The brush of something across the top of my leg made me look down, and I sucked in a breath as a chill ran up my spine, settling between my shoulder blades.
The world blotted out like drops of water, a broken reflection on the surface of a puddle. Esther’s truck was gone, but I was still moving. My hands were still gripped to the steering wheel, but the dash was replaced by the cracked one in the Bronco. The familiar smell of oil filled the air, and the unraveling, softened leather was soft beneath my fingers.
It’s happening again.
A hand is lazily draped over my knee, hooking to the inside seam of my jeans, and I follow the arm to the passenger seat, where Mason sits beside me.
His other arm is propped on the open window, fingers raking through his hair. The top buttons of his shirt are undone, the tan line at his wrist showing. But this touch—I look down to that hand on my leg. It’s the kind of touch that never passes between us.
“Mason,” I hear myself say.
His face finally turns to look at me, no trace of surprise there. As if I never left. As if it’s the most normal thing in the world to be sitting beside me.
“Yeah?” He answers.
I stare at him, my lips parting to say something when the car jerks around me, tearing me from the memory.
In an instant, the interior of Esther’s truck materialized, the Bronco vanishing, and my eyes focused on the road. It was curving, and the truck was drifting off the shoulder, toward the ditch.
I cranked the steering wheel to the left, slamming on the brakes, and the truck fishtailed as it came to a stop. Smoke from the tires filled the air, and as it cleared, I could see the trees that lined the river.
I looked around me, breaths heaving. I was on the shoulder, not another car in sight.
Slowly, I let my head turn back toward the passenger seat, now empty. Only seconds ago, it had felt like I could reach out and touch him. But Mason was gone.
I pushed the door open, getting out. The turnoff was overgrown, with wildflowers coming up between the cracks in the tar, and the river was just visible through the trees. It was a perfect half-moon of green water with a sandy bank.
This memory had been like the other one of Mason—when I’d been on the riverbank with a fire going and he was asking me if I was going to get in. This moment, too, had never happened. I would remember him touching me like that. But if these really were memories, when were they from?
I reached through the open window of Esther’s truck, opening the glove box. My hand pulled back when I saw the handgun, but I reached beneath it, searching for paper and a pencil. I found an invoice from a farm supply in Asheville, and I turned it over on the hood of the truck, scribbling.
There was only one time period when those memories with Mason could have happened. I’d gone through the door in June of 2023, my time. The future me went through in 2024. There were at least several months of life that I was missing in the span of that time. These memories with Mason were what happened to the June who didn’t go through the door until months after Gran’s funeral. It was a period of time I’d skipped. I’d missed it, because I’d gone through the door early.
I pushed the hair out of my face, closing my eyes and drinking in that sound of the water. When Mason and I were kids, we’d climb up onto the bridge with bottles of Coke we’d bought at the grocery and swing our feet out into the air until we were so hot, we had to jump. The river was always clear and cold, and it tasted sweet on my tongue.
I’d sink down and let the roar drown everything else out as I watched the light ripple above me in bursts that looked like stars exploding. And when my lungs couldn’t stand it any longer, when it felt like there was a storm in my chest, I’d shoot up to the surface, gasping for air.
That’s what this felt like.
I stared at the paper, the hood of the truck hot beneath my hands. In the distance, the dragonflies skipped across the river.
I didn’t know how I felt about the idea of Mason and me. Knowing it was never possible had been a refuge. So, what had changed? I couldn’t help but think that maybe that night at the house, a bottle of whiskey between us as I told him I was sick, had shifted things. If I hadn’t walked through that door, was that what would have happened? Was that what was waiting when I went back? If there was a world where Mason and I were more, maybe that’s what I’d gone back to. But then why build a life with Eamon in the first place?
We’d been so good at pretending, Mason and me. But our days of pretending were over.
Twenty-Three
The memories were coming, whether I wanted them or not.
Eamon was waiting when I came over the hill, eyes on the road like he’d been waiting for me to appear there. As soon as he saw me, he turned on his heel, stalking up the drive and toward the house. I braced myself as I got out of the truck.
Margaret was already gone, and there was no sign of Annie. The house was empty except for Eamon’s sobering presence. He stood in the sitting room when I came through the door, the lines of him rigid.
“Where were you?” he asked.
My hand tightened around the keys. I could lie to him, but I couldn’t see a point to it. “I went to see Mimi Granger.”
Whatever Eamon had expected me to say, it wasn’t that. The stern look on his face melted away, replaced by shock. “You what?”
I lifted my chin. “I went to see her. To ask about that night.”
Eamon stared at me, speechless.
“I have to know, Eamon. If you and Esther aren’t going to tell me what really happened here—”
“I told you what happened.”
“Not everything,” I said, more quietly.
His jaw clenched. “There are things you don’t need to know, June.”
“But I will know them. I’m remembering. I’m getting more memories every single day. Eventually, I will be able to recall that night,” I said, feeling my stomach clench. “And everything after.”
I didn’t want to say it, but the moment I was really thinking of was when I left. The moment I’d decided to walk away. It was the only memory I dreaded as much as I needed it.
Eamon ran a hand over his face, breathing through his fingers. He was coming undone in places, too. I could see it. Feel it, even.
“I’m beginning to think that maybe you don’t want me to remember,” I said, more quietly. “You don’t want me to know what you’re hiding.”
His eyes snapped up to meet mine, defensive and cold. But he wasn’t even going to try to deny it. That one look made me feel like my heart was breaking—an acute, palpable pain I’d never felt before. I’d never understood that expression because I’d never given my heart to anyone. But that’s exactly what I’d done in my own future—Eamon’s past. Now the man who stood before me, who’d loved me, whom I’d trusted, was torn between two versions of me.
I turned, headed for the door, and Eamon’s steps followed.