Wes catches my eye and smiles again, and I know this is one of those times, surrounded by family, in a sun-drenched backyard in August, knowing that the Montauk Project is gone forever, where I can almost forget that I ever had a life before this.
Hours later, after I have eaten cake and danced with Lucas and Dr. Bentley, after the sun has gone down, shedding red and pink rays across the makeshift wooden dance floor, Wes finds me at a table in the corner, my heels kicked off and my legs propped up on a chair. “Tired?” he asks, leaning over me.
I tilt my head back to smile at him. His tie is hanging loose against his white shirt, and his newly cut hair is just starting to fight back against the grease he used to slick it into place.
“My feet are killing me,” I tell him. “I hate new shoes.”
He picks up my legs, sits down in the chair, and starts to massage my insoles, digging his thumbs into the arches. “Oh God,” I groan, leaning back against my own chair. “Have I ever told you that I love you?”
He gives me his half smile. “Once or twice.”
We are silent for a while, watching the last few couples spin in lazy circles around the dance floor. Most of the band has gone home and just a trumpeter is left. He is drawing out the notes, mournful and slow.
Wes drops my foot into his lap. “Are you ready to go home? Mary and Lucas left an hour ago.”
I nod. We stand, I slip my shoes back on, and we walk out to his truck. In the dark driveway, he holds the passenger’s-side door open for me and helps me in, his hand skimming along the side of my thigh.
When we reach the small shack, he grabs my hand as soon as I get out of the truck and pulls me down toward the beach. The moon is almost full and it reflects off the water, the circle of light a halo on the black surface. Wes sinks onto the wet sand and tries to pull me down next to him.
“No way. I’m not wrecking this dress; it cost half my paycheck.”
His voice dips as he says, “So just take it off.”
“Don’t get too excited.” I raise my eyebrows. “The girdle I’m wearing covers more than a bathing suit.”
“Fine.” He reaches up and guides me down until I’m sitting on his lap. “Happy now?”
I nod, leaning back against him.
“Don’t go to work tomorrow.” I feel his lips against my neck. “Come out on the boat with me. I want to know you’re close by.”
“I have to go to work. We need the money.”
His arms close around mine. “It was easier back then, in a way.”
I know what he means. Being a Montauk Project recruit was mindless. Food, clothes, all the basics were provided. We never had to make any choices. Our futures were laid out in front of us. But I defied that destiny, and now Wes and I are two orphans trying to survive on our own. I never thought I would be talking about bills at eighteen.
“But this is still better.”
He squeezes me. “Still better.”
The ocean is calm, the waves softly pushing against the shore. “Regrets?” Wes whispers into my hair.
I tip my head back against his shoulder and stare up at the waxing moon. It is a question he asks me once a week, sometimes daily, and I know he is worried that I miss my family and my original life in 2012.
“I won’t ever regret what we did. We had to end the Project, for us and for the other recruits. I’m just happy we both made it out alive.”
He rests his chin against my forehead. “I’m sorry I scared you.”
“You should be. That was the worst hour of my life.”
Before the first bomb went off, Wes used those thirty seconds to rush at the soldiers in the observation room. By then the mirror was almost completely broken, and he dove through, hiding behind the wall when the explosion hit. Most of them blindly copied his actions, and only one soldier died when he didn’t duck down quickly enough. Wes managed to get out of the observation room and into the hallway before the other bombs went off, but amid the chaos and the smoke and the confusion, it took him almost an hour to make his way back out of the Facility.
A few weeks ago, I convinced my boss at the newspaper to send me to Camp Hero to try to get more answers for a bigger story on what happened out in the woods that day. I interviewed the major general who oversees the army base. He gave me the same stock answers that he gave the other reporters. We’re shocked and saddened by how sick these men were. Camp Hero is in no way affiliated with the events of that day. But his right eye twitched whenever he lied, and I knew he was aware of what was happening down in that Facility.
But I tried to put his words behind me. Even if the men leading Camp Hero knew about the Montauk Project, it doesn’t change what happened: without Tesla’s notes, without a time machine or Dr. Faust, the Montauk Project is gone forever. Wes and I succeeded.
Wes’s hands are resting against my stomach. I pick one up and hold it in my lap, playing with his long fingers, the flat, broad shape of his nail beds. “I can’t pretend that I don’t think about my parents a lot, or wish I could see them again. And I love Mary, but
