Page 9 of Before Now

It was like déjà vu when I typed in my old login info and it still worked, a little nudge from the universe. Now it’s practically holding my head under water, the past recreated while I stare at my screen, rereading.

WestF has signed on and is available.

It borders on overwhelming, the spike of adrenaline I get at seeing his name again. Then the ache of regret follows right behind. All the what-could-have-beens bombarding me at once.

Theshould-have-beens.

I close my laptop and openWanderer. Muscle memory kicks in after five years, and I tap on his username to see where he is. Where in the world his life has taken him. Only then, everything turns to a light hum around me as my body fully disconnects from the rest of the world.

Foster’s in Prague.

Again or maybe still or I don’t know that it matters. He’s here. In the same city where I left him. And now, so am I.

I swallow, my mouth dry enough I could choke.

We’re in the same place.

All the conversations come flooding back—all the promises—and my legs are unfolding from under me, my body making the decision before my brain. I shouldn’t be surprised, though. When it came to Foster, it was never my head leading the charge.

I grab my bag on the way out of the hotel room, and once on the elevator, I check where in Prague he is right now. The app only gives me a general location, but it’s enough. There are a few places nearby, and I pick the one closest to him. I input my payment information so the app can charge me, and then I return to his profile, clicking the Wander button.

The W flashes on the screen, fading in and out with my pulse thrumming harder as I cross the hotel’s lobby. He’ll be getting the notification now, seeing my username and deciding whether to accept the tour.

I stop on the large concrete staircase outside, holding my breath until the purple dialogue box pops up.

You’re now wandering with WestF.

The screen fills with a busy sidewalk, and I swear my heart falls out of rhythm as I watch the world through Foster’s eyes. He’s maneuvering around people, heading toward the Charles Bridge—then to the museum where I sent him.

I rush down the steps. He’s not far, so I bypass the hotel employees and the waiting taxis at the curb. My eyes constantly flick to my phone, watching Foster cross the historic bridge. He flashes me the view, showing me what he’s already shown me.

Every step he takes after the bridge, I know. He’s taken me there before, and a few minutes later, I’m walking the same path. I spin around, my blood on fire when I recognize this part of the city, even though my feet have never touched the ground until now. There’s no screen between me and the air or the sun shining down through breaks in the clouds.

Then I stop, staring down at the screen. Foster’s walking into the museum, and when I look up, I see the burnt orange tiles in the distance. By the time I reach the doors, he’s wandering a long hall, works of art on either side. I’m paying for entry when he pauses, pointing the camera at one of the paintings.

A little girl sits on her father’s lap, playing with a porcelain doll. The girl’s hair is long and red, the doll’s dark and curly. The oils swirl, the colors mixing and fading from one to another to create their features and dresses and precious faces.

I hesitate, my body not quite my own while it occupies the space he was just in.

We’re sharing the air.

“Excuse me,” I say, turning back to the woman at the entrance. “Could you tell me where this painting is located?”

Her gaze lowers to my phone when I hold it out. Then she gives me a soft smile and shows me a map of the museum, pointing to a hall not far from the entrance. I thank her before making my way there. I stop in front of the girl and her doll, the colors less subdued than the screen would lead you to believe.

“You’re not really seeing the art,” Foster told me once. “Not until you’re standing in front of it have you truly seen anything.”

He’s moved on to an open room, streaks of light visible from large windows set high above. I wander farther down the hall until it widens into the same room. The same light wood on the floor and the same white on the walls with black beams vaulting in the ceiling.

The screen shows a statue of a man on a horse, and when I look up, the same bronze catches my eye, only I’m seeing the opposite side. My pulse spikes, my feet once again moving before I’ve decided what to do. But I’ve come this far, and all he’d have to do is look at my profile to see I’m in Prague.

I scan the faces as I move through the room, trying to pick him out. But I’ve only seen him in pieces—never all of him at once. A glimpse of eyes in a reflection. His lips, turning up in a smile when he’d talk about a new song. The stubble of his jaw when he’d tell me all the things he’d do to me if we ever truly met.

After moving to where he was before, with the bronze horse and man in front of me, I look down, and I suck in a breath.

It’s me. On the screen.

My head jerks up, and I search the opposite side of the room before referencing the screen again. He’s watching my profile now, catching the fountain in the center of the room in his shot. When I lift my gaze, it lands on a guy in a bomber jacket with a phone in his hand. A cap is pulled down, low on his face, and sunglasses cover his eyes, but my gut tells me I’m looking straight at Foster West.

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