“I can’t believe I’m even hearing this,” he says softly. “We’ve always believed that the Montauk Project was real. It’s why we . . .” He waves his hand in the air between us.
“I know, I’m just . . .” I turn away, concentrating on the framed records hanging on the wall above our heads. As far as I can tell, Lydia 2 devoted almost all of her time to the Montauk Project—and to Grant by association.
The whole thing suddenly makes me irrationally angry. I didn’t pick Grant, but here I am, forced to pretend I’m in love with him.
And his shirt is stupid anyway.
“Look, I need to get to work.” I lean over, hoping he’ll take the hint and move out of the booth. He doesn’t.
“You don’t have to be in for an hour,” he says. He’s starting to look less hurt and more worried. “Your food hasn’t even come yet. What’s going on with you?”
“I’m not hungry anymore. You should eat it.” My words are clipped and short.
“Lydia, come on.” Hannah’s eyes are wide with concern. “Stay.”
“I’m sorry.” I sigh. “I’m fine . . . just tired, I guess. I’ll call you both later, okay?”
“All right. If you’re sure nothing’s wrong.” Grant stands up and holds out his hand. I reluctantly let him pull me up and out of the booth. “See you soon.” I jerk to the side before his mouth can land on mine. His lips graze my cheek.
“Bye.” I lift my hand up at Hannah, and then rush toward the door. It opens as I reach it, and Shannon Perkins and a few other cheerleaders from school stream into the diner. They are talking and laughing, but Shannon meets my eye as she pushes past me.
“Excuse me,” she says quickly.
I smile automatically. “Shannon, hi! I haven’t seen you all summer.”
She gives me an odd look, and the rest of her friends stop and stare at us. “Oh. Lydia. Hi.”
At her tone, I freeze. Of course, Lydia 2 and Shannon weren’t childhood friends, and now I look like a complete ass. “Sorry, I’ll just be . . .” I reach around one of the girls and fumble for the door handle. Someone giggles, a high, mocking sound. I feel Hannah and Grant staring at my back, wondering how I could possibly think I’m friends with a group of cheerleaders. My face is hot as I exit the diner.
I’m not doing a very good job of being myself today.
Halfway down the sidewalk, I stop and take a deep breath. I shouldn’t have run away like that, but I don’t want to be Lydia 2 anymore. I miss being myself. I miss my parents, and journalism, and even my old organized bedroom.
But most of all, I miss my grandfather.
The most logical step is to stop trying to be someone I’m not. To give up on Lydia 2 and re-create my old life as best I can, starting with dumping Grant. I could join the newspaper again and try to build a new relationship with my parents. I’d never get my grandfather back, but I might be able to reclaim some of the life I remember.
Only I can’t.
Because I’m too scared.
The old me would have barged into this new life, determined to find out what happened to my grandfather and to fix it. But something changed in me after I watched Dean get sucked into the time machine. After I saw a bullet tear through Wes’s shoulder, his blood dripping to the white floor.
The last time I tampered with the past, I changed—and lost—so much. What if changing something in this new time line affects the future in some horrible, unknowable way?
But this isn’t working. I have been trying so hard to neatly slot into Lydia 2’s life: re-creating her relationship with my parents, not disrupting things with Grant, trying to come to terms with Wes being gone. Today proves that it’s not enough. Even my absent mother is noticing that I’ve changed. I can’t completely hide who I am.
Maybe it’s time to let go of that fear. To start reclaiming my old life again, at least a little bit.
A bell dings as the door to my father’s hardware store opens.
I turn toward the sound. “Can I help you?”
A man stands in the doorway. The afternoon sun falls down on him from the front windows, making his honey-colored skin look like it’s glowing.
“Lydia Bentley.”
I straighten. “Do I know you?”
He smiles at my suspicious tone and starts to come closer. The shop is small and cluttered, so he has to walk carefully. Shovels hang on the walls and piles of rakes are stacked in the corner like forks nestled in a silverware drawer. The man skirts a bag of fertilizer and a large clay pot as he approaches the counter. I slowly shut the magazine I’ve been reading.
“I was just getting ready to close.” The shop is empty except for the two of us. The man looks harmless, but how does he know my name?
I slowly reach for the phone that my dad keeps tucked under the counter.
“It’s okay. We know each other.”
I look him over. He’s of medium height, with short dark hair, thick eyebrows, and a wide nose. I’d guess he’s in his midthirties. “I’m sorry, but I’ve never seen you before.”
At my words, he tilts his head, assessing me. His smile fades. “You really don’t know who I am, do you?”
I rest my hand on the cool plastic of the portable phone, but I don’t pick it up. Not yet. “Should I?”
He nods. “I’m Jonathan. . . . But you know me as Resister.”
“Resister?”
“From the boards.” At my blank stare, he continues to explain. “Message boards. The Montauk Conspiracy message boards?”
“What did you just say?” My hand clenches, curling tightly around the phone.
“You haven’t been on in
