After I take my seat and buckle in, I reach into my bag and remove the small stack of postcards and look at each one. Most of them are blank, but the one in his handwriting and the two in mine say the same thing—we meant something to each other. We didn’t want it to end.
The plane taxis down the runway, and we lift into the sky. And that’s when I feel it. Finally, something I can compare to the feeling of traveling with Bennett. A small twist. A lightness in my stomach. I feel this incredible rush of adrenaline, and I can’t help smiling when I think of what’s about to meet me. I adjust the pillow between the seat and the wall of the plane, grip my postcards, and lean my head against the small double-paned plastic window. I watch as Illinois slips and shrinks away below.
My neoprene belt is strapped tight around my waist, my music is thumping loud in my ears, and the soles of my shoes are leaving little impressions in the damp sand as I run. I look over my shoulder at the sun climbing fast on the horizon, and I let my head keep turning, following the line that divides the turquoise bay from the deep orange sky. I still can’t believe I’m here.
I just wish he were too. The change of scenery helped, but it still aches to miss him so much, to look for his face among strangers on the street and to think of him every time I pass one of the hundreds of postcard racks scattered throughout this tourist town. And even though it’s Bennett I miss most, I also hate knowing I’ll never feel that twist in my stomach again, the one that made me feel queasy but completely alive.
Up ahead I can see the tall rocks and jagged cliffs that mark the end of the beach, and I feel my arms pump harder, pushing me toward them. I fix my gaze on the rock closest to the water and sprint with everything I have, stopping only when my fingertips touch it.
I shake out my arms and legs, walking back and forth along the beach as I cool down. When my breathing has returned to normal, I find a dry spot on the sand and recline on my elbows so I can take in the view. Then I lie back into the heat. I close my eyes, and for a long time I don’t think about anything but the feeling of the sun on my face and the sound of the water lapping against the shore.
My head falls lazily to one side, and I exhale as I open my eyes, but instead of seeing the rocks that mark the end of the beach, I find myself staring at a picture of the San Francisco skyline. My heart starts racing again, maybe even faster than it did as I ran. I twist onto my side, reach forward to remove the image from the sand, and stare at it.
I flip it over.
You didn’t get your postcard.
I want to look behind me. I have a feeling he’s there, but I shut my eyes tight, because I don’t think I can handle it if I look around and discover that the beach is still empty. But I remind myself that the postcard is real and tangible in my hands, and I force myself to sit up and look over my shoulder.
Bennett Cooper is sitting in the sand just a couple of feet away from me, and I take him in, from his mess of hair, down to his concert T-shirt, past his jeans, and finally to his flip-flops. I stare at him, my lips pressed together, slowly shaking my head back and forth. This can’t be happening.
“Hey, you.”
I feel tears slide down my cheeks, and I think I say, “Hi,” but it doesn’t matter, because within seconds he’s right next to me, and all I can feel is his fingers on the back of my neck. His kisses land everywhere, on my wet cheeks and my forehead, on my eyelids and my neck, and finally on my mouth, and we pull each other close, neither one allowing even the smallest gap between us. “I missed you so much,” he murmurs into my hair, and I want to say it back, but I just can’t.
He brings his thumb to my face and wipes my cheeks dry, and I finally find my words. “You’re really here,” I say, and he nods and kisses me again.
“Yeah,” he says. “I’m really here.”
I can’t help smiling at him. “I didn’t think I’d ever see—” My words catch in my throat, but there’s no reason to finish the sentence. He’s here, and I just want to remember how it felt when I didn’t wonder if he would be. I bury my face in his neck, warm from the sun and salty from the heat, and I stay there for a moment, just breathing him in. “I’ve missed you.” This time I say it out loud, and when my hands find his hair again, I let my fingertips get lost in it, then pull back so I can see his face. He looks gorgeous and sun-kissed and so…here.
He stretches out next to me and we prop ourselves up on our elbows facing each other, and suddenly I feel like we’re back on Ko Tao, lying on the beach, wishing we were kissing, and wondering what to do with our hands. But this time we both seem to know exactly what to do with them, and when he kisses me again, my hand goes straight for the bit of skin peeking out between his T-shirt and jeans, and I grip his waist, feeling the curve of his hip beneath my fingers. I’m relieved when he tightens his arms around me, because I still can’t seem to get close enough to him to believe this is actually happening. We finally separate from each other, but just barely, and I rake my fingers through his dark tumble of bangs and let them linger there as I watch his face, lit by the morning sun but brightened by something else entirely.
“You look surprised to see me,” he says.
I laugh under my breath. “How are you here right now?”
“I told you I’d keep coming back until you were sick of me.” The corners of his mouth turn up in a half smile. “What?” he asks. “You didn’t believe me?”
“No.” I shake my head. “I wasn’t sure what to believe.” I’m still not sure. But right now, I just want to know that he isn’t going to disappear at any second. I rest my forehead against his. “Are you back for good?”
“Yeah,” he says as his eyes light up, “I’m back.”
“How do you know you won’t…”
Bennett looks at me and his expression turns serious. “I was here yesterday.” His eyes move behind us to the grove of trees at the top of the beach and I follow his gaze. “I wanted to be sure I was really back in control again before…” His voice trails off and he lets out a heavy sigh. “It was all I could do to stay away, but…I was looking at you, and for a second I thought that maybe it was better if I—I don’t know.…You just looked so happy.”
“I was. But I’m happier now.”
He smiles. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, definitely.”
“La Paz, huh?”
“Where else?” I picture the circuitous routes of our travel plans, how the lines crossed in one only place. I rest my hand on his waist again, tracing tiny circles on his bare skin. “Tell me everything,” I say. “Where have you been? What have I missed?”
He leans forward and kisses the tip of my nose. “You haven’t missed much. I spent the last month and a half watching you.”
“Watching me?” I lean back so I can see his face.
“You were right. That morning at the Northwestern track—I was there. I just hadn’t done it yet.” He reaches over my shoulder, grabs a little bundle of my curls, and twists them around his finger. “Ever since the night you got knocked back, I’ve been stuck in San Francisco. I tried to travel, but no matter what date or time I chose, I’d arrive at the same place: Monday, March 6, 1995, 6:44 a.m. At that damned track. God, it was like being stuck in Groundhog Day. I could only stay for a minute or so before I got knocked back, but it was the only place I could go, so that’s where I went.”
“I knew it was you.” I knew I wasn’t crazy.
He shoots me a small smile and keeps talking. “For some reason, at the beginning of this month, something changed. Instead of landing at the track on March 6, I arrived on a sunny day in May and you knew me. And since then, everything’s been slowly returning to normal. Every day I could travel a little bit further, stay a little bit longer, but I still couldn’t get back to you—to Evanston or here—until yesterday.”
“So what changed?”
“I don’t know,” he says, “but I bet you do. What did you do differently?”
I think back to the beginning of the month and it al
l comes back to me to me in a rush. Are you aware of the date, Señorita Greene? June first, señor. That was the day I decided not to stay in Evanston, moping around town and waiting for Bennett to return. The day I listened to Anna’s advice and put myself on the other path—the one I wanted to be on. The day I made it possible for Bennett to come back.
“I decided to come here,” I say. “You never came back. When Argotta told me about this trip, I just knew I needed to come here.”
“Without me.” He looks at me with a sad smile and I nod, and for a long time after that, we’re quiet. “I should have told you about the letter.”
“Yeah, you should have.” I bring my fingers to his cheek, and when his eyes find mine I give him a smile that says he’s forgiven. He smiles back, but I can tell he’s thinking about something. I wonder if he’s wishing he could do it over again, but I have a feeling his rules are back in place and we won’t be changing our own history again any time soon. “So, do I know everything now?”
He lets out a laugh and looks at me again. “Yeah, you’re all caught up. I have absolutely no idea what happens from here.”
“Good.” I watch him, thinking that my whole future suddenly looks different again. I’ll get to feel that uncomfortable twist in my stomach and I’ll poke the sharp end of little red pins into my wall-size map and I’ll kiss him in romantic little villages and we’ll drink lattes in hidden coffee shops.
“You know what you need to see next?” he asks, and I smile and shake my head. “Paris.”
I remember how we walked along the path back at Devil’s Lake, Bennett excited about teaching me how to climb a rock and me wishing we were in a Parisian café. He stops, and an impish grin forms on his face. “Are you hungry for breakfast?”
“Breakfast?” I laugh and look around the empty beach. “Now?” He wants to take me to breakfast. In Paris. Right now. I look down at the running clothes, dried on my skin.
“Why not?” He stands up and holds out his hand.
I consider my clothes again, but within a matter of seconds, I’ve decided I don’t care, because after all, it’s breakfast in Paris. I let him help me up.
We stand there on the beach, and I put my hands in his. He smiles, and I can see how excited he already is to show me something new. “You ready?”
I start to say yes. But then I stop. I look around at the water, at the rocks and the cliffs and the mountains that serve as a backdrop. And suddenly I don’t want to be in Paris. I don’t want to be anywhere else but here. I drop one of his hands, breaking our ability to travel in the way to which we’ve become accustomed, and I wrap myself up in his arms as I lean back into his chest.
“See that yellow umbrella way down there?” I point to the other side of the beach and look up at his face.
He squints as he stares into the distance. “Yeah.” He looks down at me with a puzzled smile.
“That place has the best Mexican coffee in town.”
His smile turns soft with understanding. “Does it, now?”
I nod as if I’m some kind of expert on La Paz. And I am. At least as far as present company is concerned. “It does.” Bennett brings his hand to my face and kisses me like there’s no better place in the world to be right now anyway.
I knit my fingers together with his. Then I reach down and pick up my San Francisco postcard from the sand and wave it in the air. “Come on,” I say as we start off for the umbrella. “My turn to buy you one.”
He bumps my hip. I bump his back. And we walk down the beach toward something he’s never seen before.
So many people have influenced this story about love, friendship, and family; I’ve been blessed to know all three in abundance.
My husband, Michael, is the love of my life and a partner in the truest sense of the word. If I could travel back to 1995, I’d choose you all over again.
My son, Aidan, and my daughter, Lauren, had to share my time and attention with a bunch of imaginary people to make this book possible, and all they asked for in return was a “make-up story” of their own at bedtime. I’m so grateful for their unconditional love and support. I hope I’ve made them as proud as they always make me.
At its heart, this is a story about choosing the kind of life you want to live and pursuing it with tenacity. My dad, Bill Ireland, taught me how to do that, and I owe him big-time. I’m equally thankful for my mom, Susan Cline, who flat-out loves me for exactly who I am—always has. Not every mother would reply to the words “Guess what? I’m writing a book” with “Well, it’s about time.” Every kid deserves fans like these two.
My family is big and wonderful and ridiculously supportive. Special thanks to: my brothers, Ben and Jeff Ireland; David and Kristen Stone; Randy, Sharon, Brandon, and Sonja Cook; Karen Clarke; and Joanna, Eric, and Kristina Ireland. I’m especially thankful for Jim and Becky Stone’s constant love and support, and for their being so enthusiastic about this project; and for my grandma, Edith Ireland, who should have been here for all of this.
At first, I didn’t realize how much I needed to tell a story about finding a home with a family that isn’t your own. I will forever be grateful to the DeLongs, who, when I needed it most, gave me a world that didn’t exist on a map.
I’m still overwhelmed by all the support I’ve received from my friends, and I love all of them more than they know. My earliest readers, Heidi Temkin, Stacy Peña, Molly Davis, Sonia Painter, Elle Cosimano, and Spencer Davis, were especially generous with their time and kind with their feedback. And I’m especially thankful for my business partners, Molly and Stacy, who wholeheartedly supported me in this new endeavor and never even questioned whether they should. They are the best kind of friends.
There are three extraordinary girls embedded in these pages: Hosanna and Sophie Fuller, my real-life smart, athletic, and worldly heroines; and Claire Peña, a demanding, discerning reader whose love for stories and characters first inspired me to write for young adults. Special thanks to Hosanna for loving time-travel plots and music, and for letting me bend her ear about both when she probably had better things to do.
Huge thanks to: DJ Stacy, for advising on all things college radio; Anita Van Tongerloo for the Spanish lessons; Kate Wolffe for the cross-country tips; Mark Holmstrom for help with climbing technique; Dr. Mike for the medical consults; and Pearl Jam and Phish for allowing me to use their beautiful lyrics.
And there aren’t enough words to thank the two remarkable women who brought this book to life: Caryn Wiseman and Lisa Yoskowitz.
My agent, Caryn Wiseman, believed in this story—and in me—from that very first handshake-hug-thing we did, and she never lets me forget it. I’m especially thankful for her early editorial guidance, which opened doors I hadn’t considered and led my characters in a beautiful new direction. Huge thanks to Caryn’s extended team, Taryn Fagerness and Michelle Weiner, who represent me with such passion and dedication, and to everyone at the Andrea Brown Literary Agency, for all their support.
I’m simply in awe of my editor, Lisa Yoskowitz, whose insights and ideas made this a much better book, and whose patience and high expectations made me a much better writer. She completely got this story from day one, asked all the tough questions, and guided me through every twist and turn along the way. Lisa and the entire Disney-Hyperion team embraced Anna and Bennett so quickly and with such enthusiasm, I knew we had found the right home. Special thanks to Tori Kosara, for providing feedback on every draft, and to Whitney Manger, for her beautiful cover design.
Tamara Ireland Stone, Time Between Us
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends