I squint against the sunlight and look past him at the bright blue-green water that stretches out as far I can see. The cove is small; I can look in both directions and see its entire length. Giant boulders hold back the tranquil, turquoise bay until it meets the sea, and high, jagged rocks reach for the sky, like bookends holding the white sand between them firmly in place. I turn around and look behind me to find nothing but a dense collection of trees. There is no one here. Not anywhere.
Bennett’s watching me. He’s still holding my hands, which is a good thing, because I’m pretty sure I’ve stopped breathing. “I know, it’s a lame cliché. A secluded beach on a deserted island—” He stops short and looks at me. “Anna? Are you okay?”
I can’t take my eyes off the view. This can’t be real. “Where are we?” I must drop his hands, because now I’m walking away from him, like I’m being pulled by force toward the water.
His voice follows me. “It’s one of my favorite places in the world…Ko Tao. It’s a tiny island in Thailand. You can only get here by boat, and there’s no pier. You actually have to wade through—”
“No way.” I stop and turn around to look at him. “We’re in Thailand? Right now…we’re in Thailand?”
“Welcome to Thailand.” He smiles and spreads his arms wide.
“I’m in Thailand.” Repetition may help it sink in. My feet move toward the water, expansive and sparkling before me. It’s like a mirage in a cartoon that looks refreshing and beautiful until one of the characters leans forward in disbelief, and the moment their fingertip touches the water it’s enveloped in sand and disappears from sight. I’m so prepared for that same phenomenon that I’m surprised when I kneel down, touch my fingertip to the water, and feel the wetness of the ocean.
I can feel him watching me as I look around, spinning slowly in place, taking in every square inch of this island. Every palm tree. Every boulder. Every wave. Every shell. I can feel the expression on my face. My eyes are wide and my mouth is open and my forehead’s all scrunched up, and I think I must look ridiculous, until I look over at Bennett. He’s got a smile on his face, this look of wonder, like he’s the one who’s awestruck. I close my eyes and inhale…everything.
“You okay?”
I nod.
“Good. Come on.” Bennett takes my hand and we walk along the shore. The water runs over our feet and washes back out again, and we squish through the sand until we pass the giant boulders. Bennett leads me up a slope to a secluded patch of sand that’s warm and dry, and I take my sweater off so there’s nothing between my skin and the hot sand but my T-shirt. I lie back and melt.
“This is much better than my kitchen,” I say to the sky, and then I look over at him.
He’s stretched out in the sand, propped up on his elbow and watching me with a satisfied grin, and I roll onto my side and mirror his pose. We each have one hand occupied, holding up our heads, but neither one of us seem to know what to do with the other one. I don’t know if it’s the physical warmth of the sand or how good he looks in his thin T-shirt and jeans, but all I want to do is reach over and rest my free hand on the small bit of skin peeking out between the two. I picture him pulling me into a kiss and rolling around in the sand like we’ve just been dropped into a photo shoot for some cheesy designer cologne. But then I remember the night he walked me home after coffee and I summoned up the nerve to grab the lapels of his coat, only to find myself standing alone and rejected in the snow. I can’t bring myself to touch him, so I bring my fingertip to the sand and start making little circles there instead. “So…” I say, “Thailand.”
He shoots me a confident smile.
I watch him for a moment, wondering why he was so worried about bringing me here. Who wouldn’t want to have a small part in something so impossible? So magical? “I don’t get it. What’s not to like?”
When he smiles at me I can tell I’ve just passed whatever test I’m supposed to pass to get to the next level, like he’s got a mental list with an empty box next to the words teleported to deserted island / didn’t freak out. Check.
But I know he still has more to tell me. Two more things, in fact. I should probably just sit here in the sand and enjoy the view, but I can’t. I need answers.
“How did you know I needed help last night?”
“I didn’t. I came by to get a book on Mexico. For Argotta’s travel assignment.”
I’m confused about a lot of things that happened last night, but I’m certain I was alone when the thug with the knife came in. “No way. You weren’t in the store.”
He reaches forward and my heart starts racing with the idea of him touching me, but instead he grabs a fistful of sand and lets it fall through his fingers. “Are you sure you want to hear this part?”
I stare at him, and finally I nod.
“The robbery didn’t happen exactly the way you remember it.” When all the sand has fallen from his grasp, he brushes his palm against his jeans and looks at me to gauge my reaction.
I just raise my eyebrows and wait.
“I came into the bookstore. You and I talked about Mexico. Then the guy burst through the door.”
“No way. I remember that. I was definitely alone—”
He cuts me off. “Let me explain. The way you remember it, you were alone. But that’s not the way it was the first time.”
“The first time?”
“The first time I was in the bookstore. We were talking about our travel plans. When the door blew open, you got up off the floor to help the man you thought was a customer, and he grabbed you. But he didn’t see me. I had time to disappear.”
I flash on the trick Bennett just showed me—God, how long ago was that? Fifteen minutes or so?—where he was sitting on my bar stool one second, vanishing into thin air the next, and reappearing right where he left a minute later. Even if he disappeared last night, that doesn’t explain how I went from having a knife to my throat to standing underneath an elm tree during a blizzard.
“I disappeared from the bookstore, went back five minutes earlier, reappeared in the back room, and called nine-one-one from your phone.”
The voice. The sound from the back of the store. “I heard you.…” The details are coming back in bits and pieces, but they still don’t make any sense. What does he mean by the first time? “Wait a minute. Did you just say you went back? Five minutes earlier?”
He nods. “Yeah. I went back.”
“In time?”
He tilts his head up and smiles shyly. “I…do that too.”
“You went back in time. And changed what happened?”
He’s wearing a sheepish grin, like he’s sorry, but he just can’t help it. “It’s, like, a do-over.”
“So, why didn’t you just tell me someone was about to rob the store? Or, like, lock the dead bolt before he came in?” I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but I can’t help thinking it would have been nice not to have a knife to my neck in the first place.
“I don’t do that,” he says. “I don’t stop events from happening, but I’ll change smaller things, little details that might affect the outcome. If I’d stopped the robbery entirely—and I’ve never done anything like that, so I’m not even sure I could have—something even more horrible could have happened. That guy might have robbed someone else at knifepoint but not gotten caught. He might have seen you walking home a couple of hours later and…” His voice trails off and he’s silent for a moment. “Anyway, I just make it a rule not to change the big stuff.”
“So you couldn’t stop the robbery. But you could go back five minutes earlier?”
He nods. “Technically, I shouldn’t have even done that, but yeah.”
“And call nine-one-one from the phone in the back room.”
He nods again.
“Why didn’t the police come?”
“They did, just not fast enough. After I called, I snuck out and hid behind a bookcase. By the time he got you back to the safe, I decided I couldn’t wait for the co
ps anymore. I had to get you out of there on my own. Just in case.”
Suddenly everything hits me: Bennett doesn’t just disappear and reappear in different places, he can travel backward through time? I want to appear brave, unflappable, and worthy of hearing the next thing, but I can’t quite wrap my head around it all.
“I take it this is the second thing?”
He nods. “Part of it.”
“Part of it?” My eyes widen. I lie back in the sand and stare up at the sky.
“You okay?” he asks. I feel my head make a little divot in the sand when I nod. But he’s right—this is a lot to process. I throw my arm over my eyes to block out the sun, and we just lie there in silence for a few minutes. One arm is over my eyes, and the other is resting in the sand between us. Suddenly I feel the tickle of warm granules slipping across the surface of my arm and slowly piling into my open palm, and I look up to find Bennett leaning over me, watching the sand trickle from his hand into mine. “See,” he says with a grin, “I told you I could freak you out.”
“I’m not freaked out.”
“Yeah,” he says with a nervous laugh, “you are definitely freaked out.”
I prop myself up on my elbows, ruining his little sand-pile, and look at him. Then I look around at this beautiful setting—palm trees and white sand and turquoise water—this postcard he’s just magically inserted the two of us into, and I start to understand how implausible the whole thing really is. It should have taken at least two planes, a boat, and more than thirty hours to get here from Chicago. I should be many time zones away, and it should be dark. I should be complaining about the windchill factor, not enjoying this warm little breeze on my skin. Above all, I should be in AP World History. I look back at Bennett and give him a sincere smile. “Thank you for bringing me here.”
He looks relieved. “You’re welcome.”
“What you can do is…” Every word that comes to mind sounds inadequate, but I finally settle on amazing.
“Thanks.” I haven’t heard the rest of the second thing, but I can tell I’m baby-stepping my way toward it.
“Look, I know I can’t give you all the answers you want, but at least for today, I can give you that daring adventure.” He stands up and brushes the sand off his jeans, then holds his hand out to me.
“You know, I’ve never been in an ocean before.” I try to make my voice light and flirty, like this isn’t weird at all.
“I know. You told me last night. You were trying to figure out which beaches to add to your travel plan so you could do your morning run on the sand and swim in the ocean.”
Okay, that’s weird. “And I assume you had a suggestion.”
“La Paz,” he says matter-of-factly. Yes, this is weird. And I’m not crazy about the fact that we’ve had a conversation I can’t remember. But I don’t have time to be irritated, because he wraps his arms across his chest, grabs the bottom of his T-shirt, and lifts it over his head. His arms are more muscular than I’d pictured them and his chest is perfect and I think my jaw just dropped.
He reaches his leg forward and, with his big toe, draws a line in the sand in front of us.
“It’s not La Paz, but there’s sand and water.” He beams and leans forward in a racing stance. “Take your mark, Greene.”
I’m not sure if he expects me to strip down to my bra and underwear, but the thought alone brings heat to my face that has nothing to do with the temperature here. I look down at my bare feet, my jeans. I wonder how transparent my gray T-shirt will become. But when I look out to the water and squeeze the sand between my toes, I decide I don’t care. Laughing, I lean into my lunge.
“Get set.” He turns to me with a sly smile. “Go!” he yells, and we bolt forward, running as fast as we can until the sand turns darker and colder and wetter and eventually the waves carry us away from the warm beach.
I swim out into the current. I dive under. I feel the waves lap against my body as I push myself against them. When I look to my side, I find Bennett there, his arms cutting through the water as he starts to dive again, and I follow him under, letting the water burn my eyes. Letting the taste of salt fill my mouth. Enjoying every minute of every stinging sensation. And wanting it never to end.
Four hours later, we return home to find that one minute has passed. Steam rises from the coffee mugs. The water is still ice cold. And I’m about to throw up.
“You don’t look so good.” Bennett leads me to the living room couch and instructs me to lie down. A voice that sounds far away says, “I’ll get you some crackers,” and in the distance I hear cabinets creaking open and shut. He comes back carrying a giant box of saltines.
He sits on the edge of the sofa, rubbing his temples, and looks down at me. “Interesting.” He’s watching me with a fascinated stare, like I’m a glob of unidentifiable goo in a petri dish. “It hits me in the head, and you and Brooke in the stomach.”
I see a white cracker coming toward me but I can’t even take it, and I cover my mouth and close my eyes to keep the room from spinning. Please, God, I beg in my head. Please don’t let me throw up in front of him. Please. Just this one thing. And I’m not sure if it’s time passing or the work of a higher power, but after a few horrible minutes the feeling washes away and I can open my eyes again. He’s still here. Still looking guilty and still holding that little cracker. This time I take it, nibble on the corner, and then try a larger bite.
“I’m so sorry,” he says, but I stare at him, confused, and even though my mouth is full I try to talk. “What did you say?” he asks. He looks so worried.
I swallow hard. “Worth it.” I give him a weak smile and grab another cracker. I eat a few more and sit up when he offers me a glass of water and orders me to take small sips. The room comes into clearer focus.
I run my fingernail up my pant leg and bring it back to examine the caked, wet sand. We’re home, back in the cold snow, and I’m wet and covered with sand from a Thai island. “No way.” My energy is starting to return. I laugh, shaking my head in disbelief. “This is so cool.” I look over at Bennett and find that his pants look the same.
I stand up, feeling just a little bit closer to normal again, and he follows me up the stairs to my parents’ room. I dig out an old pair of sweats and a T-shirt from my dad’s dresser, pass him the folded pile, and show him where the bathroom is.
When I’m alone in my room, I peel my clothes away from my skin. I take off my shirt and shake out my hair, watching in awe as sand flies though the air and sprinkles itself across my bedspread, and I can’t help giggling. I pull on a pair of tight-fitting black sweats and a sweatshirt from some 10K race I ran last year, and go back to sit on the bed. I run my palm across the granules and think about Ko Tao. About the heat of the sun and the salt of the ocean, and suddenly I’m so grateful for every last speck of sand—on my bed, on my carpet, in my hair, glued to my clothes—because they’re the only tangible things I have to remember this day by.
“Where should I put these?” Bennett’s voice shocks me back to reality, and I turn around to find him standing in my doorway, looking adorable in Dad’s Chicago Marathon sweatshirt.
I gather my sandy clothes up from the floor and meet him at the doorway. “I’ll take them,” I say, as I add his pile to mine.
He gently grabs my arm as I walk past him. “Hey…you okay? You looked sad for a minute there.”
“No, not at all.” I laugh it off. “I was just wishing I had a souvenir, like a postcard or something. It was silly. I’ll be right back.” I float down the stairway, my feet barely touching the wood.
I’ve left Evanston.
I’ve left the country.
I put the pile of sandy clothes on top of the dryer and walk into the kitchen to grab a plastic bag.
And Bennett’s in my bedroom.
I return to the laundry room, looking up the staircase as I pass.
Bennett just closed his eyes, held my hands, and took me to Thailand.
I scrape our clothing
, collecting as much sand as I can inside the little bag, and zip it shut.
And now we’re back. And he’s in my bedroom?
I throw the clothes into the washing machine and stand there holding the bag of sand, listening to the water fill the drum, and thinking back to last night. I remember the expression on Bennett’s face as we stood in the bookstore’s Self-Help section, his voice quivering as he asked me the question. Are you afraid of what I can do? I wasn’t then. Am I now?
I’m not afraid of the fact that he can disappear and reappear. I’m not even afraid of the fact that he can travel back in time. I’m not afraid of what he can do. I love what he can do. But there’s more I don’t know, and the moment I have the thought I feel a knot form deep in my stomach. I am afraid—I’m afraid of whatever’s next. Whatever it is that might make me question whether or not I want to know him, even after we have spent the afternoon swimming in a sea so salty we were literally buoyant. Whatever it is, it can’t be bad enough to make me not want this daring adventure. And I picture him, alone in my bedroom, and suddenly I can’t wait to see him again. With the bag of sand tightly in my grasp, I run up the steps, taking them two at a time.
Bennett is standing in front of the wall of built-in shelving, examining my trophies and racing numbers. “Wow. How many races have you been in?”
“Eighty-seven.” I cross the room and drop the bagful of sand on my nightstand. It makes a little sound as it hits the surface and I’m happy for this confirmation that it’s real.
Bennett walks around the room, analyzing each trophy and photo. “This is incredible. You’re really good.”
“You sound surprised.”
“No.” He looks me in the eye and I feel my breath catch in my throat. “I’m impressed. Not surprised.”
He turns his attention from the trophies to what’s in between them: my CDs. He paces past the shelves, running his finger along the plastic spines of the jewel cases until he finds one, pulls it out, examines the cover, and then returns it to its alphabetized home. I lean back against my desk and watch him check out Blink-182, Cheshire Cat. Bush, Sixteen Stone. The Smashing Pumpkins, Siamese Dream.