Crossing In Time: The 1st Disaster (Between Two Evils Series)

by Orton, D. L.

  He’s alive.

  I turn and start walking down the beach, my brain swamped with questions that begin with: How can it be possible…

  Time travel, multiple universes, parallel selves, nineteen-year-old lovers resurrected from the dead.

  My heart answers the questions without a moment’s hesitation. When he’s standing in front of me, the hows and whys don’t matter anymore.

  A few minutes later, I hear laughter and bravado, and then his quick footfalls on the wet sand behind me. I watch him jog across the beach, aching to be in his arms.

  Easy there, Iz. Don’t scare him.

  He settles in next to me, slightly out of breath. “So, what brings you to Costa Rica?” His accent is stronger than I remember.

  “My health. I came to Costa Rica for the dry air.”

  He’s quiet for a moment. “What dry air? We’re in the tropics.”

  “I was misinformed.”

  He stops walking and looks at me, a sly smile spreading across his face. “I love that movie.”

  “I know—I mean—Casablanca is one of my favorites too.” I turn away, trying to make it seem nonchalant.

  Good grief, Isabel, get a grip.

  He catches up with me. “Really. What brings you to Nacascolo?”

  I tell him a story of flying south for the sun during winter break, trying to give enough detail to make it sound believable, but not so much that I get caught in a lie.

  We walk in silence for a minute. He puts his hands in his pockets, keeping his eyes on the horizon, but furtively glancing over at me.

  He’s interested, but worried about appearing too forward.

  I smile to myself.

  This is kind of fun.

  We take a few steps in silence, and then I give him an out. “How long are you staying here at La Isla?”

  He hesitates. “I’m here for the week with friends, and then I have to get back to college.”

  I don’t know how to interpret that hesitation. “Am I keeping you from your plans for the afternoon?”

  “No, I’m on holiday. I don’t have any plans.” He motions back toward his friends. “Besides playing futbol with those baboons.” He gets that same unreadable expression on his face. “Where did you hear the name ‘La Isla’? Everyone around here calls it Nacascolo.”

  Whoops, wardrobe malfunction. “Uh, I can’t remember. It must have been your brother.”

  He raises one eyebrow but doesn’t comment.

  I notice his T-shirt for the first time: Love is Chemistry. Sex is Physics. “So, tell me, are you studying love or sex?”

  He blushes, something I’ve never seen Diego do. “Neither. Engineering. But one of my hobbies is quantum physics.”

  “So then your answer would be ‘quantum sex’?”

  He stares at me for a moment, the corner of his mouth twitching, and I fight back the urge to wrap my arms around his neck and say, “Surprise! It’s me, Isabel! We’re lovers—remember?”

  “I know this is weird,” he says, “but I feel like we’ve met before.”

  “Nope. I’m pretty sure I would have remembered you.”

  He doesn’t break eye contact. “Ditto.”

  I glance away, my heart racing, and spy an enormous crab poking around a tide pool. I take his arm and pull him over to look at it. He bends down to pluck the creature out of the sand, but it spies us and darts away. Tego grabs my hand and pulls me along, following the wild path of the crab. The curious animal stops next to a rock at the edge of the water, and I squat down to watch it dig a hole. Tego crouches down next to me and reaches over my thigh to snag it from behind.

  “Gotcha!” I pinch his shoulder.

  He loses his balance and falls over onto the wet sand. The crab scurries away.

  I lean in to kiss him and then remember where I am, who I am to him. Flustered, I jump up and jog across the sand, calling over my shoulder, “I bet you can’t catch me either.”

  He chases after me, closing the distance with ease. I start running harder, making full use of my young heart and legs, and then slow a bit to take off my T-shirt and straighten my too-small bikini top. Then I race out into the surf, leaping over waves toward the deeper water, kicking up rainbows in the late afternoon sun.

  Just as he catches up with me, I dive over a wave and swim out into the warm, tropical sea. The bottom is nearly flat here, and the shallow water stretches out into the glistening horizon. I lengthen my stroke, in my element now, exhilarated to be so young again.

  He follows, working to keep up.

  I slow for a moment to adjust my swimsuit, and he manages to grab my ankle and pull me back. I take a deep breath, twist out of his hand, and dive under the water. He lets go and stands, his shoulders just breaking the surface, watching me.

  I spy a dazzling orange seashell nestled in the pristine white sand. It is exactly like the shell that cut my hand, the one I brought with me from another universe. I pluck it from the body of the sea and tuck it into my bikini top, my hand still tender from gripping its twin, and then circle back, still beneath the surface.

  I reach out and grab his thighs, curling around him.

  He stands with his elbows out, watching me with wide eyes, his body awakening as I slide across his hips and stop with my chin pressed against his chest, looking up. Time stands still, our eyes locked. I have been holding my breath for a long time. A bubble of air escapes from my lips, breaking the trance, and he grabs my shoulders and lifts my head out of the water.

  “You’re a mermaid!”

  I wrap my legs around his waist, and then take out the shell and hold it up in the dazzling light. “A gift from the deep.” I offer it to him.

  “Thank you, oh, mystical sea creature.” He says it with feigned awe, and then adds with sincerity, “It’s exquisite.”

  No, you are.

  He takes the shell from me and turns it over in his hands, stroking the spiral from the edge to the center. “May I keep it?”

  “Well, you did capture me, so I suppose it counts as booty—”

  “Aye, love. ‘Tis the booty I want.” He speaks in a low, raspy voice, making a goofy face and raising a hooked finger. “How long have ye been storing it in yer chest?” He motions with his head.

  I shut my eyes, holding back tears.

  It’s him. After all the loss and suffering, tragedy and sacrifice—it’s him.

  He strokes the line of my jaw with his fingertip, and I gaze into his dark brown eyes, madly in love. “For an eternity you cannot imagine.”

  “Those are the best kind.”

  I glance down at the shell in his hand and clear my throat, struggling to control my emotions. “And given that the Jolly Roger is nowhere to be seen—” I scan the horizon with my hand shading my eyes and then lean in, daring him to replace the shell. “I’m guessing that you need to store it back in my chest.”

  Instead, he kisses me, and when I let out a yelp of surprise, he pulls away at the same moment I bring my arm down, and I bump him in the jaw with my elbow. “Ouch! Sorry! Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” He looks away. “I... I didn’t mean to startle you. Maybe I should get back.”

  I remember being in similar situations with him, my much younger self unable to understand why he would choose such a bad time to withdraw his affection. “I wasn’t trying to discourage you, Tego.”

  He studies the beach, his shoulders still tense. I take his chin in my palms and turn his head, waiting for him to look at me. “Really.” It takes a moment. “It’s just that you surprised me.” His face feels wet and cool, the line of his jaw sharper than I remember. “But I like it... that you surprise me.” I square my shoulders and raise my chin. “You have no idea how lonely it is being a mermaid, particularly after all the attractive pirates went into politics.”

  A flicke
r of amusement touches his lips.

  I lean against him and slide my cheek up to his ear. I can smell traces of his aftershave, and my body responds to it like a starving man to the smell of baking bread. I let my lips brush against his ear. “Could I have another chance?”

  He turns his head, our noses almost touching, and I lean back, my eyes focused on his lips. He pulls my mouth up to his and kisses me, soft and wet. I close my eyes, his hardness pressing against my thigh, and euphoria spreads out from where our bodies touch. A moan escapes the back of my throat, and he smiles, our lips still touching. I grab onto him, overcome with emotion, madly in love.

  If I die right now, it will have been worth it.

  I break the kiss and bring my wet hand up to my face to hide the tears. “Wow.”

  He smiles, wrenching my heart.

  A wave falls over his shoulders, making his café au lait skin glisten in the fading sunlight.

  I brush a lock of hair away from his lips, and let my gaze wander from his mouth to his chest. I couldn’t bear to lose him again.

  This time, I’m dying on you, Captain America.

  I meet his eyes. “I have some things to do this afternoon, but I was hoping you’d meet me for dinner?”

  He doesn’t hesitate. “What time?”

  “Seven? At the open-air café just down the beach from the hotel, the place with the quaint gas lanterns and white tablecloths. You know the one?”

  “Yes,” he says, looking amused. “Rick’s. It’s the only café on this side of the island.”

  “Ah. Maybe your friends would like to join us later?”

  “My friends?” He lets go of my waist, and I slip down into the water. “Yeah, sure.”

  He thinks I have an ulterior motive because I invited his friends?

  I remember this now from the first time we dated. He took everything personally and didn’t handle the competition well. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “Hey. I figure if my friends like your friends, I won’t have to worry about sharing you.”

  Good grief, I’ll have to convince the grad students I met at the bank to come tonight.

  He glances down the beach and then places the shell in his pocket, still avoiding my eyes.

  “Tego.” I soften my voice. “Have dinner with me.”

  He looks at me, his face unreadable.

  “You’re the one I want to be with tonight, okay?” I run my hand down his chest, sparks jumping between his skin and my fingertips. “Tell me you still want to be with me?”

  His eyes get big. “Sure.”

  “Then I’ll see you at seven—just the two of us for dinner.” I motion with my head toward the soccer game. “Watch out for sand snakes.”

  “Right.” He dives into a wave, using the swell to body surf back to the shore. A minute later, he shakes his hair like a dog and jogs down the beach toward his friends.

  Have I mentioned recently that I’m madly in love with you?

  Chapter 35

  Tego: I’m Not Going Anywhere

  When I get back to the futbol game, Beto gives me an inquisitive look, but doesn’t say anything.

  “I’ll tell you later.”

  He grins.

  It takes a while for my pulse to stop racing.

  Beto and I—and four buddies from high school—are all staying in a small, one-bedroom cabin a couple of blocks back from the island’s main drag. It’s crowded, but cheap, and we don’t spend much time there anyway.

  We continue kicking the ball around until the sun gets low in the sky and then head to a bar on the beach. On the way over, I tell the guys about Isabel’s offer to bring her friends to the nightclub.

  Tomás, who talks constantly about getting laid but has never been French kissed, lets out a whoop. The other guys tease him, but they’re all clearly happy to have romantic prospects for the evening, particularly gringas: single American girls.

  After one beer, I tell the guys I’m heading back to the cabin to take a shower. Beto asks me if I want company, and I nod, glad to have someone to talk to, but hoping he’s not going to grill me about Isabel.

  We step out into the fading sun and then cross the main road.

  “She’s got nice legs.” Beto’s tall and likes his women the same. He’s also the best futbol player of us all—and the most popular with the girls. “So, she goes to school with Jorge? You’re not horning in on your brother’s girlfriend, are you?”

  “Yeah, she does. And no, I’m not.”

  “She’s at least five years older than we are, mae, and she’s going to have you by the balls in no time,” he says. “Though that does sound like fun. What’s she studying?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Shit, Tego. You ought to at least find out a little about her before you try to get her clothes off.”

  “Thanks for the tip, Beto. Speaking of clothes, did you bring any pants with you? All I’ve got is shorts.”

  “Trying to impress her, are you?” He claps me on the shoulder. “Good for you. ’Bout time you got laid, mae. And by an older women. That’s fucking hot.”

  When we get back to the cabin, he pulls out black suit pants and a gray tie. “Too dressy?”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  “Let me see what else I have.” He searches through his bag and lifts out a pair of tan linen pants. A moment later, he adds a black sand-washed silk shirt.

  “Bingo.” I hold the slacks up to check if they fit and Beto starts smirking. They’re a couple of inches too long. “If I borrow these, what are you going to wear?”

  “Shorts, Tego. I’m not trying to get laid. Claudia would kill me. If she found out.” He winks. “Let me see if I have any tape.”

  He rummages in a faded maroon duffel bag until he comes up with some white first aid tape and then looks over at the clock radio. It’s nearly six thirty. “You better hit the shower. I’ll fix the pants.”

  “Thanks. I owe you one.”

  As I’m rinsing my hair, he calls into the bathroom, “They’re good to go. I’m heading back to the bar. See you at nine.”

  I shut off the water and step out. “Okay. Thanks for the loan—and the help.”

  He tosses me a towel. “No problem. Maybe she has a twin sister.”

  ∞

  As the edge of the setting sun teases the surface of the ocean, I sit down at a small, linen-covered table that affords a perfect view of the sand and sea. I watch the lone waiter stroll around the open-air café, lighting Tiki torches.

  Ten minutes later, a wave of paranoia washes over me.

  Did I get the time wrong?

  I glance around the café for the third time—an elderly gentleman, also sitting alone, nods at me and I return his greeting—but there’s no sign of Isabel.

  Beto’s right. I should have asked more questions.

  The waiter gives a theatrical cough. “May I get you something to drink, my man?” His skin is deep ebony, and he speaks English with a British accent.

  Then I see her out on the beach, almost glowing in the last light of the sun. I watch as she floats across the sand, wind billowing her dress away from her body, her hair up. “Ay, que bonita.”

  “A beauty, indeed.” The waiter turns back to me. “I shall return momentarily.”

  When Isabel sees me, she smiles and waves. Then, holding out her pale blue skirt, she twirls in the sand, strands of her hair blowing across her face as she gives a slight curtsy.

  I stand up, searching for a way to get down to the beach. Behind me, the waiter coughs and tips his head toward the side of the café. I jog down four concrete steps, past a couple of palm trees, and out onto the beach, feeling awkward wearing shoes in the sand.

  She reaches out to me. “Sorry I’m late.”

  “No worries.” I take her hand and then kiss her on both cheeks, caug
ht up in the intoxicating scent of her skin and hair. “You look beautiful.”

  She takes my offered arm, but something in her eyes is sad. “Thank you.”

  I remember that look from this afternoon. “Everything okay?”

  “Uh huh.” She squeezes my arm. “I missed you, Tego.” When she says my name, my insides twist up in a way that could easily become addictive. I lead her past the palms, up the stairs to our table, and hold out her chair, my heart beating so fast I can barely breathe.

  As I sit down, a twinge of pain flits across her face. “Are you sure you’re okay?” The table is large for two, so I have to lean over to touch her hand. “Can I get you something?”

  She glances down at my hand. “No, um, yes.” She looks up at me, gazing long enough to make me feel self-conscious. “I’m fine now that you’re here with me.” Her voice is steady and reassuring. “In fact I’d be perfect if you weren’t so far away.”

  Surprised but flattered, I try to scoot my chair around, but she doesn’t let go of my hand. She lets her eyes roam across my chest, and when I manage to get the chair positioned next to her, she traces a line on my palm and then draws her fingertips up my arm, sending shivers across my skin. “Mmm. Better.”

  I watch her touching me, mesmerized, and the twisting inside me becomes more intense. I shift my weight and reposition my pants.

  She goes back to stroking my palm. “How did you get the nickname Tego?”

  I rest my arm on the back of her chair and run my fingers through the wisps of curls at the nape of her neck. “I played a lot of futbol—soccer in America—growing up, and I was usually the goalkeeper.”

  She nods and fingers the pearl necklace she’s wearing.

  “I once made a save that won us an important game, and afterwards, a couple of the guys started calling me Protego. That got shortened to Tego, and I guess it stuck.”

  She looks over at me, her face unreadable. “Protego. Protector. How romantic is that?” She bites her lip and peers out at the ocean, still stroking my hand.

  For the first time, I have a chance to gaze at her without feeling self-conscious. Her skin is porcelain white, her eyes a stunning shade of green, and her lips full and soft.