Page 77 of If I Go Down with This Ship

“No.”

“Yes.”I drop his hand and cup his face, my fingers gliding through his scruff.“I have always wanted an adventure of my own.Everyone in my life has found their place in the world, has found someone to love and love them back, but I’ve always felt lost.For years now, I’ve been unwilling to take a risk because of what happened with Julian.Until I found you.Silas, don’t you get it?It was always going to be you.This was meant to happen.”

Silas gently shoves me away, stumbling back a step in the sand.“Laszlo, stop—”

“For years,” I continue, “I have helped other people.I have listened to friends and family complain when they have so much to live for.I have seen the world, but I have seen it alone because I was terrified of offering myself—allof me—to someone again.But I would rather spend another week at your side aboard your ship than another fifty years alone in my time.”

“Laszlo.”

I’m crying, and with the night falling, I can barely make out his features through my tears.There’s a roaring in my ears, but I scramble for him, desperate, clinging to his shirt.

When he makes no move to leave, I go on, “There is nothing for me there, nothing that matters more to me than you, Silas.Screw my book, screw everything I thought I knew.Please, I don’t want to be anywhere else but here.With you.”

There’s a beat of silence, and neither of us moves.Does he think I’m lying?Does he think I’ve lost my mind?I do not fit in here, and I thought that much was obvious.I thought he’dbelieve me, just as easily as he accepted my phone.But perhaps I was wrong.

“If you’re not from here,” he starts slowly, “and that’s not to say I believe you, even if that face of yours reads like an open book… how did you get here?”

My heart leaps in my throat.“It’s kind of a funny story,” I say, testing the waters.

He pivots away from me, biting down on his thumbnail.I don’t follow, instead tugging on a loose thread at the hem of my shirt, waiting.He peers at me over his shoulder and away, before nodding.

“I’m listening,” he says.

I take his hand in mine, smoothing my thumb over the back as I pull him down to the sand.We sit across from each other, and I squeeze his fingers lightly, memories flashing through my mind as I struggle to form words.

“Just start from the beginning,” he whispers as if in understanding.“Take your time, Laszlo.”

So I do.

And there’s something so freeing about telling him the truth—mytruth.I’ve dropped truths like breadcrumbs in the weeks since I’ve grown to know him, but this is my biggest truth, and I don’t have to hide it any longer.

“Is it magic?”he asks when I’ve finished.“Are yousureyou’re not a witch?”

The moon is out, breaking through a thin layer of clouds to cast its silver light upon the beach.His head is in my lap, and I comb my fingers through his hair as I hum in thought.“I’m not sure,” I admit.“I mean, I’m sure I’mnota witch, butI don’t know what sent me here.In my time—in the future, I guess—people claim this is a kind of science.Something about space-time continuums and…” He squints up at me with a furrowed brow and puckered lips.“Never mind,” I say with a chuckle.“It’s confusing.”

“That might be the most reasonable thing you’ve said all night.”

I trail my fingers over the constellation tattoo on his chest, and he sighs under my touch.“Why do you believe me?”I ask.

Silas angles his head back to meet my eyes.“Because you sputter when you’re lying.”

“Do not,” I protest.

He laughs and sits up, spinning to face me.“You are the worst liar I have ever known, and every second, here in the sand with you, you have been reluctant, careful, and above all, patient.And you haven’t sputtered once.”He leans forward on his hands and presses his forehead to mine.

I tangle my fingers in his hair, and he cups my face in his hands, one of his thumbs stroking my cheek.And I can’t help it—I inhale that familiar musky scent of his.It calms me; comforts me.Grounds me.

“There’s still one bit of information I haven’t told you,” I venture.

It’s difficult to focus as he slides his hand into my hair and gently tugs my head back, a serious expression twisting his handsome features as he scrutinizes me.

“I don’t want to know how I die,” he says.

“You can’t mean that.”

He searches my face.“If you tell me when I die, how I die, I will be thinking about that moment until then.”I open my mouth to tell him it’s less than a week away, but he presses hisfingers to my lips, stopping me.“Promise you won’t tell me.Promise me you’ll let whatever is meant to happen, happen.”

I nod slowly.