I feel strange, like something has changed without my knowledge. I sit up quickly. The moon is spilling silver light onto the edge of my bed. I glance around the room and gasp as one of the shadows near the window breaks away from the wall. I try to scream, but I’m frozen as it moves and reforms.
It is coming closer, and I clench my fingers in the bedspread. A dark shape looms over me.
It is a person, I realize. A boy. And then the light from the moon slides across his face.
Wes.
CHAPTER 3
It’s you,” I whisper.
“Lydia.” His voice is hoarse. The sound of it breaks through the spell holding me still, and I rise onto my knees to face him.
“God, Wes. Where have you been? Are you okay? How’s your shoulder? Have you been leaving those things on my windowsill?” The words spill out of me, an endless flood I can’t stop.
“So many questions.” He smiles a little, so that just the corners of his mouth tilt up. “You haven’t changed.”
The comment makes something open inside of me, something I hadn’t realized was locked up tight. “I guess not.”
He doesn’t answer but steps closer. He moves with the same careful deliberateness I remember. He’s so familiar that it makes my chest hurt. I’ve been waiting to see his face for weeks, imagining his arms folded around me. But now that he’s here, I’m not sure how to act. The last thing he did was send me away from him, telling me we couldn’t be together.
As he gets closer, I see the weary look in his eyes. Something is wrong.
“What is it? Are you hurt?” I put my arm out but stop before I make contact, not sure if he’ll welcome it.
“No.” He lets the word hang there and steps closer. He’s dressed in the black, slick-looking uniform that all the recruits wear.
My hand is still outstretched and Wes takes another step and suddenly I’m touching him. I close my eyes as my fingertips graze his rib cage.
“You kept it.”
I look up. He’s staring down at the watch that’s resting against my chest.
“Of course I did.”
He leans in further and my hand flattens against his stomach. This time he’s the one who closes his eyes.
The moon is bright enough for me to see his face clearly. His nose has a slight bump at the bridge where I know he’s broken it. His cheekbones are sharp, his jaw even more pronounced. I wonder if he’s lost weight since I saw him last.
His eyelids slowly open and his black eyes lock onto mine. “I shouldn’t be here.”
“Don’t go.” I try to grip the fabric of his shirt, but it slips out of my hand. I pull back, staring at the dark liquid covering my palm.
“Are you bleeding?”
“It’s not mine.”
I reach for him with both hands, but he lightly takes hold of my wrists.
“The last time I saw you, you were covered in blood. It was falling onto the floor.” My voice cracks on the words.
“It’s not mine. I’m fine. It’s . . .” He looks away.
“Your arm. What happened?”
He keeps his grip on my wrists, connecting us even as he holds me apart from him.
“It was nothing. A flesh wound. It healed in a few days.” He shrugs, and I relax a little at the easy way he moves his shoulder. “The TM screwed up; the machines in 1944 are too unpredictable. I got back a day before you were scheduled to come through, and I fixed myself up before anyone could notice. They never even knew I followed you through time.”
“Wes.” I shift closer to him until our hands are trapped between us. “Why are you here? No, wait,” I say quickly. “I don’t care what the reason is. I’m just happy to see you.”
He drops my wrists and reaches up to cup my face. His hands are warm on my cheeks. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.” His voice is soft, a whisper.
“Me neither.” I lift my hands and place them over his. The pose reminds me of the first time we kissed, pressed against a tree in 1944. “The shell. The flower. The leaf. Did you leave them for me?”
He leans forward until our foreheads touch. I can smell him now, and I take in breath like I’m trying not to drown.
I feel him nod against me. “It was stupid, I know. . . .”
I smile at the thought of him sneaking into my room at night while I slept. He didn’t forget me. He didn’t leave me here alone.
“It wasn’t stupid,” I say. “I needed to know you were here in some way.”
“I was. I am.” The second he says the words, his arms stiffen and he lifts his head. “No, no, I shouldn’t have said that. Lydia, I came here to tell you something. You have to forget me. You have to forget about all of it.” He steps back, away from me.
“Wes.” I put my arms out again, but he turns toward the window. “I don’t understand. You’ve been leaving me those . . . gifts, and then you appear in my bedroom in the middle of the night to tell me that we can’t be together? It doesn’t make sense.”
He bends his head and I watch as he runs his fingers through his black hair. It has grown longer since I last saw him; it curls around the back of his neck now. “I know. I know.”
“What’s wrong? What happened?”
“Nothing.” He turns quickly to face me. “Lydia, just promise me that you’ll forget about the Montauk Project. And about me.”
I stare at him for a moment. His eyes are dark, unwavering, and I know he’s serious. He thinks I can just forget about him?
“No.” I shake my head. “I’ve tried to be this new Lydia. But
