“Yep. At about eight-fifty-nine.”

“Oh.” He reaches into the pocket of his jeans and pulls out a long silver chain. I expect a wallet to be attached to it, but instead, he flips open this very elegant pocket watch and inspects it, then winds it a few times. “I probably should be going.”

“Wow, that’s cool,” I say, reaching for it. He hands it to me and I turn it over in my hands. “My dad has one of these. It was his grandfather’s. Who did this belong to?”

He shrugs. “It’s mine. Mama bought it for me when I turned fifteen.”

“Oh. I didn’t know they still sold these. Cool.” I inspect it, then awkwardly say, “I’m sorry about your parents. Seems like they were really cool.”

He nods, sadness in his eyes. “Mama was a good woman. Papa died when I was five. My stepfather was …” He cringes. “Not a nice man.”

“Oh,” I say, not sure how to respond.

“He … killed my mother,” he says.

My jaw drops. “What?”

“A long time ago. He was drinking,” he mumbles. An awkward silence follows, during which I realize that that was why he was so filled with rage over Mr. Anderson’s drunkenness at the party. A long time ago. His mother gave him the watch when he turned fifteen. He can’t be more than eighteen now. Three years isn’t really a long time when it comes to the death of a parent. Maybe he’s just saying that to make things less awkward, like when I lie and say, “I’m fine,” whenever anyone asks how I’m doing. A small smile creeps onto his face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so morbid.”

I’m about to hand it back to him, but I stop when I notice something engraved in the cover. Geronimo DeMarchelle, Happy Birthday, Love, Mama. And the date, written out: September thirteenth. “Oh, wow, your birthday is the same as my parents’ anniv—”

I stop. Because that’s when I see the year. There’s something off about it. At first I’m thinking, Okay, he got it in ’08, not very long ago. But then it hits me. It’s not 2008. It’s …

He pries the watch quickly from my fingers and stuffs it back into his pocket.

“Can I see that again?” I motion for him to hand it over. He shuffles in his seat and suddenly becomes absorbed in a television commercial for dish detergent. “Did that say … 1908?”

He doesn’t answer.

Okay, well, it’s got to be a misprint. What other explanation could there be? “Why didn’t you tell the engraver they screwed up?”

He looks at me. “I … I just didn’t realize at the time.”

“Oh. That sucks.” Back on the television, House is ranting. I watch for a few minutes, then I remember. The weird outfit Eron was wearing when I first met him. The way he talks. The fact that a remote control is a foreign concept to him. He acts like he just arrived in a time machine.

Maybe it wasn’t a misprint.

He turns to me. “Yes?”

It’s only then that I realize I’m staring at him, my mouth half open. I clamp it shut and pull an afghan over the goose bumps on my arms. “Um. Just wondering if you would like some … um, Cheez-Its.”

He wrinkles his nose. “Pardon?”

I gulp. Lack of Cheez-It recognition. Not a good sign. “Maybe some Oreos?”

I mean, everyone has to know Milk’s Favorite Cookie, right?

Not right. He’s looking at me like I sprouted wings.

Oh, hell no.

What kind of thing is sitting on the couch with me? I throw the blanket off me and spring to my feet, intending to back away from him—far away. But I temporarily forget my twisted ankle, and when the pain shoots up my calf, I scream and fall forward, back toward the couch. Toward him.

He catches me. Steadies me in his lap. And doesn’t let go. His eyes search my own as if there’s something they’re willing me to remember. Something about being here with him, this close, is all too familiar. It’s like a scene from one of my recurring … dreams.

Dreams. That’s it. “I dream of you,” I murmur, dizzy, as everything seems to swirl around him. “All the time.”

No, that’s not it. That’s crazy. How could you dream constantly of a guy you met only three days ago? My mind is still reeling when he leans down, his face just inches from mine, his hand stroking the scars on my cheek. And I don’t feel the urge to cringe. He’s going to kiss me, I know. And I want it to happen.

Badly.

I tilt my chin up to get there faster, and that’s when he jolts forward, wincing. His eyes widen and he rubs the back of his head. I flash back to when Bret kissed me in the cafeteria; he had the same surprised, wounded expression. Something hit me, he said. But there’s nothing behind Eron, nothing at all.

I can’t help it: I think of Griffin. You belong to me.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

He nods quickly, then straightens and looks at his hands. He seems a little pale. He stands and helps position me back against the cushions. I’m wondering if I have bad gazpacho breath when he says, “I’m sorry, I must go.”

“Oh … okay,” I say, struggling to my feet. I want to ask, What just happened here? but I’m not really sure I’m prepared for the answer.

He holds up a hand. “I will let myself out. Good evening, Julia,” he says, and exits so abruptly I shiver in the breeze he leaves behind him.

Good evening, I think. Who says that anymore?

CHAPTER 24

Eron

The sun slips behind the horizon as I step outside Julia’s house. Just in time, for a few minutes later, Julia’s face appears in her bedroom window. She’s searching for me, eyes troubled, but does not see me. I’m a Sandman again. She must be wondering how I could have sprinted so far away from her front door so quickly.

I stop for a moment, breathing hard, and stare up at the stars, collecting myself. My body is shaking. Everything about being with Julia is like navigating shark-infested waters. I can’t get as close as I’ve been used to for the past sixteen years because it’s too close and I know that Mr. Colburn is watching. I cringe whenever she opens her mouth to ask me a question, as I can’t talk about my past, my purpose, or many other things. I can’t let her know that I know what she’s thinking, that I understand. I’m supposed to be a stranger.

Maybe Harmon was right. Maybe it is impossible to fit in again.

I tread around the azalea bushes surrounding her house and put my hands on the gnarled bark of that familiar oak. Before I can hoist myself to a branch, something topples on me from above. Something enormous, bearlike. I fall to the grass, gasping, but it is still on top of me, pressing against my mouth, grinding my head against the hard earth.

“What. The. Hell?” A voice whispers angrily into my ear.

Mr. Colburn. He pushes against my throat once more and then releases me. I sit up. “And a pleasant good evening to you,” I snap.

His fists are clenched, his jaw tight. “What do you think you were doing?”

I shrug. “I don’t know.”

“You think I wouldn’t notice you making a move for my girl?” he snarls.

I hold up my hands. “I was doing nothing of the sort. She slipped, and I was simply protecting her,” I say, but even as I speak, I feel my face twitching. You know it was more than that.

Mr. Colburn senses my confusion. “Yeah. Right.”

“I am trying my best.”

He scowls. “You need to try a little harder. And here’s a tip: don’t lay a finger on her.”

I rub the back of my head. “Seems you need to learn to keep your hands to yourself as well. What did I tell you about touching humans?”

“Stop giving me reason to,” he growls just as the branch of a tree dips and Chimere appears. She lowers herself to the ground and steps gracefully and quietly between us.

“Children,” she scolds, “Sandmen on the other side of the world can hear you.”

Mr. Colburn’s icy stare doesn’t waver from mine. “He makes a sorry human.”