Find Me Where the Water Ends (So Close to You)

I mouth the word, careful not to say it out loud. I don’t want anyone lingering in the hallway to hear, but I’m also not ready to remember what his name feels like on my lips.
He frowns slightly, and I imagine he’s reacting to my thinner cheeks, my wary eyes. “Samantha.” He says my alias, then clears his throat, breaking my gaze to look behind me into the hotel room.
His voice. The last time I heard it was during my training, weeks after I learned of his betrayal. I was in a hallway in the Center in New York City, hidden from sight, watching a future version of him hug a future version of me, their faces glowing as their lips met again and again. I knew then that I would forgive him, at least one day.
But that doesn’t mean that I have yet, and I step back to avoid contact as he enters the room. He doesn’t seem surprised to see me, but then Wes was always good at hiding what he felt.
He does a quick sweep, his head moving back and forth to examine the reddened walls, the shadowed corners, and his hair falls over his forehead in a black wave. It is longer than it was the last time, almost touching the collar of his jacket.
The hotel is secure—we both know that—but he takes his time turning back to face me. I watch the way his fingers tap against the sides of his pants, an awkward move that doesn’t match his usual grace, and I wonder if he’s as nervous as I am.
“You’re alone?”
I nod and shut the door, looking out the window. Outside, the lights of the city are like oversize stars, and I remember being with him in my bedroom in Montauk, New York, so long ago, his body covered in blood, my chest pressed against his, the night sky beyond my window looking a little like this one, though without the buildings or the busy streets.
With the door closed tight we are hidden from the hallway, but we still don’t make eye contact. Wes examines the fringed lamp, the gilded furniture, the creamy wall-paper. It is a blend of old-fashioned styles, with no modern sleek lines, no black or chrome metal. I see him take a deep breath and I know that he is thinking the same thing I am—this room looks like it could belong in the 1920s, the time we once promised each other we would run away to. In another life, this would have been our space, far away from the reach of the Project.
But Wes broke his word, and the large, holographic TV against the far wall proves that what I thought was love was not as strong as the pull of the Project. Now we are in the year 2049, near Washington, DC, and in just under three hours we will attempt to kill the president.
Wes finally faces me, and when he speaks his voice is lower, softer. “How have you been, Lydia?”
It is hearing my name that brings my anger back, boiling and churning, and suddenly I am on that cold floor again, hearing him tell me I was just a mission, that he never loved me.
“Stop.” I spit out the word, keeping my face turned toward the window. “Don’t say it.”
“It’s your name.” I hear the rustle of his tux as he moves closer. “You can’t forget that.”
“My name is Seventeen. I’m a number now, just like you.”
His mouth tightens, his full lips thinning. Small lines fan out from the sides of his eyes, even though he is only nineteen—nearly the same age I am. But the life of the Montauk Project recruits is a hard one, and he has been working for them since he was eleven years old.
“You know we’re more than a number. Some of us remember our real names.”
“You’re the one who told me to think of you as Eleven. You told me to forget W—” But I can’t bring myself to say his name, and I turn from the window, staring at the white bedspread, now a faint pink in this red-lit room. “When I die, another recruit will become Seventeen. Isn’t that what you told me? We’re just numbers; our lives don’t mean anything. There were hundreds of Elevens before you and there will be more after you die.”
I hear him suck in a breath and despite how angry I am, I instantly wish I could take back the words. When we were in 1989, Wes told me he was dying. That the prolonged effects of the time machine were slowly killing him. Since then I’ve wondered if he was telling me the truth, but if he was . . .
I lift my head. He’s watching me, his jaw tight. “I’m sorry,” I manage to say. “I shouldn’t have put it like that. This is just too confusing. I didn’t even know you’d be on this mission.”
“I volunteered. I wanted to see you.”
His voice is serious, measured and deep, but I shake my head. I couldn’t have heard him right. Wes would never have come here just to see me. Not after what happened.
“Don’t lie to me.”
“It’s true.” There are several feet between us, but it’s still too close. I inch away until I feel the cold glass of the windowpane against my back. Why would Wes say that? He was so convincing in the cell when he told me I was just a mission. But he looks just as convincing now, with his palms slightly open toward me and his black eyes steady on mine.
“Why now?” The question is too raw, and I lean back even farther, my head tapping the glass as he takes a step forward. “I haven’t seen you in months. You knew where I was.”
“Walker sent me out on a mission right after they took you. . . .” He trails off, staring down at the white and black tiles on the floor. “Then . . . I thought you probably wouldn’t want to see