'M LOSING IT.

My hands are slick with sweat. The voice over the loudspeaker booms, “
All passengers, this is a final boarding call for Flight 314 to London Heathrow. All passengers . . .”

But I'm the only passenger left in the waiting area for this flight. I sit, staring at the woman working the counter. She's holding the radio with its curling cord, the button depressed as she speaks, staring directly at me.

She knows there's only one booked seat unfilled, one person left to board the flight who has cleared security and is somewhere in the concourse. She figures it's me.

This is crazy. I should turn around and go home, get my head checked.

Instead I stand and walk over, hand her my boarding pass. She glances at my sweat-drenched hair and pale, clammy skin. “Are you all right, sir?”

“Fine . . . It's just . . . I've had some bad transatlantic flights recently.”

I DON'T KNOW HARPER LANE'S
number. I searched for it. No landline. No way to find her cell. Don't know her e-mail. I thought about a Facebook friend request, but . . . how creepy is that? What would I say? “Remember me? I got your carry-on down after a flight we shared. Hey, do you happen to remember that flight crashing in the English countryside? 'Cause I do, and things got really crazy after that . . .”

What I do know—about all I know—is where she lives.

Because I've been there. In 2147.

And now I'm walking there. In 2015. The thing I need to figure out at this point is what I will tell the police when I'm arrested.

An elderly man wearing an argyle sweater and a flat cap holds the door to her building open for me as I approach.

I skip to catch it, thanking him.

Up the first flight of stairs.

Second.

Third.

On the fourth, I see her door.

Crazy.

I knock, every tap sending a sensation like an electric shock from my fingers to the pit of my stomach. I fight the urge to turn on my heel and run.

On the other side of the door, I hear the sound of socked feet on the wooden floor. I wipe the sweat from my forehead.

The tiny point of light in the peephole goes dark.

A thud on the other side of the door. The peephole is light again. She's likely going for her phone, calling the police.

A clicking sound.

The door swings in slowly, and she steps into the narrow opening.

My voice comes out a whisper. “Hi.”

Her jaw falls as she turns white as a sheet. Her eyes go wide, making them seem even bigger, more endless, more captivating, than they already are.

“Hi,” she breathes, barely audible.

She lets her hands fall to her sides, and the heavy wooden door creaks open, revealing the room. It's a wreck. Wadded-up pieces of notebook paper lie in drifts at the edges of the room. Layers of construction paper cover the floor like unraked autumn leaves. Markers are scattered everywhere. It looks like a day-care center. Maybe her children? Nieces and nephews?

On the couch and two chairs, seven big sheets of poster board are propped up, facing out, like artworks on easels at an exhibition. Actually, they're more like scientific papers at a conference: titles scrawled at the top, rough drawings and timelines below. Dragons. Ships. Pyramids. And endless notes, scribblings. Arrows and strikethroughs. And a name.

Alice Carter.

They're all about Alice Carter.

Who the hell is Alice Carter? Another passenger? Possibly. I only got a few names.

As the door swings completely open, I see an eighth sheet of poster board. A final exhibit.
FLIGHT 305
is scrawled across the top in big block letters. Below it: “Stand-alone novel? Sci-fi? Thriller? Time travel?”

She thinks it's all in her head. Another story she made up.

Below the subtitle, there's a sketch: the round, torn end of a plane jutting above a placid lake, a crescent moon in the sky.

Names fill the space below.

Nick Stone. Sabrina Schröder. Yul Tan.

Not fiction?

Hope fills me, gives me the courage to step into the room. She keeps her feet planted, her body still. Only her eyes follow me.

Time to take a chance. “How much do you remember?”

She swallows, blinks, but her voice comes out clear, confident. “Everything.”

I exhale. For the first time the pounding in my head subsides, every passing second washing it away.

She steps closer and scrutinizes my face, especially my forehead, where the gashes were after the Titans invaded the camp, the wound she cared for in the abandoned stone farmhouse. She reaches up,
touches that place where my hairline meets my forehead, just as she did in the Podway, in the only moment we had alone in all the time we spent in 2147. I wrap my fingers firmly around her wrist and let my thumb slide into her palm, just as before.

“What do you want to do now?” I ask.

“I want to finish what we started on the way to London.”

WE LIE IN THE BED WHERE I FOUND
the notebooks, where I read them, a few days ago—or 132 years from now, depending on how you choose to see it. Either way, this is the exact place where I saw what my life had become. I was horrified then, and I'm terrified now. But more than that, I'm excited.

Then, when I found the journals, Nick walked in, sat on the end of this very bed, beside me, and told me that the journal wasn't my future, that it didn't have to be. That I could make a different choice.

It seemed like an empty promise at the time, kind words said to ease my pain and quiet my mind.

But it came true. Here I am. Back in my time. With the knowledge of everything that happened.

The terrible future I almost repeated will never be.

And Nick Stone is here in this bed with me. With all his memories. And none of his clothes.

Perfect.

WHEN THE SUNLIGHT THROUGH THE
wide window in my bedroom becomes too bright to ignore, Nick sits up and pulls his boxers on, then his trousers.

I panic a little.

How clean is the shower?

Not as clean as I would like it to be.

And breakfast. I bet a starving vagabond wouldn't eat what's left in my fridge.

He pulls his shirt on and glances back at me. “Gonna get some breakfast. What would you like?”

I want to go with him, but I'm a fright. I didn't get a great deal of sleep last night—not that I'm complaining about that. But I could use every precious second he's gone to address the previously mentioned domestic concerns. I request a muffin and coffee and suggest a reliable spot around the corner, and then he's gone.

I turn over in bed and put my face in my hands. Why am I so bloody scared?

It's not about the memories anymore, or the decision that has haunted me. It comes down to this: I like Nick Stone very much, and I've no idea what he thinks. In fact, I don't know him at all.

That's not true. Not one bit. I know him very well indeed. I feel like I know every inch of his soul, what kind of person he is. I knew it the first few moments I met him, when he came to the defense of Jillian before the plane crashed, when he stopped the stampede in the nose section and saved a lady who would have been trampled, and those cold, electric moments on the bank of the lake when he rallied the hesitant survivors to swim out to the plane. When he saved my life, at great risk to his own.

That's the man I'm in love with.

But I have no idea how he feels about me. That's what's nerve-racking. I don't know what this means to him: one sleepless night together.

It's not something I've ever done without knowing someone for a long time. It's a big deal to me, and I wonder if it is to him.

I hope it is.

But what if it's not? What if it's something he does all the time? What if this doesn't mean anything to him at all?

The door pops open, and I spring up. God. I haven't done a thing to the flat. It's still a mess, and I've lain here naked in bed like a lazy tart the entire time he was gone.

He holds a brown bag up, and I motion to the kitchen area. I pull a tank top and some pajama pants on and stroll out, trying to look only 10 percent as crazy as the thoughts in my head.

“Breakfast is over. Apparently it's eleven thirty.”

He spreads out some sandwiches on the table, four in fact—he wasn't sure what I would want. We sit, nibbling them, talking about matters infinitely less important than the real question at hand.

We work up to more serious matters. The memories, for one. Nick figures dumping them at once in our minds must have presented a problem. Maybe the human psyche has limitations in how it deals with conflicting memories, or maybe the neurons in the brain needed time to integrate the new memories. He thinks the pieces were triggered by the four of us—Yul, Sabrina, him, and me. I was the last piece for him. I smiled when he said that, and he paused and smiled, too.

He's not sure if Sabrina and Yul have recovered all their memories yet, but he's in contact with both of them.

“But there's another call I need to make first.” He punches at his cell phone. “What time is it in New York? Almost seven. Close enough.”

He drifts over to the window, stands by the chair that holds the poster board with
FLIGHT
305 written across the top, and dials a number. He waits as it rings, staring out the window at the people milling about on the street, heading off to lunch.

“Oliver, it's Nick Stone. I hope I didn't wake you.”

A short pause.

“No, everything's all right.” He looks over at me. “Better than all right, in fact. I've been thinking about Grayson. I think we should include him in the Titan Foundation. I think if we give him the opportunity, the chance to make a change, to be involved at the ground level in how the Shaw fortune is spent . . . I believe he might jump at it.”

Nick waits again, his eyes still, then darting back and forth. I like that—it's almost like I can see the wheels inside his brain turning.

“I agree. I think it has to be framed correctly to him. But I have
this feeling that if it's presented the right way, if we just give him a chance and a say, he might surprise us. Let's give him the opportunity to do the right thing. You want him to do something with his life, something he has to earn. So
do
that. Let's start by trusting him and involving him and letting him make the decision.”

Another pause, and Nick's voice changes, softens.

“No, it's nothing like that. It might sound crazy, but I have this feeling that if you don't give him one last chance, you're going to regret it for the rest of your life.”

He rings off after that, and we sit, finishing our coffee at the small, square wooden table in my kitchen, its white paint chipped, a little too authentic to be shabby chic.

When he's finished, and our conversation dies down, he pushes up and goes for his coat, which is buried in a pile of clothes that came off rather quickly last night.

“Don't know what your schedule is, but I have a few errands to run. Should only take a few hours.”

“Right. Well, I'll just be here. No plans.” Try not to sound crazy. “Nick,” I begin, my voice changed, the use of his name already weird, drawing his eyes. God. I'm that crazy chick the morning after, pressing the Talk. This can only end in disaster, yet I know I'm not crazy: this is definitely more than a fling. We've been exposed to each other, and not just in the bedroom, and I can't let him leave—even just for a few hours—without knowing. I force myself to sound casual. “We writers, we don't get out that much.” I shrug, trying not to look nervous. “Don't date that much either. Well, I haven't . . . recently.”

He scans my face, his expression serious. “Me either, Harper. Look, my work has pretty much been my life since college. Hasn't been much time for anything else. Or anyone.” His eyes cut to the bedroom, the sheets still in disarray. “It's a big deal for me, too. I'll show you how big tonight.”

PANIC LEVEL: ONE MILLION (ON A SCALE OF
one to ten).

After those words—
It's a big deal for me, too. I'll show you how big tonight
—Nick kissed me on the forehead and was out the door before I could say a word. It took several minutes to collect my jaw from the floor.

I'm terrified. Even more terrified than this morning, when I thought he was going to roll over in bed, pinch me on the cheek, and say, “Fun times, Harp. Thanks for the memories.” Wink. “Catch ya later.”

I can't decide if this is better or worse.

I don't want Nick out of my life, but I'm not bloody ready to make a major commitment.

And the reason has nothing to do with him. It's me. I need to get my own life in order, figure out what I want to be when I grow up before I'll be ready for anything like this. But it's here, now, standing—just seconds ago, literally—in my flat. Will I regret it for the rest of my life
if things fizzle out between us? I've regretted not being able to be with him before—for a whole lifetime.

Ahhhh!

Got to settle down. Focus. Think.

A solution. When he comes through that door, I will convey to him that I have things in my life I need to put straight, to get on track before I'm ready for anything that serious. It's the truth. I feel like, for the first time, I have it together—I know exactly what I need to be doing in life.

I wouldn't have that without the time I spent in 2147. I also wouldn't have met Nick. I wouldn't trade either for the world.

I know what I need to be doing with my professional life.

Alice Carter.

Because when you're young, life is about pursuing dreams. I have the rest of my life to take the safe road. If I don't write Oliver Norton Shaw's biography, someone will. They might even be better than me. Or maybe a little worse. But it will get done.

No one else will write Alice Carter's story. No one but me. She's depending on me.

That's what life is about: finding something you can do that no one else can, and working your hardest at it. It's about finding someone you love like no one else, someone who loves you like no one else does. That person might be Nick Stone. But I don't know him as well as I know Alice Carter. Not yet.

Now it's about making a plan to ensure I get to know them both. It's going to be risky.

MY AGENT SITS QUIETLY, LISTENING,
nodding.

When I finish, he glances around his office, as if looking for the words.

I cringe, mentally bracing for the barrage that will cut me to the bone.
Throwing your career away. Wasting this opportunity I worked so hard to get you. Irresponsible decision.

Those words never come. Instead I hear, “I
respect your decision, Harper. I believe you owe it to yourself to follow your dream. I'll do my best to help you.” The words are like a parachute I sway beneath, holding me up, saving my life as my feet land firmly on the ground.

One down.

MY FATHER PASSED AWAY EIGHT
years ago from a heart attack. I miss him very much, and so does my mum. He was a schoolteacher in my small hometown, and the years after he passed have been tough, emotionally and financially, for my mum, who is a photographer. He left her two assets of value: our family home and a flat in London that he inherited from his parents, who had been quite well off at one time.

She rents that flat, and for the past few years, she's rented it to me. It's a good trade: I insist on paying her slightly more than the unit would fetch on the market, and on occasion, when I'm between projects and a bit late with the rent—well, she's the best landlord a girl could have.

If I'm vacating, if I'm about to make the change I'm contemplating, something will have to happen with the flat. I want to present her with some options, a clear plan. I want to save her the trouble of coming to London and going through it all. She deserves that. Plus, she's even worse at decisions than I am.

With that in mind, I sit in the estate agent's messy office, listening to him rattle off figures and facts, some more comprehensible than others. The London market is up this percent over last year. The average price has risen to . . . Interest rates are hovering at . . . but they're expected to rise this much more, especially if the BOE tightens next quarter, though the labor market has thrown that into question. Your particular neighborhood has this many properties currently offered, with the average days on the market being . . .

Finally I hold my hand up and try to get down to it. I'm not sure when Nick will be back, and he doesn't have a key. “That's all well and interesting, thank you, really—but what do you reckon my particular flat might fetch?”

He raises his eyebrows and leans back in the seat, as if I've really put him to the test on that one. “Tough to say. But I'll tell you”—he leans in a bit, speaking a little more quietly, as if to shield this now-confidential conversation from passersby in the hall—“if we were to get it on the market directly, we stand a good chance of commanding top dollar.” He rattles off some numbers, which, to be fair, do sound quite good. More than I expected.

“If we wait—say, go further into winter—the market's going to get soft. Might already be getting soft. There's talk of a bubble in the
paper all the time, and that's got some buyers spooked.” He quickly adds, “But probably not for a property your size. There's strong demand for those . . .
at this very moment, at least
.”

I nod. “And if I let it? What might I expect?”

He doesn't like that idea. He would have to hand it off to the letting agent in his office, and when it comes off lease, he assures me it will fetch a great deal less at sale. He details various ways it could go wrong, from bad renters to the distaste in potential buyers' minds. He reminds me that the property has been in my family for generations. That it's remained a single-owner property will add a premium at sale—“For the right buyer,” he adds.

I remind him that my income will likely be nonexistent for years to come, that letting it is the only way to hang on to it, which would have been important to my father. I tell him I suppose he would have approved of letting it over selling it, even if it needs a paint job when the lease is up.

Still, the estate agent is sour on the idea, for obvious reasons.

I leave with one more decision to make.

But the bottom line is, I can either advise Mum to sell it or to let it to someone else. Either way, I'm moving back in with her until I can sell the first Alice Carter novel.

NICK ISN'T WAITING BY THE
door when I get home, and I'm relieved. I do, however, see my neighbor in the hall, and she's as happy as the day is long, bouncing around like she's won the lottery.

And she sort of has. Apparently you don't even need to list your flat to sell it in London.

She cups her hand over her mouth, “Unsolicited offer, Harp. Foreign buyer. All cash.”

Though she won't tell me the price, she does say she didn't even have to think about it.

No doubt the estate agent will call tomorrow with this bit of news, pointing out that it just increases the value of my place and that the new neighbors might be dreadful. “Sell now,” he'll say, “or risk losing even more.”

Inside my flat, I tidy up some, but I can't help checking the window every few minutes, hoping to catch a glimpse of Nick on his way up.