The butterfly effect. Three hours of frantic research on the Internet, and this is the answer I have come up with. The idea that a small event can cause big ripples over time. Lawrence choosing to meet me instead of his friend led to Billy Howard’s car accident and death, which in turn eliminated the entire genealogical line he would have created, which means that as of yesterday, Travis Howard ceased to exist. He’s not dead. He never lived in the first place. Either way, he’s gone.
And it’s my fault. Lawrence should have been with Billy. Billy should have lived, married, and had kids who had kids, who gave birth to Travis Howard.
I should have thought of this before. I’ve seen enough sci-fi movies to know there are ramifications when you mess with time. The time-space continuum is a fragile thing. There are consequences to even the smallest unplanned shift.
I lie on my bed, but sleep won’t come. It’s not possible with the chaos in my brain. I even snuck one of my mom’s Xanax because I was afraid I was having a nervous breakdown. But the medicine has only slowed my pulse, not my mind.
Turning over, I stare at the red numbers of my alarm clock, glowing in the darkness like eyes—2:48. I roll to my back again. The ceiling is less-stressful to look at. I try to clear my head and relax. But my thoughts are impossible to hide from. They march though my brain, an unrelenting army.
The tears return. It’s been like that on and off all night. Tears of mourning for Travis. I never got to know him all that well, but I liked him. And to me, it’s like he’s dead. Which isn’t far from reality. In a lot of ways, Travis was sitting in that car with Billy Howard as it careened off the cliff.
I smudge the tears away with my pajama sleeve, sniffling. It’s not all for Travis. I’m also crying for myself. Because this turn of events has surfaced a fear that I’ve tried to bury thus far.
It’s not safe to know Lawrence. It’s not normal. It’s not natural. As this case proves, interacting with him can have serious, even deadly repercussions.
And I ugly cry, because I know that tomorrow night I have to say good-bye to Lawrence Foster forever.
Chapter 12
Cassandra
thought I had prepared myself, steeled my mind and
I
heart for saying goodbye, but as Lawrence appears on
the glistening white beach, I realize how desperately wrong I
am. I’m not prepared. Not prepared at all.
He comes up to me with a smile that kicks me right in the
chest. “I was hoping you’d be here already,” he says. “Have you
been waiting long?”
I shake my head. Words aren’t possible yet. All I can do it
stare at him.
“I brought your surprise,” he says, patting his jacket pocket.
“I wrote you a poem. Nothing Byron-esque, mind you. Just a
few words on paper. But I thought you might like it.”
Longing twists my throat. He wrote me a poem. In a moment
of supreme foolishness, I’m pretty sure that I’m in love with
him. It’s pathetic, I know. But I’m about to lose it all. Might as
well drag myself as low as possible.
I squeeze my eyes shut. No, you have to do this. If I’m going
to follow through with what I know is right, I can’t delay a
minute longer. Time to rip off the Band-Aid.
“Come sit by me,” Lawrence says. “I’ll read it to you.”
I grab his arm to stop him from sitting. “Wait.”
His deep brown eyes search mine, and they’re so beautiful
that I almost cave again. “We need to talk.”
“All right,” he says hesitantly, still searching my face. “Is
everything okay? You look a little pale.”
“I’m not okay.” The tightness in my throat winds into a knot.
“What’s wrong? Did something happen?”
“It’s more something that didn’t happen.”
“Not sure I understand.”
“It’s Billy Howard.”
Lawrence frowns. “What about him?”
“He wasn’t supposed to die.”