34. May 1, 1851 London, England
Beatrix’s heartbeat thunders in her ears. She’s too hot. Dizzy. Her hands shake as she gives Oliver back the obituary. He folds it carefully and slips it between the pages of his journal.
“How long do you have left?” She hates the shape of those terrible words in her mouth.
He offers her a weak smile. “Three hundred and fifty years.”
“You know that’s not what I mean.”
He won’t look at her. “About three months.”
She sinks onto the padded bench next to him before her knees give out.
“Hey, it’s not so bad.” He nudges her shoulder with his. “I can still come visit for another century or two.”
Beatrix doesn’t laugh. Her blood has turned to ice water in her veins. Numbness creeps through her with every beat of her undying heart.
Oliver turns serious. “We can still do this if you want to.”
She has been a fool to think she can escape the pull of him unscathed.
Has she learned nothing? It was the memories of the life she lost—of what she could never have again—that made the prospect of living for an eternity unbearable.
And what has she gone and done with Oliver?
Made dozens of shiny, sharp new memories to tear her apart when she loses him. “I don’t know if I can.”
Oliver takes her hand. She hates that it’s a comfort, even now. “Bea, you knew this would happen eventually.”
But there is a difference between a someday and a specific day.
“Would you throw all of this away because it won’t last forever?” Oliver asks. “Because nothing does.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” She’s sure no one knows it better. She hasn’t forgotten it with Oliver, only pretended that if they don’t have forever, they have something close enough. “I just—I thought we had more time.”
Oliver gives her a worn, weary smile. “Everybody does.”
“That’s why you’re time traveling?”
He hands her his notebook. “Take a look.”
She thumbs through the journal. Each dotted page is labeled with one date, one city, one moment; some filled with Oliver’s notes, some still waiting. Until she reaches the end.
The inside of the back cover is filled with his cramped handwriting—black and blue ink crisscrossing in every direction, wherever a new idea can fit. Chaos compared with his neat pages.
Get lost in a new city. Dance until dawn.
Rediscover an old favorite. Try something new.
Travel the world. Do something that terrifies you.
Surprise someone. Stargaze. Have a picnic in the park.
Stay up to watch the sunrise. Stop and watch the sunset.
Fly a plane. Eat a new food. Be a good friend. Make it up to Theo. Say goodbye.
A lifetime of memories on a single page.
Oliver takes the journal from her. “I time travel so I can do all of this.”
Beatrix swallows the lump in her throat. “Will you finish it?”
Oliver tucks the notebook inside his jacket. “I hope so. But if I don’t, I haven’t lost anything. The trying is still worth it.”
“You’re not the one getting left behind.”
Something dark flickers across Oliver’s gaze. “We still have now, Bea.”
That only makes it worse. Now is cruel. She won’t notice it passing her by until it has. Until she has lost him. “I have an eternity.”
Oliver squeezes her hand. “What do you think an eternity is? Now after now after now.” Each singular moment tipping into the next in an endless cascade.
Beatrix never would have asked to meet Oliver again if she had known. She would have skipped the ballet and gone to the Frost Fair alone. Never whispered her secrets to St. Paul’s. Never let herself get this close to him.
But she has. Now there is only one thing she can do. “I don’t think—I can’t see you again, Oliver.”
Her words spill out in a rush, but Oliver understands. She sees it in the way his face falls, in the way he tries so hard to set his features into place. He can’t hide it from her.
It’s almost enough to make her take it back, but she doesn’t. If Oliver is going to leave her behind and never return, she wants—needs—it to be her decision. It’s the only way she’ll survive it.
“I’m sorry I kissed you.” She wishes she could undo that moment and go back to their charade. Almost as much as she wishes she could kiss him again.
Oliver leans in close. “I’m not,” he says, his voice low in her ear. He lays a gentle kiss on her cheek, barely more than a brush of his lips.
She catches the scent of summer lavender and earthy woods, and her heart plunges into her guts at the sudden realization that this is the last time she will.
“Goodbye, Bea.”