I can’t help it. A shiver moves across my spine, and I drop my eyes before I can stare too hard at his mouth.

A moment later, a hand closes around my arm. I look up. Same height as Bandit, same build. Just as gorgeous, just as smart. And that’s where the similarities end. Zeke is African-American, while Bandit is Asian. Zeke is my boyfriend, while Bandit is a stranger. Just a boy who traveled in a different circle at my prestigious private school.

“Let’s get out of here.” Zeke twines his hand through mine and turns toward the door.

My heart sinks to the alcohol-slicked floor. An intense sense of loss overwhelms me. Why? Why do I have this reaction to a guy I don’t know and barely remember? “Nice running into you,” I say to Bandit. “Sorry, uh, about the accidental fondle.”

Zeke tugs me into the crowd. I glance over my shoulder. Bandit winks at me. He winks. I’ve never known a guy to pull off such a corny move, but if the heat bubbling up my insides is any indication, it works.

Not that it matters. I’ll likely never see him again. I grip Zeke’s hand as he leads me through the crush of people, propelling me on to our future.

And leaving Bandit to his.

Chapter 33

Chapter 33

I jerk awake. My pillow is soaked through, and the thin sheet is twisted around my body. I pant, trying to collect my thoughts, to remember how to breathe.

It’s okay. It’s okay. It was only a dream… Wasn’t it? The earlier images fade and twist, becoming even fuzzier and more convoluted the longer I’m awake. But the scene at the club remains clear. Sharp. I can repeat my conversation with Bandit word for word. I feel as though I lived it.

Does that mean the scene actually happens in my future…or at least one of my futures? The original timeline, maybe, before the Voice interfered. Before she threw Bandit in my path a few years too early.

I groan and grab my head. The jellyfish in my mood lamp jump over one another, oblivious to my distress. What is happening? Why is my present and future getting all mixed up?

Suddenly, footsteps pound down the hall. Urgent, rattled—an emergency.

I raise myself on one elbow just as Archie bursts into the room. His hair sticks out in every direction, and he’s wielding a wooden rod as though it were a baseball bat. He wears, of course, his Marie Curie T-shirt. Does he sleep in that thing?

“Are you okay?” he gasps. “Where is he?”

I lift my hands in the air. “It’s just me, Arch. No one else is here.”

He lowers the rod, his eyes narrowing on me, in my striped pajama pants and cotton tank, alone in my bed. “Are you sure?”

“As one of your proofs,” I say.