I thought it would be nice to be by myself for a minute, but somehow it’s worse. At least when I’m around the other kids I can trick myself into thinking I’m not quite so alone. But now the solitude is heavy and consuming, and I can’t ignore it. I rub my hands together in an effort to create even a small bit of warmth.
The hallway is deserted. Suddenly feeling defiant, I spin in a small circle. As rebellions go, it’s pretty small, but it does make me feel a little better. They cannot entirely control me. I can’t forget that.
I hear a noise from up ahead, and I automatically shrink back against the wall. It’s footsteps, and they’re coming closer. One of our first lessons was on how to conceal ourselves. Because recruits are in and out of the facilities so frequently, we are trained to hide from people we don’t know, especially in isolated areas. For one thing, you never know when you might be running into a future or past version of yourself.
This stretch of hallway connects to another corridor, making a T-shape. I doubt there are even any cameras around here, but I still look around for a place to hide.
There is a small alcove to my right and I duck into it. From here I can see the hallway, but anyone approaching won’t be able to see me. I make my breathing shallow and low, and I lock my muscles. I am getting better at being still, like Wes always was. But thinking of him makes me want to break something, so I force him from my mind.
The footsteps get louder. Closer. Now I can tell that it’s two people, not one, and that they’re approaching from the left. Survival training is starting to pay off.
Someone says something in a low voice, and someone else . . . giggles. Down here? It doesn’t make sense. I peer around the edge of the alcove and then pull back quickly as two figures round the corner. They stop right in front of me, but just out of sight. I hold my breath as I wait to see what they do.
“We’re going to get caught,” a girl’s voice says. She sounds oddly familiar.
“There are no cameras here.”
I press my hands to my mouth. It’s Wes’s voice. But who is he with?
“It’s not safe.”
“Stop worrying so much.” He sounds like he’s on the verge of laughing.
I hear the rustle of clothing, and then the soft sound of lips touching.
I squeeze my hands into fists. He’s kissing someone. Of course. It’s probably another mission. I bet it’s that pretty dark-haired recruit who stared at him in the Assimilation Center. All I want to do is fly around the corner and rip both of their heads off. But I satisfy myself with craning my neck to try and see who she is.
They shift to the right as Wes pushes her lightly against the wall. I suddenly have a perfect view of dark red hair and pale skin.
It’s me.
He’s kissing me.
I can’t help gasping, but it doesn’t matter—they’re too caught up in each other to notice what’s happening around them.
They are both wearing the black recruit uniform, and Wes’s hair is shorter than it was the last time I saw him. He sinks his hands into her—my—hair and pulls me closer. This other version of me has her eyes closed tight and runs her fingers up his back. He leans away a little and whispers something against her mouth, and she laughs softly.
“I missed you,” I hear myself say. “I hate all this pretending.”
I want to burst out of this hiding spot, to grab myself and ask how old I am, to demand to know the future, and most importantly, what could ever have changed to make me forgive Wes?
But I can’t. If nothing else, the Montauk Project has finally taught me to stop interfering with time. Interacting with a future version of myself would be messing with a line I’m no longer willing to cross.
I watch as they touch each other’s cheeks like they’re trying to memorize the individual curves and dips. “We don’t have much time,” she says quietly.
I’ve never heard my voice in person like this. Mine, but not mine. Lower than I thought it would be, or maybe that’s just because of the way Wes is looking at her.
“We’re supposed to leave tonight. They don’t want us to stay—we’re both here in the past right now, remember?”
“I know.” His hands tighten on her shoulders. “I don’t like to think about that time.”
“I hated you.”
“I’m sorry.”
Future me scrunches up her face and pokes him in the stomach. Love has made her skin glow and her hair shine. There’s no way this happy, healthy girl can be the same one I just saw in that cloudy glass door.
Wes grabs her finger and pulls her close again. He presses his lips to her forehead and smiles. He looks lighter than I’ve ever seen. “Let’s go, Lyd. Before they realize we’re gone.”
She takes his hand and together they walk back up the corridor.
I step out from behind the corner and stare at the now-empty hallway. I press my hand to my chest, the exact place where the pocket watch would fall if I were still wearing it.
For the first time since I arrived down here, I feel a small stirring of hope.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo by Joshua Simpson
RACHEL CARTER grew up in the woods of Vermont. A graduate of the University of Vermont and Columbia University, Rachel has been a teacher, a nanny, a caterer, and a bellhop. She
