I press my lips together, not wanting to remember what it felt like when he said he never loved me, that it was all a lie. Is this a lie now? I try and hold on to that moment I saw in the hallway between the future versions of us. There must have been a reason for his betrayal, otherwise why would future me forgive him? Or was she just so in love, so lost, that she was willing to forget how he made her feel? Was future him playing her, too?
Wes suddenly lifts his head, his eyes bright and seeking mine. “Lydia, we need to talk. I need to explain—”
There is a knock on the door that cuts into his words.
“It’s the rest of the team,” I say. My thoughts wrapped up in Wes, I had almost forgotten why we were here.
He runs his hands through his hair. “We never have enough time.”
“I can’t think about this right now. I need to focus on the mission.” I start to cross the room.
“Lydia.” He grabs my arm as I move past him, forcing me to stop. The skin of my wrist grows warm under his touch. “Before this mission is over, we’ll talk. I’ll explain everything.”
I nod without looking at him and he peels his hand away from me, slowly, picking up his fingers one by one. As soon as I’m free I move toward the door again, ignoring the way my arm still tingles, ignoring the way he stares at my back as though he is trying to see through my flesh to what lies underneath.
The first recruit who enters is a petite, dark-haired girl. I take in her small, perfect nose, her olive skin, and I realize I’ve seen her before—in 1989, when I was posing as a recruit with Wes, in the Assimilation Center in the Project’s main facility in Montauk, New York. She watched Wes then as she watches him now, like he is something she wants to consume.
Wes lifts his chin at her, no more than a slight jerk, and I remember him telling me that her name is Twenty-two. He said he’d never spoken to her before, but that doesn’t mean anything when it comes to the recruits. They could have gone on countless missions together, traveled through time over and over without saying a word.
She enters the room with that deliberate prowl that all the long-term recruits have, brushing past me as though I’m another piece of furniture. She moves to stand next to Wes, and I turn to see a boy in the doorway. I immediately recognize his broad frame, his short brown hair. Thirty-one. He and I were sparring partners a few months ago, part of the same training group in the Center.
Now he enters the room, his black jacket hanging from one hand, as though he is going to his prom instead of attempting to kill the president. When he sees me, he stops. “You . . .”
I quickly shut the door, surprised that he would show his reaction so openly. Most recruits would act like Twenty-two, watching our exchange with a blank expression, her hands resting on her hips.
But then I see the way she leans in slightly toward Wes. Maybe she’s not as impassive as she seems.
Thirty-one briefly glances at the other two before he turns back to me. “There are seventeen shells where the water ends.”
I stare at him, blinking. It is a code phrase, one that all recruits use to identify themselves to each other in public. But the rocks are too sharp, I am supposed to say back.
“Oh wait.” He shakes his head. “We’re on a mission. I don’t have to say that. I keep forgetting. I did it to her too.” He gestures at Twenty-two. Her expression is still blank.
“That’s okay,” I say quietly.
His lips tilt up. It’s not quite a smile, but his eyes are warm. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”
This time I don’t answer.
Twenty-two looks directly at me. “You two know each other?”
“We were in training together,” I say.
Thirty-one opens his mouth to respond, but Wes moves so suddenly that everyone freezes, even though he is just crossing his arms over his chest. He is taller than Thirty-one by several inches, but not as muscular—Wes’s body is long and lean where Thirty-one’s is sturdy. “This isn’t a reunion.” His voice has changed again, remote but authoritative. That intimate, soft tone he used to tell me he volunteered for the mission has disappeared completely.
“You can call me Eleven,” he says to the room in general.
The rest of us go around and state our numbers, a collective lottery ticket instead of a group of people.
“The hallway and the room next door are secure too.” Twenty-two’s voice is low and husky, like she has a perpetual cold. “I cut the camera feed in both, so no one will see us enter or leave. And we have weapons if we need them, though we won’t be able to smuggle any of the guns into the party. We’ll all be screened by their security.”
“You think we’ll need guns?” I ask.
She shrugs and looks back up at Wes. She is so small she barely reaches his shoulder. “Who’s running the play?”
“I am,” he answers. “You have the I-units?”
She nods. “And this.” She reaches into the bodice of her white, slinky gown and pulls out a small vial. It reminds me of the first time I traveled into the past, to 1944, and met my great-great-aunt Mary, who told me the best way to hide your lipstick was in your bra. I can still picture us wrestling with the lipstick tube on her bed, laughing as our skirts tangled, but I push down the pang that the memory brings. She is now just another name on the list of lost people. Like my parents, and Hannah, my childhood best friend, who I left behind in my own time. Like Dean, Mary’s brother and my great-grandfather, who disappeared in
