Until We Meet Again

by Renee Collins

  “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.”

  Chapter 7

  Lawrence

  Two a.m. finds me at my desk. I haven’t even tried to lie down. I know I won’t sleep. Not tonight. Not after what I’ve seen. My hand grips the pen, trembles against the page, and words flow. They pour from me like a rushing tide, breaking against the paper in waves of unquenchable fervor. I don’t think, don’t try to construct a perfectly formed phrase reflective of my thoughts. I just write. And this feeling, to finally have the freedom of words I’ve craved all summer, is nearly as exciting as my discovery on the beach.

  When I’ve filled the last of the paper in my desk drawer, sweat beads on my upper lip and temples. My pulse pounds all the way to my fingertips. I set the pen down and sit back. I leaf through a few of the pages, and the impulsive wish to share my writing with someone burns through me. Cassandra’s face appears in my mind. I push through the sheer linen curtains hanging in the doorway to the balcony and go out to grip the stone rail. The salty tang of the ocean glides on the evening breeze, and I can hear the faint crash of surf, but the blackness of night covers the sight of it. Closing my eyes, I picture the ocean, the beach, Cassandra vanishing in a shimmering glint of color. Thinking about it makes me shiver all over.

  I feel as though I’m on the precipice of something incredible, something beyond rare. I have to capture everything about this moment. If I can crystallize it with words, then perhaps, when I’m shipped off to Harvard and a life of carefully planned obedience, I’ll have at least one moment of amazement to hold on to. I tighten my grip on the pages. There’s more. More I need to say. I’ll write all night if I have to.

  There’s fresh paper in Ned’s study. I move quietly down the hall and main stairs, hoping not to wake anyone. As I pass the foyer, however, a flash of lights catches my eye.

  Headlights.

  At this hour?

  Frowning, I step up to one of the thin, glass windows alongside the door. There’s an automobile outside, but it’s not in the driveway. It’s parked on the lawn, off to the side, partially hidden by bushes. If there had been a party tonight, I wouldn’t think anything of it. But there was no party. And no guests.

 
So what is that jalopy doing out there in the middle of the night?

  A door slams. The engine roars to a start. I strain to get a look at the driver, but he turns a hard left and peels out of the driveway.

  I watch until the lights vanish behind a row of trees in the distance. It’s not that I don’t trust our watchman, Porter, but I can’t help feeling uneasy. True, a house like this has a constant flow of people coming and going. Caterers, maintenance workers, and servants. But still…I make a note to talk to Porter about the car in the morning.

  Thinking of notes, excitement resurges in my chest. I head for the fresh ream of paper in the study and forget about the strange automobile.

  • • •

  The sultry murmur of a woman’s voice pulls me from heavy layers of sleep. A softness of flesh brushes against my cheek. Exhaustion fights back hard, but I pull myself into the dewy sunshine of consciousness.

  She speaks my name. “Lawrence.”

  A glimmer of long, golden hair comes to me. Her face. Her probing blue eyes. Cassandra. In the overbrightness of light streaming in through those linen curtains, I can see her standing over me. She’s come back.

  I sit up, inhaling sharply.

  Fay is perched on my bed beside me. Her slender eyebrow rises.

  “Morning, Lonnie.”

  I strain my eyes, and Cassandra’s face vanishes as she did last night on the beach. For a sharp, fleeting moment, the terrifying thought that it was all a dream cuts into my lungs. But I catch a glimpse of the frantic writings stacked on my desk and my stomach relaxes. It was real. It happened.

  Fay smiles a little and pulls at my loosened shirt. I’m still fully dressed, lying on top of the blankets where I collapsed sometime last night.

  “Up late studying, I assume?” she asks. “Getting ready for college?”

  My eyes dart to the papers on my desk once more, but this time with a surge of panic. I can’t remember much of what I wrote, but the words on the page seem to shine like a beacon, exposing my secret to Fay. I slide off the bed and grab for them as casually as I can, stuffing the pages into the drawer.

  “Something like that.”

  Fay takes my spot, reclining on my bed and curving her hips to expose just a touch of her lace stockings at the thigh.

  “You’ll make one heck of a lawyer, Lonnie, though I pity the woman who marries you. Lying all alone in bed at night as you study up for your next case.”

  “I suppose it will take a patient gal,” I say distractedly, still feeling nervous that she read the pages while I was sleeping. She has that knowing smile, but it’s her trademark. She makes sport of pretending she knows something you’d rather she didn’t.

  Fay stretches out her arms in a lazy yawn that makes her dress strap slide down her shoulder. She runs her fingertips along her décolletage.

  “I’d never put up with such a man,” she says. “I demand to be adored above everything else. I must be worshiped.”

  I met Fay here at the house at a party celebrating my arrival. She’s been appearing at social events all summer. She’s like a phantom. She never comes with anyone else, never speaks of a life outside the noise and frivolity of Ned’s parties. She exists only to haunt me with her sly laugh. And I still can’t quite figure out what she wants. Moments like these, I’m certain she’s trying to seduce me. But other times she seems aloof, even resentful of me.

  I glance at the door. “I suppose it’s rather late. Ned’s probably waiting for me.”

  Fay watches me and then sits up, brushing her sleeve back in place. “He gave that up hours ago. It’s almost noon, you know.”

  “Ah.”

  Fay’s still analyzing me, though she’s trying to hide it with a casual, almost bored expression. “As a matter of fact, you slept right through my visit. I have to go now.”

  “Must you?”

  She stands, and I catch a hint of hurt on her face. “I have an appointment in town.” She smooths her hair and breezes past. “Do ring when you’re ready to give me the time of day.”

  I grab her hand. “I’m sorry.”

  She forces a laugh. “What for?”

  “Fay.”

  All at once, she presses her lips to mine. Her kiss is short, but slow and tempting. The tip of her tongue brushes lightly against mine. It’s indecent and intoxicating in a way only she can manage. When she breaks off the kiss, a curl of triumph pulls at her smile. She pats my cheek.

  “Enjoy your studying.”

  With that, she glides out of my room, her hips swaying ever so slightly, like they always do.

  Feeling flushed, I loosen my collar. I have half a mind to run after her. But then my eyes fall to my desk. I slide open the drawer with a tug. I pull out my notes and scan over the words. Almost like a portal, they draw me right back to the emotions of yesterday. It’s afternoon now. Cassandra might be waiting for me. I set the pages down and soar out of my room.

  Uncle Ned is in the library, sipping a brandy and reading the paper. As I rush by, he sits up abruptly.

  “There you are, Lonnie! Being the slouch today, are you? You know, you missed Fay coming by.”

  “Don’t worry. I saw her.” I make a motion to the door. “Have to run, Ned.”

  Without waiting for his reply, I continue on to the back patio. Each step over the back lawn feels longer than the last. My breath is as fast and short as my heartbeat. Breaking into a full run, I crash through the bushy path.

  But the beach is empty.

  Waves lap against the shore in slim, white lines. Gulls screech overhead and dip in the salty wind. But no Cassandra. A line of doubt cuts into my heart. She should be here. I don’t want to even approach the what-ifs, but they creep up on me all the same.

  What if the doorway that allowed us to see each other has closed? What if she’s gone forever? What if she can come back, but she doesn’t want to? I stare at the shabby green bushes, which quiver in the ocean wind.

  She’ll come back. She has to come back. I plant myself on the sand, facing the pathway. I’ll wait all day and night if I have to. I’m not leaving until I see her one more time.

  Chapter 8

  Cassandra

  I stand at the entrance to the pathway. My eyes are closed. My hand brushes against the bushes. The smell of ocean and greenery hangs on the wind. The gentle repetition of breaking waves pulses in my ears. I’m here. I’m awake and very much alive. This moment is real. So whatever happens when I walk through these bushes will also be real.

  Exhaling deeply, I open my eyes. Let’s do this.

  One step follows another, each growing more confident. And even before I set my foot on the sand, I catch sight of him. He’s sitting on the beach, both hands pressed together at his lips, watching the bushes with a look of deep concentration. When he spots me, his eyes light up. He jumps to his feet.

  As he walks toward me, his enthusiasm shifts to a satisfied nod. “So it wasn’t a dream then.”

  “No. Not unless this has been the longest, most elaborate dream in human history.”

  “It’s good to see you,” he says. “For a while there, I thought you might not come.”

  “That was definitely a possibility. Last night left me pretty shaken up.”

  “I barely slept,” Lawrence concedes.

  “That makes two of us.”

  Standing here with him feels surreal and oddly normal at the same time. I don’t know what it should feel like to be honest.

  I realize I’ve been staring at Lawrence for at least thirty seconds in complete silence. He doesn’t seem to mind, but I look away quickly.

  “So,” I say awkwardly. “What happens now?”

  Lawrence shakes his head. “I confess. I don’t really have a plan. I just…knew I wanted to see you again.”

  I narrow my eyes. “Has this whole thing been an elaborate
plot to date me? You know, you could have just asked me out.”

  He lifts his hands like he’s been caught. “Was it so obvious?”

  I try to hold my serious expression, but his badly hidden smile makes us both laugh.

  “No, but seriously,” I say. “You’re really from nineteen twenty-five? Like, for real?”

  “Afraid I am.”

  “You walk into that house, and it’s nineteen twenty-five?”

  “Correct.”

  I rub my forehead. “It’s so weird.”

  “You said it,” he murmurs in an adorable 1920s style of agreement.

  The nineteen twenties. It might be my imagination, but the length of the beach we’re standing on has taken on an almost eerie change. What was once a simple coastline is now host to an unbelievable truth. How is it possible that Lawrence and I are here together? How is this happening? Why this beach? And why now? My eyes move from the rocky point on one end of the cover to the other. An idea bubbles up.

  “What if we tried going down one of those paths?” I ask, pointing. “Do you think the same thing would happen?”

  “It’s a good question.”

  “We should test it,” I say.

  “It’s certainly worth a try.”

  We start to climb out to the closer point. It’s windy, but the heat of the afternoon spreads down in brilliant white light. The crash of waves against the rocks fills the air with a salty mist that almost sparkles in the sun.

  “I’m almost afraid to try this,” I say, looking ahead at the rocky, bush-speckled path.

  “Afraid it might work?”

  “I guess so. I mean…what if I can travel into nineteen twenty-five?”

  “Or what if I can come into the future?” Lawrence asks.

  “I say we go to your time first. You’re living in the cooler era.”

  “That so?”

  “Definitely. I mean, I’m a fan of women’s rights and smartphones, but you have flappers and speakeasies and Fitzgerald.”

  “So you know a little about my time, then, I guess?”

  “Sure. We had a whole unit on the Roaring Twenties in English when we read The Great Gatsby.”