“I’m going to get you, Blake,” I growl playfully, taking a step forward.
“Before you do whatever it is you’re going to do to my son, which I fully endorse, by the way, can you come upstairs, Andre?” Claire says from the top of the steps. She’s leaning against the railing, her sundress billowing, a faint smile on her face.
“Mom! You’d be Andre’s accomplice?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she says and winks. “Andre?”
“Coming.” I turn to Blake as I walk backward. “I’ll be right back.”
“Don’t be a stranger.” He smiles, blowing a kiss.
“Never with you.”
I stop for a moment, kissing Mom on the cheek before heading inside. I know the McIntyre house like the back of my hand now, having spent almost 140 days here in the past ten months. Claire leads me down the hallway and into the study, sliding the cherry doors closed behind me.
“I just wanted to take a moment for the two of us,” she smiles, gesturing to the couch. It’s the same couch I sat on the first time I came here. “Thirsty?”
“Water is fine. I wouldn’t be here without you, you know.”
“Alive or…?” She hands me a bottle from the cooler, taking one for herself.
“With Blake, I mean. And an ex–time traveler.”
She shrugs, sitting down next to me. “Soul mates,” she says simply.
“Sorry?”
Claire smooths her fingers over her sundress. “There’s really no other way to say it, and there’s no way to be sure, but I have a feeling my son would have fallen for you in any time period or any reality you two met in. He’s not easy to get along with, but at the same time, he is. And you two just fit together well. It’s hard to explain with any other word than soul mates.”
She takes a sip from her drink. “But, even if you can’t jump or if you didn’t want to jump or something in between, you’re something more important than your genes. You’re family. You taught me that.” She smiles, tapping my chest gently.
“Is that why you offered to pull some strings if I decide to go to Harvard?” I ask. “You know that I’m not going to go there just because Blake’s going, right?”
The first time Claire offered to help me get into one of the best schools in the nation through her connections, including those in the Time Traveler Association, which spans the world and is like a family, I was skeptical of it. Taking help and getting in based on anything other than my own merit felt a little…wrong.
But then I thought about how many other people, how many white people, do it. How many students get in because their parents give backdoor donations or because of legacy status or for any number of other reasons not based on merit?
“Like I just said, even if you can’t time travel, you’re still family to me.” She shrugs. “And, to me, helping you is about seeing the potential in you, Andre, not about what you can or cannot do for me. Although, you being one of us is a perk, I won’t deny that.”
“You don’t need to, Mrs. McIntyre. Like you said, I’m not stupid.” I smile.
“Oh, please. You’re family now, and we’ve been through so much together. This is the last time I’ll ask. Call me Claire. Please. I insist.”
Mrs. McIntyre—Claire—stands, gliding over to a locked area of the bookshelf. Pulling her key ring out with her back to me, she speaks. “If you’re so smart, then why do you think I called you in here?”
I try to peer around her body to see what she’s looking at. Curiosity almost makes me stand and walk over, but I stay seated. Something electric in the air tells me that I’ll want to be seated.
“I’m guessing to give me some motherly talk about college. You know my biological mother has already given me that, right?”
“Oh, trust me, I know my place with Jennifer. I wouldn’t dare cross her.”
“You and my mom are on a first-name basis, huh?”
“You’re dating my son. And my son is dating hers. What, do you think we’d be enemies?”
I debate telling her how much my mom hated her and Blake when we first started dating, but when Claire turns with a leather-bound book in her hand, any thought about telling her that is replaced with curiosity.
Claire stays quiet, looking at the book. She runs her smooth hands over the cover, slowly walking over and sitting back next to me. The lightness in the room is gone, and the silence is so deafening that the sounds outside of children and music cease to exist.
Finally, after two false starts, she speaks.
“I’m not a person who gives people I care about traditional gifts, Andre. Never have been. And you are no exception,” she whispers, passing the book to me. “I hope you can find beauty in the complexity of this gift.”
The book feels heavier than I thought it would be. The edges are lined with plastic and have a yellowed tinge to them. The cover is intricately designed in a pattern I’ve never seen before.
“I don’t know how to explain it, but it’s like whatever’s inside of here is old. But it looks new? Like you could buy this book at Target or something,” I whisper.
She smiles, crossing one leg over the other. “We call that ‘the sense,’” she explains. “Time travelers can tell the age of things just by touching them. There’s much that we don’t understand about time travel, Andre. You’re living proof of that, and so are the half a dozen or so people throughout time who weren’t born in a time-traveling family but gained the ability. It’s all fascinating, really.”
“Is there a place to study it?” I ask, still mesmerized by the book. “A school or something?”
“Would you be interested, if there is? I suppose I could pull some strings for you. Again.”
I smirk and finally open the book.
Instantly, the first picture jumps out at me. It’s an image of a man with blond hair, smiling into the camera, standing in front of Stanford University.
That hair.
That smile.
That…
“Michael,” I whisper. I barely feel Claire touching my shoulder, rubbing it softly.
I flip through the dozens of pages. Photos of him labeled with years and locations fill the book. His and his boyfriend’s first apartment in London. The adoption of their kid. Even photos of him back in between my jumps, like him at Stonewall or at some party with his friends on New Year’s Eve party in 1969. There must be at least a hundred photos.
“How did you get these?” I ask five minutes later.
I turn to look at Claire, only to see, not the smirk I was expecting, but instead a kind, soft look. One that resonates compassion, like she understands the feeling of weightlessness and joy that I’m experiencing.
“I told you. I don’t give normal gifts.” She taps the page with two fingers. “For the past ten months, I’ve been going back in time. Taking photos and chronicling his life for you. The photos tell their own story, but would you like me to tell you what I saw?”
“Please,” I whisper without hesitating.
Claire takes a longer sip this time and crosses her legs at the ankles, getting comfortable.
“Let’s see. After you left him, he continued to play his music but decided that his real passion was journalism. He went to Stanford to study it. Wrote some pretty important pieces over the next twenty years about gay rights, disability rights, and intersectionality.” She turns to the back of the book, where more than a dozen newspaper articles, each with the byline Michael Gray highlighted.
“He got married when he was forty-seven, to a man named Patrick, a car salesman, if you would believe it.”
I let out a chuckle. “I can believe it.” That sounds like him.
I study the pictures, running my fingers over them. The photos fill in the blanks. Michael looks happy in all of these photos. Pictures of his husband opening up his first indepen
dent dealership. His daughter’s high school graduation. When he was awarded a Pulitzer. Important moments in any person’s life.
But there’s a question that the photos don’t answer. I do a quick mental calculation. How old would he be now? I guess it doesn’t matter. It’s not like I’m going to see him again, and if he’s dead, how will that make me feel? It took me almost four months to get over him. Four months where Blake was the most patient boyfriend I could ask for. Would knowing whether he’s dead or alive throw me back in a way I’m not ready for?
It doesn’t matter. I need to know.
“Is he alive?” I force the words out before I can retract them.
Claire pauses, studying the ceiling, as if the answer is up there.
“I need to know.”
Eventually, she nods.
“Does that mean that he’s alive or that you’re nodding in agreement?”
“He’s alive,” she says. “He’s still living a happy and full life. He lives in England with his husband.”
I breathe out a shaky sigh of relief and feel tears that I didn’t know were pooling around my eyes drop like hot wax down my face. My body shakes in an uncontrollable way. It’s just…entropy. So much energy. So much emotion coming out.
“Andre,” Claire coos. She turns to me, pulling me close, and I fall into her arms, clinging to them for dear life. She strokes my back slowly, rubbing it in a circle. We sit in silence for what feels like minutes. A comfortable, emotional silence.
Eventually, Claire pulls me back and holds me at arm’s length.
“I said he’s living a full and happy life. Now you need to do the same. That’s what he would have wanted. That’s what David would have wanted. That’s what I want for you. Now you just have to want it for yourself.
“Michael found what he’s passionate about. He found what keeps him going, something to live for. Honor the time you two spent together, and what you had, by doing the same.”
“Hey, Mom, Isobel is wond—”
I barely have time to turn my head away and clean up my face before Blake barges in. He stops midsentence, looking at me, then at his mom, then at me again, confusion written all over his features. Claire sighs.
“Blake McIntyre. Can’t you ever knock?”
But Blake ignores her and beelines straight for me. I want to push him away—I try to push him away—but he kneels in front of me, his hands grasping mine, with that stupid grin on his face.
“I don’t know what has you so upset, but whatever it is, I’ll take care of it, okay? You can count on me.”
I smile, shoving him softly. “What would make me feel better is if you don’t say cheesy things like that ever again.”
“As long as you don’t cry ever again, then we have a deal.” Blake uses his thumb to brush away my tears. He leans up, pressing a kiss under each of my eyes.
And in that moment, right there, I’ve never felt happier.
“I’ll be right out,” I promise him. He stays for a moment, as if he wonders whether I’m going to ask him to stay. “Seriously, I’m okay.”
Slowly, he stands. “Isobel is wondering where that Harvard mug is that you said you got her.”
Claire points in the general direction of the kitchen. “Top shelf.”
“You’re a blessing in disguise,” he praises his mom, kissing her forehead. “Take care of my boyfriend, all right?”
“I have every intention to.”
Once Blake is gone, Claire rests her hands on top of mine, keeping me from moving. “There’s something else, Andre.”
She takes the book back and opens to the final page, where an envelope is taped. Slowly, Claire peels it off and hands it to me.
The envelope is heavy, and I can feel multiple pages inside. I flip the envelope over and see handwriting that isn’t like anyone else’s. It takes me a moment to remember the chicken scratch.
Michael.
“During one of my last jumps,” Claire explains, “he saw me and approached me. Said he’d seen me all the times I came to visit and scolded me for thinking that I was being stealthy.” She chuckles. “He made me promise that I’d give that to you the next time I saw you. I tried to tell him I didn’t know what he was talking about, but he didn’t buy it. He’s a clever one, that man.”
“That’s what makes him a good journalist,” I mutter, transfixed by the letter.
“Would you like me to leave you alone so you can read it?” she asks gently.
I hesitate before answering, thinking over the options. Eventually, I shake my head and tape the envelope, carefully, back where it was before.
Claire smiles brightly. She leans forward, pressing a kiss to my cheek, and stands.
“How about we join the party, hmm? Blake will probably come looking for you again if I keep you away from him for too long.”
“I agree. Sounds amazing.”
I stand, putting the book on the couch. There will be time for that. Time to examine every photo, remember the past, and imagine his future. But for now, I’m going to look forward. Focus on my future. It’s what he would have wanted.
And it’s what I want.
Dear Andre,
I’ve started this letter three times, three different ways, so I think I’ll just stick with the simple version. Hi.
I hope this reaches you. I hope you’re doing well, but most importantly, I hope you’ve kept your promise of moving on from me and living your best life.
Here’s the truth, Dre: it hurt when you left—real bad. But you were right. I loved what we had, but we both had to live our own lives. I hope you can say the same.
I know you’re wondering, so here’s the short version: I’m okay. I’m living. Hell, I live a great life. I toured the world. I met a great guy. I’ve had so many amazing jobs. I found a family. I found someone to love.
I hope you did too. I’ll always love you. Always. But, and here’s the karmic kicker, we’re separated by time and space. We met each other at the wrong time in our lives. And that’s okay. Because, despite that, we still got to spend time together. Still got to be together.
And I’m so happy, so honored that I got to meet you. But now it’s time for you to live your life, to be happy, to do something great, to tell your own story—another story—without me.
And as someone who loves you, who has always loved you and will always love you, I want that for you more than anything.
So keep this letter close, read it whenever you need, but that’s it. No more jumping to see me, no more sulking, which I know you’re doing. Move on, live your life, and be great.
Because, for the Andre Cobb I know, that shouldn’t be too hard.
I love you, Andre Cobb from Boston. Always and forever,
Michael Gray
PS: That album we listened to the last time you were here? Journey in Satchidananda by Alice Coltrane. Give it a listen. I think you’ll enjoy it.
Acknowledgments
There are a lot of people who need to be mentioned in this book, and never enough space to do it. So many people who helped Dre (because you read his story, you’re his friend, you can call him that), Michael, and Blake’s story become a reality, people who did small acts of kindness and big ones. If anyone is forgotten, I apologize.
First, I’d like to thank my agent, Jim McCarthy. For answering my million emails, jumping on calls, handling one-off emails and texts in all caps. You’re more than an agent. You’re a friend, a mentor, a therapist, and everything in between. I’m sure I’m trying a new idea for you to approve as you read this.
I also want to make sure to thank Annie Berger, who bought this weird book two years ago, and all I could think to say in my mind was, Wow, I have no idea why she bought this crazy idea! Thank you for working with me on what I would consider my most complicated book, to help me see the truth in the story.
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I’d also love to thank Cassie Gutman for taking the time to help take this book over the finish line and Michelle Lecuyer for taking the time to break this book and put it back together. Both of you took this book from meh to amazing, and I am in awe of what you do every day.
I want to thank Beth Oleniczak, who helped get this book in as many hands as possible. And for everyone at Sourcebooks unnamed, you all are truly the real heroes here. Each book you buy, edit, create, and get into the hands of young people? MVPs, y’all are.
In my life, I want to think my boyfriend, Jordan, for spending countless hours plotting, listening to me rant, and helping me through breakthroughs on this and so many other projects. Lana Johnson, Leah Johnson, the boys of the Ferns group chat—Kevin, Ryan, Caleb, Adam—I wouldn’t be sane without you all. Tiffany Jackson—you know what you did, and I appreciate you for it. Booksellers, reviewers, bloggers, champions on Twitter and the internet? Thank you too. And my parents, William and Linda, thank you for creating a space for me to be me.
But most of all, I want to thank the readers who picked up this book. I want to thank those who gave me a second chance, who helped me learn, who challenged me, called me out, and helped put me back together. I’m still learning. I’m still growing. And I hope, with each book, each story, and each character, I continue to earn a bit of your trust back and never hurt you all again.
After all, yesterday is history, but that doesn’t mean we can’t learn from it, am I right?
Onward,
Kosoko
About the Author
Born and raised in the DC Metro Area, Kosoko Jackson has worked in digital communications for the past five years. He is currently an MFA candidate at Southern New Hampshire University’s Mountainview MFA program and has a strange love for indie folk, disaster movies, and odd tea flavors. Yesterday Is History is his debut. Visit him at kosokojackson.com.
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