Focus, Andre.
Finally, he turns to look at me.
“I want to teach you. Like, actually teach you. I want to give you real lessons as much as I can. I can’t travel like Mom can or like Dad used to be able to do, but unlike you, I’ve been around time travelers my whole life. I’ve learned from them. I’ve heard them talk about their mistakes and struggles. I know I can help you, if you still want me to and you’re willing to give me a chance.”
I hesitate before answering. Not because I don’t know what I want to say, but because I know I should think this over. Ever since getting drawn into the McIntyres’ lives, things have gotten more complicated, not easier. But I have a duty, to myself, to Blake, and to Dave to master this. To learn how I can really use this.
And if I do it right, I can go back and see Michael whenever I want. That’s a win-win to me.
I extend my hand to him to shake. “All right, let’s do it. Third time’s the charm, right?”
Blake grins a smile that shows his dimples and grabs my hand in his own, shaking it firmly.
“Third time’s the charm,” he repeats. This time, his hand lingers when I try to pull back, and once he finally lets go, once he finally stands to leave, hugs me goodbye, and I watch his car drive away, I wish I had held on longer.
Twenty-One
“Holy shit.”
It’s been almost a month since Blake came to my house, and since then, every other day, I find time to go to his. We have a schedule—Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, he picks me up at the library at one, which gives me enough time to work on my classes, so that I won’t fall behind, but isn’t so late that we can’t get some training done. We work till about five or six, and then I head back home. Mom and Dad, so far, haven’t been the wiser.
This time, we’re practicing traveling farther back than 1969.
This time, I come back soaking wet.
Blake looks up expectantly. He glances at me, arches a brow, and then looks at his watch. “Three minutes this time. Solid. But you’re soaked! Where did you—”
“Nineteen twelve,” I say through chattering teeth and the pain that is blossoming in my side. The pain after jumping is getting more severe, but I don’t want to tell Blake that. He jumps up and gets me a towel from downstairs. It smells like lilacs and honey, and it’s warm. Of course the McIntyres are one of those fancy families with a towel warmer in the bathroom.
“Nineteen twelve? That’s farther than you were supposed to go,” he says, rubbing my arms slowly, to keep me warm. “What’s it like then?”
“Think about it,” I say, as the feeling begins returning to my body.
It takes him a moment, but when he gets it, his arms stop moving.
“Oh. The Titanic?”
“Mm-hmm.” I pull back. I move to sit on the couch but realize that it’s not a good idea in my current state. I can still feel the pins and needles of all that ice-cold water on my body. “I was there when it was going down.”
“Did you see Rose and Jack?”
“You know they aren’t real people, right?”
He shrugs. “Could have been. Here,” he says. “Let me get you some dry clothes.”
He disappears before I can tell him no. There’s something…personal about wearing Blake’s clothes.
But the idea of his skin touching mine via the conduit of his clothes? There’s something personal about that too.
Or, maybe, as Isobel would say, I’m overthinking it.
They are just freaking clothes.
Moments later, he returns with a pair of shorts and a T-shirt.
“Bathroom’s—”
“Down the hall to the left, I know.” For a second, I’m worried that the joke won’t land, but he smiles back and hits the side of his head.
“Yeah, you do. You’ve been here enough times.”
Half a minute later, I return, warm and dry, and the pain has lessened to where I almost don’t notice it. Usually we take time to debrief—discuss what happened or what went wrong—more often than not, what went wrong. But this time, Blake doesn’t do that. At least, not yet. This time, he whistles.
“You know, you look good in my clothes,” he says with that cocky sideways grin on his face. “I guess I’m good at picking clothes.”
“Oh, shut up.”
“Maybe I should be a fashion designer,” he muses, tapping his chin. “I could name my brand…”
“Time after Time?”
He shakes his head. “Too on the nose.”
“The Time Traveler’s Wardrobe?”
“Are you taking that from the movie The Time Traveler’s Wife?”
“You mean the greatest movie of all time? Yes.”
“Whoa.” Blake throws his hands up in the air. “That is not the greatest movie. False. Mendacity.”
“You’re going to pull out ‘mendacity,’ and I bet you don’t even know what movie is known for that line.”
Blake snorts. “Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. Don’t play with me, Andre. I know my movies.”
I quirk my brow and cross my arms over my chest—maybe even puff it out a little. “Yeah? You do? All right, fine then. Name your top five movies of all time. We’ll see how well you know movies. Go.”
“Oh, that’s easy.” Blake doesn’t even hesitate. He grabs my wrist and yanks me down the hall and downstairs into the basement, a part of the house I’ve never been in before. It’s got the same cherry wood as the rest of the house. Pillars of stone line the walls along with a dozen leather chairs.
This is an actual movie theater, in the basement of his house.
But what I’m paying attention to the most? The fact that Blake’s hand still holds mine as he leads me to the bookcase full of movies.
“The Wolf of Wall Street, Kill Bill, The Terminator, The Spectacular Now, and Alien,” he says with confidence, pointing to the DVD of each one. “I have the Blu-ray and the digital copies too.”
I stare at the massive movie collection, where there are easily more than four hundred DVDs. Why does anyone even have this many DVDs?
“Important question,” I mutter, still scanning the collection. “Kill Bill: Volume One or Two?”
“Volume Two, obviously.”
“Oh, sorry, I have to go now,” I say, pretending to pull away and walk up the stairs.
But I can’t…not only because I don’t want to…but also because his hand is still in mine.
But, really, it’s the smile on his lips, the soft, boyish one that is gentle and kind and warm, that makes me stay.
“Do you like Volume One more?” he asks, an honest question.
“I do. It sets the tone and has a better story than just endless killing.”
He nods, finally letting his hand slip from mine.
“Did I say something wrong?”
Blake shakes his head. “Not at all, I promise.” He pauses. “Dave loved the first one too. We would argue about it all the time. He used the same logic too. You’re more like him than you think.”
“Or is this some transference thing,” I say under my breath.
“Sorry?”
I gesture blindly, as if that would help him understand. I’m a hand-talker, after all. “I read about it. Stories of people who get transplants and suddenly have new skills. A woman who gets a kidney and suddenly can play the piano. A guy who gets a lung and can speak Spanish. The body carries with it more than we let on.”
“And you’re thinking that maybe, because Dave had the same opinion as you about Kill Bill, it’s him talking and not you?”
I nod. “Could be.”
Blake nods too. “Could be. But let me ask you something. Would you have answered that question the same way if we had met six months ago?”
I pause and think before nodding. “Yeah, I think so.”
Bl
ake nods, and his eyes turn a shade darker as he retreats into himself. The same weightless fear fills my stomach again. I know Dave is a sensitive subject. Maybe even bringing him up tangentially is too much.
“Then there’s your answer.” He thinks for a moment. “But I will say this,” he says. “I think you are your own person. Not my brother. Not a Frankenstein fusion of him. You’re Andre Cobb. And you’re a pretty cool guy how you are right now.
“And besides, my brother isn’t the type of person to encroach on someone’s freedom like that. That doesn’t sound like him at all. But, more importantly…” He clears his throat. “If you were some Frankenstein fusion of my brother, it would make me asking you out even creepier.”
“Oh, I fully agree. That would be weird.” I chuckle, the weight of the whole conversation off my shoulders.
“Agreed.” A beat passes. “So can I take you out sometime?”
Twenty-Two
I don’t answer Blake. In fact, I make up some excuse and bolt from the house. Then three days later, I get a text.
Hey, you.
Hey yourself.
Hark! He answers! Sound the alarm! Blow Gabriel’s horn!
Don’t be glib.
Glib? That’s a new one to describe me.
Do you even know what it means?
Glib, adjective: fluent and voluble but insincere and shallow.
Did you look that up right now?
No! I’ll have you know, I’m not just a handsome face with a nice body. I am decently smart too. You know I’m going to go to Harvard, right?
Is that supposed to be some major selling point?
Not major, but still something to consider.
Ah, I see. Good to know.
Thirty minutes later, Blake sends a follow-up.
So…?
So…?
You never answered me.
About what?
Now who’s being glib?
About, you know, the date.
Ah, that.
Is that a no?
No, not a no.
So it’s a yes?
I mean…sure.
Sure as in you are excited to go, or sure as in you are begrudgingly agreeing to it?
Does it matter?
Yeah, Andre, it kinda does matter?
Then it’s the former.
Are you sure?
Yes, I’m sure.
That doesn’t sound convincing at all.
What are you looking for, then?
I don’t know but something that means it DOESN’T seem like a chore.
It’s not.
Are you sure?
I’m sure.
All right.
All right.
Two days later, I get another message from Blake. And for the first time since we started texting, I get excited when I see his name pop up.
Do you like animals?
Like, to eat?
No, idiot. To see. Like the zoo.
Oh, yeah sure. I do.
Again with the lack of enthusiasm. Let me ask again: Would you like to go to the zoo with me?
Sure, that sounds like fun.
I swear to God, I’m going to get an ounce of excitement out of you. Saturday good?
Sounds good.
If you could see me right now, I’d be rolling my eyes.
I roll my eyes at that text and think nothing of it, until the next day, when Blake sends me two photos comparing outfits. The caption:
Which one do you like better?
I hesitate before answering, then double-tap the first one so a heart emoji appears. He replies with a thumbs-up, and in that moment, it all hits me.
I’m actually going on a date with Blake McIntyre.
Quickly, I text the one person I can trust: Isobel.
This is a bad idea.
Okay, please explain to me what is bad about going on a date with a hot guy?
A hot white guy with far too much money and power who lives in his own little world?
I think you’re projecting or whatever onto him.
You haven’t met him!
No, I haven’t, but he seems fine—remember, I looked him up online.
And?
And what?
What’s your analysis?
I told you—he’s fine. He seems…dare I say it…normal? But more importantly, where is he taking you?
The zoo.
Okay, that’s adorable.
Don’t you start! You’re supposed to be on my side!
And I am!
HOW?
When most kids are dealing with first crushes and heartbreaks, you’ve been dealing with cancer and your grades. You didn’t get those experiences like the rest of us did. Now you have a chance and no excuse. Blake is a nice person to have those experiences with. And if worse comes to worse, I’ll just punch him in the face.
I don’t think you can get into Harvard with an assault charge.
Worth it—and you know I’m right.
Maybe.
Love you too. Now show me what you’re going to wear.
I groan loudly after rereading the exchange with Blake from a few days ago, tossing my phone onto the seat next to me on the small couch in my parents’ room. Mom glances at me in the reflection of the mirror, turning her body in a three-quarter view, examining the dress she’s picked.
“What’s up?” she asks, turning back to face herself. She’s been trying to decide what to wear to the gala for hours now. She left work early today, and I can tell that her hair is different; it smells slightly of hair spray—the same type they use in her sister’s hair salon on the other side of town.
This fundraiser for the college must be important if she (a) left work early, and (b) went to Aunt Sheryl’s place. They haven’t talked since last Christmas—the famous Saunders Christmas incident of 2020.
“Isobel trouble?” she asks, sauntering over to her nightstand and pulling out a pair of diamond earrings.
I shake my head.
“Boy trouble?”
I nod but don’t give her any more.
But Blake’s not my only trouble. It’s been over a month, and I can still feel Michael on my lips. It’s distant now, like when Clyde’s scent on my bed finally disappears, and I can only smell it by burying my face deeply in the fabric. That’s what Michael feels like right now.
The logical question that anyone would ask would be: If you miss him so much, why don’t you just go see him, Andre? He’s literally only a hop, skip, and a jump away.
But it’s not that simple. It’s like when you know you should call someone, but you don’t. Or when you know you have an email to read, but you don’t open it. Most of the time, that’s out of nervousness; you don’t want to get any bad news. And I guess, the feeling I have right now is the same, but different all at the same time.
That moment with Michael was amazing. Truly freakin’ amazing. And I don’t want to ruin it. I’m getting better at jumping, but what if this time I jump too far? What if I jump three months farther, and Michael has moved on, forgotten about me, and met someone new? Or worse, what if I jump three days from our kiss, and Michael has realized that he made a mistake?
Right now, if I stay here, in my year, I can imagine what I want to happen. There’s no reality barging in, forcing me to deal with the truth. I can make up my own future, my own happy ending.
And that’s worth it.
Clyde doesn’t miss the chance to come padding over, put his front paws on the couch, and lick my cheek, bringing me back to reality.
“Boy trouble?” Mom repeats in a leading tone.
“Not like that, Mom.”
“Do we need to have—”
“We one hundred percent do not need to have
that talk. Dad already gave it to me. And you did too.”
“I did?”
“Twice.”
“A third time can’t hurt.”
I swat Clyde away. “Maybe when I actually have a boyfriend.”
Mom leaves the room, heading into her closet for a moment, then returns with a pair of heels. She sets them on the chair by her vanity, checking them against the fabric of her dress.
“Should I be worried?”
“Why would you be?”
“That boy. Blake McIntyre, the son of the woman who gave you your liver and the boy who stopped by last week. He’s in one of your online classes, right?” She doesn’t actually want an answer. “And he’s also the boy who you’re so concerned with, who’s been taking up so much of your mental space.”
She pauses, spritzing herself with perfume and putting on her shoes.
“Being close to those who saved you is good, Andre. But I don’t want you to feel like you have to be indebted to them. That’s not how an organ transplant works.”
“I know.”
“And you promise me you’ll be careful?”
“I promise.”
She nods. That’s the end of that.
“So you like this boy?”
I pause. The real question isn’t if I like Blake; it’s if I like Blake more than I like Michael, and I don’t know the answer to that question.
“Let me rephrase.” Mom stands and gestures for me to help her with the clasp of the necklace that Dad got her for their twentieth anniversary. Tonight must be an important night. “Do you think you might like this boy?”
I stand behind her, weaving and threading my fingers like it’s second nature, helping her with the clasp. It’s not long before the necklace falls against her skin. It’s beautiful but doesn’t overpower her. It allows Mom to shine, and I can see, in this moment, why Dad fell for her—and keeps falling for her.
“I don’t know yet, but I know I don’t dislike him. There are a lot of factors at play.” Like Michael.
“That’s enough for now.” She turns back around, cups my cheek with one hand, and smiles. I can’t help but instinctively nuzzle her hand. It’s warm and it’s safe and—
Yesterday Is History Page 14
