Page 70 of Across Time

I let my head rest on his shoulder for just a moment. “You made up for in the end. I’m just sorry the only person I got to dance with the whole time I was here was André.”

He climbs to his feet and holds out his hand to me. “We should fix that then.”

My heart flutters, skips several beats. "Oh...okay."

He places a hand on my waist, another holds mine aloft and begins to hum a tune I don't know.

"If anyone comes out here, they'll see you dancing with your cousin."

He gives me a small smile. “I’m sure you realize at this point they all think we’re doing a lot more than that.”

My breath catches a little at the suggestion of it, but instead of holding myself back, I step closer and let my head rest on his chest, breathing in the smell of him, memorizing the rough feel of his shirt against my skin, his neck against my forehead. His arms tighten.

Tomorrow I will return home to a world in which Henri and Marie may no longer exist. But even if they do, I couldn’t bear to see them old and alone and infirm. I want them to stay just as they are. And I wish I could stay with them. I wish I could stay with him exactly the way we are now. Leaving is going to hurt more than anything has since I lost Kit.

His hands splay across my back, as if trying to cover as much of my skin as possible, and for a moment I feel his fingertips press, pulling me closer.

“I want your name,” he says quietly. “I want to be the one person in all of the past who knows who you really are.”

I smile, blinking back tears. It’s been so long I’d nearly forgotten I ever had a name that wasn’t Amelie Durand. “Sarah,” I whisper. “Sarah Stewart.”

“Sarah,” he says, resting a palm against my face. “My little thief.”

His breath ghosts over my head, and when I glance up at him again, his eyes are fastened on my mouth as if he is hungry, as if he would devour me if he could. And I want him to so badly that I'm strung tight with it.

His head descends, his mouth gently pressing to each cheek, to my forehead and my eyes, and I’m not sure I’m even breathing as I wait for him to find my mouth. I stopped him when he kissed me the last time, but I don’t have it in me to stop him again.

But it doesn’t come. Instead he releases me as if he’s been burned, flinching. “Go,” he says, more to himself than to me. “It will have to be enough.”

He walks off into the darkness without ever looking back and I watch him go, feeling sick with the loss. I know it makes sense—why start something with a girl who’s leaving forever?

I always thought I’d be relieved to get home. Now I think it might break my heart instead.

24

I lie in bed that night exhausted and unable to sleep. I will miss the crickets. I will miss the silence behind them. I will miss open windows and the smell of heat-pressed grass blowing in to wake me.

I will miss Marie-Therese, who feels like a sister.

And most of all I will miss Henri, who is everything to me. I can only hope it won’t still feel like this once I get home, because I’m not sure I can bear it.

I wake feeling exhausted yet jittery, like I've had ten espressos after a night without sleep. My reflection shows that I am pale today beneath the tan I've gained in the summer sun, with blue circles under my eyes. It's not how I want to look when I say goodbye to him.

I don’t want to say goodbye to him at all.

If he’d asked me to stay…

I close my eyes. It doesn’t matter. I can’t stay, and he doesn’t care enough to ask anyway.

I begin sweating at the idea of leaving him. My hands shake, and the white dress I’ve put on for the last time sticks to my skin. I should be conserving every ounce of energy for the trip home but I can’t seem to help it. What should I say to Henri? How will I tell him goodbye? Should I warn him that I will appear in a few months? I guess it’s not necessary—if I leave now, then whatever would lead him to kiss me the way he did won’t happen. I just hope I don’t lose the memory. It’s one I’d like to keep forever.

I strip the bed and carefully collect all of the items I've acquired or borrowed during my time here—a brush, some books, bobby pins, the hose and gloves—and place them neatly on the small bureau. I will never be in this house again, in this room again, and even that makes me sad, because this place has been more of a home than any I've ever known.

When I get into the kitchen, Marie pushes me to the table where bread and cheese and fruit wait. "You need to eat, for strength," she says.

I nod but I've got little appetite. I should be eager to return home—to television, to comfortable clothes and air conditioning and every food imaginable. I should be eager to return to a life where there are no chores, where nothing is expected of me and life seems to function entirely on its own without any labor on my end. But I'm not. There is nothing inside me that wants to go back.

Marie paces while I pick at a piece of bread. "You've only made a trip of that length once and you're going back weaker than you were," she frets. "What will you do if you don't make it?"