Read Online So Close to You (So Close to You - Trilogy) by Rachel Carter - Free Book Online
Authors: Rachel Carter
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covered in graffiti only hours before. They look brand-new, gleaming with fresh paint. The old gymnasium, a white clapboard building, has a tall steeple on the top. A steeple that was built in World War II to trick enemies into thinking the building was a harmless church. A steeple that fell down over two decades ago.
I whip my head around. And then I fall to my knees in the dirt, staring wide-eyed into the empty sky. There’s no radar tower. It’s approaching twilight, the light is starting to fade, but you can see the rusted, wire tower from anywhere in Camp Hero. It was built years and years and years before my birth. Now it’s gone. Like it was never there. Like it hasn’t been built yet.
I hear a distant shout, and one of the men breaks away and walks toward me. “Miss? Are you all right, miss?”
I shake my head from side to side, unable to answer. Fear rises in my throat, so fast that I’m afraid it will come pouring out of my mouth if I open it.
The man comes closer. He has blond hair cropped short. He’s wearing an olive-colored uniform: a khaki shirt with boxy shoulders tucked into high-waisted pants, three black stripes on his sleeves. I see the warm golden color of his skin before I close my eyes tight. “What is today?” I whisper to him.
“Sorry?” I hear leaves crunch as he comes closer. “What did you say, miss?” His voice drawls over the words like warm honey.
“The date.” My eyes are still closed, and I press my hands to them. “What is it?”
“It’s Tuesday. The thirtieth of May.”
“And … the year?”
“Nineteen forty-four.” He sounds concerned.
Nineteen forty-four. Fifty years before I’m born. I gasp. My lungs feel tight, aching, closing.
“Miss, are you all right?”
I grasp at my chest with both hands. “I—think—no—”
He squats down beside me. “Put your head between your knees.” He cups the back of my neck with his hand and pushes me forward gently until my forehead is almost touching the ground. “Try to breathe through your nose.”
I breathe in and out, trying to concentrate on getting air even as my thoughts come faster, faster. Everything they say is true. That vessel was a … time machine. I’m in the past. I’m in 1944. 1944. 1944 .
I keep my head pressed into the dirt, hoping that if I squeeze my eyes hard enough that maybe this will all go away. That I’ll wake up and it will be hours earlier, and I’ll be leaning against a tree while my grandfather searches the woods for nothing.
But no amount of hoping makes the soldier kneeling beside me go away.
My breathing finally steadies, and I sit up slowly.
“Okay now?”
I nod. I’m not okay, but this guy doesn’t need to think I’m any more of a lunatic.
He straightens and reaches his hand out. I carefully rise to my feet next to him. He’s several inches taller than me, almost six feet tall, though slightly shorter and broader than Wes.
Wes .
I push him out of my mind and look at the man standing in front of me. His cheeks are round and full, boyish. Some part of me notices that he has pale eyes, an even gray-blue, with light, almost invisible eyelashes.
Oh. He’s more boy than man. He looks only a little older than the seniors that just graduated from my school. The seniors I was supposed to be celebrating with the night before.
“What’s your name? What are you doing here?” he asks.
The men nearby are shouting in unison, “One, two, left, right.” What am I doing here?
I have no idea how to answer. My mind is cloudy, fuzzy. I do know who I am, though. “I’m Lydia. Who are you?”
“I’m Sergeant Lucas Clarke, stationed at Camp Hero for the past year.” Some of the men in the clearing are watching us now. I turn away from their eyes. “Why are you here? Camp Hero is closed to civilians.”
“I don’t know.” I look at the ground. Stare at my feet. “I’m bleeding,” I say dumbly.
He looks down to see little rivers of blood slide across the tops of
I whip my head around. And then I fall to my knees in the dirt, staring wide-eyed into the empty sky. There’s no radar tower. It’s approaching twilight, the light is starting to fade, but you can see the rusted, wire tower from anywhere in Camp Hero. It was built years and years and years before my birth. Now it’s gone. Like it was never there. Like it hasn’t been built yet.
I hear a distant shout, and one of the men breaks away and walks toward me. “Miss? Are you all right, miss?”
I shake my head from side to side, unable to answer. Fear rises in my throat, so fast that I’m afraid it will come pouring out of my mouth if I open it.
The man comes closer. He has blond hair cropped short. He’s wearing an olive-colored uniform: a khaki shirt with boxy shoulders tucked into high-waisted pants, three black stripes on his sleeves. I see the warm golden color of his skin before I close my eyes tight. “What is today?” I whisper to him.
“Sorry?” I hear leaves crunch as he comes closer. “What did you say, miss?” His voice drawls over the words like warm honey.
“The date.” My eyes are still closed, and I press my hands to them. “What is it?”
“It’s Tuesday. The thirtieth of May.”
“And … the year?”
“Nineteen forty-four.” He sounds concerned.
Nineteen forty-four. Fifty years before I’m born. I gasp. My lungs feel tight, aching, closing.
“Miss, are you all right?”
I grasp at my chest with both hands. “I—think—no—”
He squats down beside me. “Put your head between your knees.” He cups the back of my neck with his hand and pushes me forward gently until my forehead is almost touching the ground. “Try to breathe through your nose.”
I breathe in and out, trying to concentrate on getting air even as my thoughts come faster, faster. Everything they say is true. That vessel was a … time machine. I’m in the past. I’m in 1944. 1944. 1944 .
I keep my head pressed into the dirt, hoping that if I squeeze my eyes hard enough that maybe this will all go away. That I’ll wake up and it will be hours earlier, and I’ll be leaning against a tree while my grandfather searches the woods for nothing.
But no amount of hoping makes the soldier kneeling beside me go away.
My breathing finally steadies, and I sit up slowly.
“Okay now?”
I nod. I’m not okay, but this guy doesn’t need to think I’m any more of a lunatic.
He straightens and reaches his hand out. I carefully rise to my feet next to him. He’s several inches taller than me, almost six feet tall, though slightly shorter and broader than Wes.
Wes .
I push him out of my mind and look at the man standing in front of me. His cheeks are round and full, boyish. Some part of me notices that he has pale eyes, an even gray-blue, with light, almost invisible eyelashes.
Oh. He’s more boy than man. He looks only a little older than the seniors that just graduated from my school. The seniors I was supposed to be celebrating with the night before.
“What’s your name? What are you doing here?” he asks.
The men nearby are shouting in unison, “One, two, left, right.” What am I doing here?
I have no idea how to answer. My mind is cloudy, fuzzy. I do know who I am, though. “I’m Lydia. Who are you?”
“I’m Sergeant Lucas Clarke, stationed at Camp Hero for the past year.” Some of the men in the clearing are watching us now. I turn away from their eyes. “Why are you here? Camp Hero is closed to civilians.”
“I don’t know.” I look at the ground. Stare at my feet. “I’m bleeding,” I say dumbly.
He looks down to see little rivers of blood slide across the tops of
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