Until We Meet Again (4 page)

“Oh.” Mom’s voice is unbearably gentle. “You okay?”
“I’m fine. Just tired. I’m going to go to bed.”
“Okay… Good night.”
I don’t respond. I drag myself up the stairs to my room and
push the door closed.

Maybe “numb” is a better word for it. Either way,
I’m absolutely determined not to waste another ounce of
emotion or thought on Lawrence Foster. I glide down to
breakfast with my head high. I am calm. I am relaxed. I
am unmoved.

As I approach the table, the glance Mom and Frank exchange
does not pass my notice. Is that a glint of pity I see on Mom’s
face? I sigh and flop down at my seat. Even Eddie seems to
be tentative as he munches his sugary cereal. There’s only the
sound of hesitant chewing. I roll my eyes.

“Mom,” I say calmly. “I have a request.”
“Sure, dear,” she says overly cheerfully. “What’s up?”
“Let’s do something. Something that will take up the whole

Frank sets a hand on my shoulder. “Anything you want to
talk about, Sassy—”
“Nope. Not even remotely.”
“Right,” Mom says. “I know what we can do. Shopping.

Shopping fixes everything.”
“There’s nothing to fix,” I say in a swift, defensive way that
negates what I actually said.
Mom plays along anyway. “Let’s go shopping. And take
the convertible.”
I lift my glass of orange juice. “Cheers to that.”

My diversion plan works perfectly. It’s not as if it’s hard.
Lawrence was an intriguing (and okay, fine, very goodlooking) guy that I knew for about three seconds. Nothing
more. The sting of humiliation passes fairly easily.

Or so it seems. The crack in the facade comes two days
later. Eddie and I are playing catch in the backyard while
Mom and Frank clean up after a barbecue. Project Cheer
Up Moody Teenager has included all manner of diversions.
And I’m not complaining. In fact, I kind of love my family
for it.

I help Mom and Frank finish cleaning. They bring in the
last of the plates, and I’m going out to make sure we haven’t
left any watermelon rinds for the yellow jackets to swarm over
when Eddie runs up to me, dismayed.

With an eyebrow raised, I point to the red toddler-sized football in his hands, and he sighs with exasperation.
“My green one, Cassie. I lost it!”
I ruffle his curly, little mop top. “Easy, kiddo. I’ll help you

Mom’s voice drifts out from inside the kitchen. “Who wants
ice cream?”
Eddie’s eyes brighten like twin comets. I can’t help but
laugh. The kid has got to be the most easy-to-excite human
being on earth.
“Go get some ice cream,” I say. “I’ll find your green football.”
He trundles off, nearly falling over in his eagerness. Shaking
my head with a smile, I survey the lawn. It takes a minute of
looking before I spot it. A small, neon-green football sitting
near the back hedge. Right by the path to the beach.
I exhale. Walking calmly to the path, I keep my thoughts
firmly in check. This is not giving in. I’m just grabbing Eddie’s
toy. I have no intention of…
As I bend to retrieve the toy, the smell of salt and sand
brushes past me on the wind. The soft pound of surf whispers
in the distance. My throat feels dry all of a sudden. Standing,
I tilt my head to peer down the narrow, overgrown corridor.
I can see blue. The ocean. The sand. And I’m pulled toward
the beach.
It’s beyond insane, but he’s sitting on the sand. Just sitting
there on the beach, reading a book.
In a single moment, a series of emotions fly through my
mind in rapid succession. First, a tangible thrill at the sight of
him. Then confusion at how he could possibly be here again.
Then shame, the desire to turn and run before he sees me and
can laugh in my face. Then rage. Pure, trembling rage.
I stomp out, and he whips around. His eyes go wide. He
springs to his feet.
“I don’t believe it,” he says, his face ashen.
Rage still has a hold on me.
“Seriously. Seriously? You’re really showing up here again?
You’re either a bigger jerk than I could have imagined, or you’re
secretly a bum and don’t have anywhere else to sleep at night.”
He shakes his head. “How did you…”
“Why are you here?” I demand. “To gloat? To mock me? Are
you secretly recording this all on your cell phone so that you
can make fun of me to all of your snobby friends?”
“Cassandra—”
“I want you to leave, Lawrence. I have nothing to say to you.”
He takes a step toward me. “Why are you acting like this?”
I laugh, incredulous. “Why? Hmm, gee, that’s a good question. I don’t know… Maybe because you stood me up.”
“What?”
“I waited for twenty minutes, which is, I’m sure, exactly what
you wanted. You probably would have preferred a half hour or
forty-five minutes for optimum humiliation, but hopefully the
twenty minutes will satisfy you.”
Lawrence stares at me, blinking, as if I’m speaking incomprehensible words. He takes a breath.
“Cassandra,” he begins slowly. “I waited for you for a solid
hour on that street.”
The sincerity, the anger, in his tone throws me for a moment.
“Don’t lie,” I say. “There wasn’t a living soul out there. It was
just me and the fireflies.”
Lawrence throws up his hands. “I’m telling you, I waited for
an hour. I would have rung you on the telephone, but I don’t
know where you live. I don’t even know your last name. I have
no idea how to contact you.”
I put my hands to my temples. “What are you talking about?
Of course you know where I live!” I jab my hand toward my
house. “Hello?”
Lawrence scoffs. “Is this some kind of joke? That house?”
“Umm, yes. That house right through those bushes. You
came to our party. You’ve been swimming on my beach. I’m
going to have a hard time believing that where I live somehow
slipped your mind.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose. “My Uncle Ned’s house is
through those bushes, Cassandra.”
“Not this again!” My voice raises, bordering on shrill, but
I don’t care. “What are you talking about? I’ve never even
heard of this Ned guy. Look, I don’t care who lays claim to
this town, or who owned the land a thousand years ago, or
whatever. This is where I live. This is the house my stepdad is
renting, fair and square.”
“I’m trying very hard to figure out why you’re acting this way.”
“It’s not complicated. That’s my house.”
“Why do you keep saying that?” he asks with a frustrated
growl. “That house. This beach. It’s all Ned’s. How could you be
mistaken about that when the only way to get here is through
his front door?”
“You’re crazy.”
And then it dawns on me. What if he really is genuinely
crazy? Gorgeous but crazy. Maybe Ned is a manifestation of
acute schizophrenia.
“I have no idea who this Ned guy is, but he certainly doesn’t
live here.”
“I’m sorry. You’re mistaken.”
“I don’t think so.”
“This house belongs to Ned Foster,” he says, his anger now
matching my own. “He built it three years ago.”
I stare at him. “Seriously, you’re insane.”
“I’m starting to think
you
are, lady.”
“Brush up on your history before you try and lie. The house
was built in the twenties.”
“Exactly,” he says. “Nineteen twenty-two.”
“So…you’re bad at math then?”
“What?”
“Uh, nineteen twenty-two was a little more than three years
ago, wouldn’t you say? More like ninety-three.”
He gives me a blank look. “Ninety-three…”
“Years ago. Nineteen twenty-two was at least ninety years
ago.” I repeat.
“This is nineteen twenty-five, Cassandra,” he says, speaking slowly as if I’m the crazy one. “How could ’twenty-two be
ninety years ago?”
I nod with exaggerated interest. “Oh, it’s nineteen twentyfive, huh? That’s fascinating.”
He says nothing. Only stares. And I’ve officially had enough.
“That’s it. I’m not going to stand here and play games.
I’m leaving.”
“Cassandra,” Lawrence calls as I stride back toward the
house. “Wait.”
He runs up behind me, but I refuse to turn around. He falls
in step with me as I stomp up the beach.
“It’s like you’re a character in some play,” he says, scraping a
hand through his hair. “You show up at my birthday party and
now at my house without an invitation. You wear the strangest, most daring clothes. And now you’re telling me nineteen
twenty-two was ninety-three years ago…”
I push through the bushes. “I don’t know what role-playing
game you’re trying to get started here, but—”
As I turn to shoot him my most imperious parting glare, the
words halt in my throat.
His face, his whole body is…fuzzy. I blink, but he’s still
covered in blur. It’s like someone has thrown a thin muslin
screen around just him. As if I’m seeing him through a lens
with a smudge over the exact place he’s standing. I smash my
fists against my eyes and look again. But he’s looking at me
funny too.
“Cassandra?”
I back away, still blinking to get the crazy blur out of my
eyes. Is this an early symptom of a heart attack or something?
Am I going blind thanks to some sudden, undiagnosed vision
problem?
He walks toward me, speaking, but I only hear a muffled
garble of words. And if possible, he’s getting even more transparent. He’s blending in with the bushes, the ocean, the
sunset behind him. Speechless, I retreat, stumbling onto the
back lawn.
Lawrence sets a foot on the grass. I see his almost translucent
lips form my name, and then he’s gone. Dissolved into the
background.

happen. It couldn’t have happened. I must really be
going blind. Or I’m having a stroke.
Maybe I’m dying. Or dead.
I move closer to the lawn where Lawrence had been standing.
One step.
Another.
And then a faint haze of color takes shape in front of the
bushes. My heart is beating against my rib cage as if it’s trying
to escape. I move closer and the colors darken a shade. The
shape takes a recognizable form. Human. A dull mumble
reaches my ear.
“Lawrence?” My voice shakes.
I run toward the bushes and push past the scratchy branches
lashing my skin. The shape ahead of me grows darker and more
vivid with each passing second. The mumble becomes strained,
like bad reception on a cell phone.
“Cassandra?”
“Lawrence!”
I push past the final, overgrown hedge. My foot touches
sand. And I run smack into Lawrence’s chest.
My eyes meet his. He grips my arms, his face pale as a sheet.
“Cassandra!”
I can’t get a good breath. I pull out of his grip, staring
at him, terrified. “What was that? What. In the world. Just
happened?”
He says nothing, his eyes wide.
“What happened?” I demand. “You disappeared. You vanished. You…”
“Dissolved into the background?” he asks, his voice trembling.
“Yes…”
“I didn’t disappear,” he says. “You did. I was shouting your
name. Didn’t you hear me?”
“I did until you melted into nothingness.”
He shakes his head, dazed. “I was here the whole time.”
“So was I!”
“Then what happened?”
“I don’t know!” I shout. “I have no idea. I’m freaking out
here as much as you.”
We’re both quiet for a moment, breathing hard and waiting for the other person to figure this all out. Lawrence looks
toward the hedges, and I follow his gaze.
“Maybe it was an entirely random event,” he says. “A heat
wave. A pulse of energy.”
He starts toward the bushes. I grab his hand. “What are
you doing?”
“I want to see…”
“Don’t get too close!” I insist, pulling him back.
He taps his fist to his mouth, his brow furrowed with concentration. “What if…what if we try it again? See if the same
thing happens?”
“Are you crazy?”
“It’s worth a try.”
“No,” I say firmly. “What if you disappear, only this time you
don’t come back?”
Lawrence considers this. Then, without answering, he steps
toward them again.
“Don’t!” I shout.
“I have to see.”
His hands brush along the coarse leaves. He bends to examine the trunks and roots, grinding a pinch of sand between
his fingertips.
“It looks normal to me,” he says. “I think we need to try
again.” He stands and holds out his hand. “Come on.”
“You’re insane,” I say, folding my arms. “I’m not going anywhere near that path.”
“So you’re planning to spend the night on the beach? We have to
go through there sooner or later. We might as well try it together.”
I shake my head, but somehow my feet move toward him.
This is stupid. This is Russian roulette. Something seriously
weird is going on, and we’re asking for a second helping.
“One test,” I say. “And we come right back to the beach if
anything weird starts to happen.”
He nods, taking my hand. His palm is sweaty. His eyes
glint with nervousness and excitement. I don’t know why
he’s so eager to dematerialize again.
“On three,” he says. “This is crazy. You are crazy.”
“Whatever you do, don’t let go of my hand.”
For as long as your hand exists
. “We’re crazy.”
“One…two…three.”
The pathway ahead of me blurs as we step through the
narrow corridor. Within three steps, Lawrence starts to go
fuzzy. I gasp. “It’s happening.” “Do you feel anything?”
“Why would I? You’re the one disappearing.”
“Keep going,” he says, though his voice is becoming more
muffled.
“We should stop.”
Even though he’s fading before my eyes, I can still feel his
grip on my hand. He pulls me toward the lawn.
“Lawrence, I’m freaking out. I want to go back.”
“Keep going!” His voice is garbled and faint. Vanishing.
I stumble into the yard, pulled by the fading shape in
front of me. His grip lightens, like sand sifting through
my fingers. My pulse is pounding in my head. My ears are
ringing.
“Stop!” I shout. I make out the slightest suggestion of his
silhouette before he’s gone.
“Lawrence! Go back to the beach! Hurry!” Frantic, I
smash through green branches until, gasping for breath, I
collapse onto the sand.
What is happening? I’m losing it. I am legitimately losing it.
Or maybe I’m not. Maybe this is the end of the world. Not a
big bang but a whimper. Everyone just vanishes. It would make
a fantastic sci-fi novel.
Two hands clamp down on my shoulders. “Cassandra.”
Screaming, I whirl around. Lawrence is on his knees before
me, panting and pale, but flesh and bone.
“Did you see Ned?” he asks.
“What?”
“Ned.”
I blink. “What are you talking about?”
“Ned was on the back lawn. You didn’t see him?”
I stare at him, my brain unable to handle all of this. I feel
sick, light-headed. I bend forward to keep from throwing up.
Lawrence’s shoulders rise and fall with his breath. His eyes scan
my face, as if searching for answers embedded somewhere in
my eyes.
“Are you a ghost?” he whispers.
“What? No! What are you—? Of course I’m not!”
He cocks his head, unsure. My jaw sets. “If I were a ghost,
would you feel this?” I punch him in the arm.
“Say!” He rubs the spot, grimacing. Then his eyes narrow. “It
could be a trick. I’m not familiar with the supernatural.”
“I’m not a ghost, Lawrence.”
“Well, neither am I. So, what’s the explanation?” He taps his
fist to his mouth, deep in thought. “What if it’s the pathway
that’s haunted?”
“But we’ve both walked it a hundred times and nothing
strange has ever happened,” I say. “Whatever is going on, it has
something to do with you.”
“Or you.”
“Or us together…”
Our eyes meet. Lawrence pushes his fingers into the sand,
absently carving a line as he thinks. Then he looks up hesitantly.
“I say we try it again. Maybe if we run, we can make it to the
house together.”
I shake my head, but he grabs my hands.
“Once more. Please.”
We try it three more times. Running at full speed the first
time, crawling on hands and knees the second, and pausing in
the middle the last time to examine the bushes and surroundings. But each pass brings the same result. The person in front
vanishes, as if some otherworldly force is determined to blot
them out.
As the sun dips low, the sky orange and purple with the
coming twilight, Lawrence and I sit on the beach in silence,
staring out at the waves like the first time we met. But I have
no words this time. No witty punch lines. What can you say
when faced with the inexplicable?
Lawrence pinches the bridge of his nose, exhaling. And then
suddenly he snaps his head up. “What?” I ask.
“What year is it?”
“Excuse me?”
“What year do you think you’re from? You said nineteen
twenty-two was more than ninety years ago.”
“Because it was.”
He swallows hard, says nothing.
“Do you dispute this fact?”
For a long pause, he only stares at me. Then he releases a
shaky breath and rubs his face.
“Is it possible?” He mutters to himself. “From the first time I
met her, all the confusion, all the strange insisting.”
“What are you talking about?”
He bites his lip, as if preparing his words carefully.
“Cassandra…this is my uncle’s private beach. At his home. He
built it three years ago. It’s never belonged to anyone else. The
year is nineteen twenty-five.”
Now it’s my turn to stare.
Is he trying to be funny? Or is he truly crazy? Schizophrenic?
Or…
The image of Lawrence vanishing into the air like a cloud of
steam returns to me. An undeniable event. Tested five times.
A terrible thought pierces my mind. What if he’s the ghost?
Haunting this beach for the last ninety-plus years? That would
explain why he thinks it’s 1925, why he acted so strangely the
first time I saw him.
But…he’s a solid entity. I can feel him. He breathes. He
gets wet. He’s changed clothes. I’m not well acquainted with
ghost rules and decorum, but I’m pretty sure they don’t change
outfits. I take his hand in mine. Warm flesh. The firmness of
bones beneath it.
“Cassandra…what are you doing?”
I don’t respond, but instead press two fingers to the smooth
inside of his wrist. My head and body are in too much turmoil.
I can’t get a read on his pulse. He stares at me but doesn’t move,
as if he’s watching me in a strange dream.
I set my fingertips on the base of his neck, where the jawline
and the throat connect. And there it is. The soft, warm movement of blood passing through the carotid artery.
“You’re definitely alive,” I say softly.
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.”