One Last Time by Denise Daisy

with the adorable Southern belle. A twinge of sadness takes root. I’ve never been a jealous person. My momma says jealousy is the most horrible cancer that will eat away at you, leaving no survivors. I reprimand myself for my feelings. Quillan means nothing to me. I could care less if he has a crush on Emily Faulkner. Still, for some reason, there’s a huge lump in my throat, and I want to cry.
    I plop down in the grass, discouraged, wishing I was home in my apartment, watching TV and eating Top Ramen. I miss Mike, too. I wish I could text him and tell him where I am and what I am going through. I wonder what happened to him, if he even knows I am missing.
    Quillan is still entranced, watching Emily until she disappears past the tree line. Irritated, I toss a rock into the rushing water.
    “It’s nice of her to go get you a dress.”
    I don’t say anything. I’m mad and figure now is as good a time as any to drill him on Mr. Brackett and James Faulkner being one and the same. “You’ve got some explaining to do, Quillan.” I don’t care if I sound demanding, or if I am acting less than pleasant. He owes me. “You didn’t seem surprised that Mr. Brackett and James Faulkner are the same person.”
    Quillan takes a seat on the grass, returning his attention to me. “It’s a good thing you said back there to Mr. Collins. Quite clever bringing up the congressman.”
    I could care less about his approval right now. He’s skirting the issue, which infuriates me. I am just as much a part of this bizarre turn of events as he is. In fact, I am an unwilling participant in his little game, so he needs to shoot straight with me or I just might start causing some more trouble.
    “Don’t ignore the question. You owe me some answers.”
    “I’m not,” he says nonchalantly. “You made a statement about me not being surprised. You never asked me a question.”
    “You know what I meant.” I use my reprimanding tone. “Quit splitting hairs.”
    He picks up a smooth stone and hurls it across the water, skimming it several times before it disappears underneath the surface. He did the same thing last night once we escaped the musty tunnel.
    “Why do you refuse to talk about it?”
    He skims another before he answers. “Averie, it’s critical to try and change future events. Something you say or do could be catastrophic, as it has been since the beginning. Too much knowledge is dangerous.”
    His answer is too ambiguous for my liking. I think it’s just a manipulative way to scare me into not asking him anything. He has some secrets, that’s for sure.
    “Well, I think I have a right to know some things. Remember, Quillan, you and Mr. Brackett or Mr. Faulkner or whoever the hell he is, dragged me into your experiment. Now I am, as you say, in over my head. I’m not asking you to reveal top-secret information. I’d just like a few simple answers is all.”
    “What do you want to know?” he asks like it’s no problem to answer me now.
    “Was Mr. Brackett a ghost the entire time?”
    A glimmer ignites in Quillan’s eyes as a smile pulls at the corner of his lips. Why did I ask such a stupid, childish question? I am talking with a guy who is smart enough to figure out how to travel back in time, ready to offer me answers, and the only thing I can come up with is something juvenile.
    “No, Averie, Mr. Brackett, or rather James Faulkner, is not a ghost. He was a time traveler, or dimension traveler, as are most apparitions that people see.”
    His answer made some sense and, in some way, dispelled certain fears. “Is James Faulkner in on the plan?”
    “He was, but not now,” Quillan said, shaking his head. The glimmer in his eyes fades. “James Faulkner doesn’t remember me. His assignment was finished at dinner. When the lights went off, he went back to the afterlife. He’s only here now because we’ve traveled back to his time.
    Now he has no knowledge of our plan to save the lives. We sit in silence while I