Lawrence scoffs. “Is this some kind of joke? That house?”
“Umm, yes. That house right through those bushes. You
came to our party. You’ve been swimming on my beach. I’m
going to have a hard time believing that where I live somehow
slipped your mind.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose. “My Uncle Ned’s house is
through those bushes, Cassandra.”
“Not this again!” My voice raises, bordering on shrill, but
I don’t care. “What are you talking about? I’ve never even
heard of this Ned guy. Look, I don’t care who lays claim to
this town, or who owned the land a thousand years ago, or
whatever. This is where I live. This is the house my stepdad is
renting, fair and square.”
“I’m trying very hard to figure out why you’re acting this way.”
“It’s not complicated. That’s my house.”
“Why do you keep saying that?” he asks with a frustrated
growl. “That house. This beach. It’s all Ned’s. How could you be
mistaken about that when the only way to get here is through
his front door?”
“You’re crazy.”
And then it dawns on me. What if he really is genuinely
crazy? Gorgeous but crazy. Maybe Ned is a manifestation of
acute schizophrenia.
“I have no idea who this Ned guy is, but he certainly doesn’t
live here.”
“I’m sorry. You’re mistaken.”
“I don’t think so.”
“This house belongs to Ned Foster,” he says, his anger now
matching my own. “He built it three years ago.”
I stare at him. “Seriously, you’re insane.”
“I’m starting to think you are, lady.”
“Brush up on your history before you try and lie. The house
was built in the twenties.”
“Exactly,” he says. “Nineteen twenty-two.”
“So…you’re bad at math then?”
“What?”
“Uh, nineteen twenty-two was a little more than three years
ago, wouldn’t you say? More like ninety-three.”
He gives me a blank look. “Ninety-three…”
“Years ago. Nineteen twenty-two was at least ninety years
ago.” I repeat.
“This is nineteen twentyfive, Cassandra,” he says, speaking slowly as if I’m the crazy one. “How could ’twenty-two be ninety years ago?”
I nod with exaggerated interest. “Oh, it’s nineteen twentyfive, huh? That’s fascinating.”
He says nothing. Only stares. And I’ve officially had enough.
“That’s it. I’m not going to stand here and play games.
I’m leaving.”
“Cassandra,” Lawrence calls as I stride back toward the
house. “Wait.”
He runs up behind me, but I refuse to turn around. He falls
in step with me as I stomp up the beach.
“It’s like you’re a character in some play,” he says, scraping a
hand through his hair. “You show up at my birthday party and
now at my house without an invitation. You wear the strangest, most daring clothes. And now you’re telling me nineteen twenty-two was ninety-three years ago…”
I push through the bushes. “I don’t know what role-playing
game you’re trying to get started here, but—”
As I turn to shoot him my most imperious parting glare, the
words halt in my throat.
His face, his whole body is…fuzzy. I blink, but he’s still
covered in blur. It’s like someone has thrown a thin muslin
screen around just him. As if I’m seeing him through a lens
with a smudge over the exact place he’s standing. I smash my
fists against my eyes and look again. But he’s looking at me
funny too.
“Cassandra?”
I back away, still blinking to get the crazy blur out of my
eyes. Is this an early symptom of a heart attack or something?
Am I going blind thanks to some sudden, undiagnosed vision
problem?
He walks toward me, speaking, but I only hear a muffled
garble of words. And if possible, he’s getting even more transparent. He’s blending in with the bushes, the ocean, the sunset behind him. Speechless, I retreat, stumbling onto the
back lawn.